Here's something that passes the time between chopping up rails of Ambien and beating your snooze button like it stole something:
Imagine Pac-Man Jones during his inevitable Up North Trip. Now, let's forget for a second that dude is about to do a bid because he "made it rain" but "did not expect the strippers to take the money." (I totally understand the confusion, bro. That's really atypical behavior from exotic dancers) I want you to actually visualize dude in the clink. Can't you totally see my man acting like this:
"ANY OF YOU HOMO'S TOUCH MY STUFF...I'LL KILL YA."
That kid is going to be POPULAR. The Sisters are going to LOVE. HIM.
But we need more don't we? More than NFL Slash Fic. Maybe something like, I don't know...
Oh you think I'm fucking with you?
I am not fucking with you. We are due. We are due for a gravity bong hit of the impossible. It's what, Feb. 26? Am I getting ahead of myself? You bet your fucking life. But I can't help it. I feel it in my bones. Especially (strangely enough) in my left thumb that I broke in four places during a high school baseball game when possible 'Roid case Matt Johnston decided he was going to surprise your boy Young Billups (then known as Human Darren Daulton in the Flesh) with his, at that point untested, SLIDER. Thanks for the head's up, you fucking juicer! Hope you grew a pair of Moobs!
Here's the thing: it's too safe right now. People are already writing prose poems about the future glory of Phoenix-Dallas-Steel-Cage-Match. We're already anticipating the Watching-Old-People-Eat fireworks of Detroit's Sherman's March through the East. It's too easy!
"Well, I don't really have a frame of reference when you talk about your days at Simon Gratz. But I'm sure it was a formative experience, Broseph!"
Someone is gonna get got. Especially out West. Look, I know Dallas is a fucking machine. I read the box scores. Dirk and Avery? They like:
But you know what? If I'm the Little General, late at night -- after a physically rigorous round of Opus Dei-type prayer and my contractually-obligated viewing of Dan Rather on HDNET -- you know what stops me from sweet slumber? This fucking vision:
CRAB CAKES AND BASKETBALL. THAT'S WHAT THE MID-ATLANTIC REGION DOES.
Wouldn't that be funny? If AI and 'Melo just rolled up on D-Nottz like, WE SEE YOU BOUGHT A TOOL AND DIDN'T LEARN HOW TO USE IT, GOT LOST IN DENVER SO YOU HAD TO LOSE IT. JUST FOR FRONTING YA GOT THAT ASS WHIPPED:
BACDAFUCUP, PEOPLE. This is why we play the games! Me? Speaking for myself? I wouldn't want it with 'Melo and AI in a series.
Impossible is nothing. It's just been a minute since somebody on the block got their shit twisted for fucking up the grind (Copyright Prodigy, HNIC). These teams are too fucking close. Squads like Phoenix and Dallas and San Antonio, they're getting too far away from the pack. Can't you see Dallas coming into a first round series with Denver like, LET'S SWEEP THESE BITCHES LIKE MAJOR PAYNE. And WHADDYA KNOW? The Nuggets put 110 on 'em in the first game and take the home court.
And while we're on the topic of dark horses, don't forget this fucking KEEP-IT-THORO-BRED:
MEET HIM AT THE CHIROPRACTOR! IT'S GOING DOWN!
Oh, I know dude has a paper mache spine. But him and Rafer are fucking up the game. MATTER OF FACT I DON'T WANNA SPEAK ABOUT THE RUCKER.
Hear me now and believe me later. When Tony Parker is already getting prepped for ABC's DANCING WITH THE CHICKENHEADS and Tim Duncan is scheduling off-season alto-sax lessons, the Rockets might just come through and open bottles on Pop's chipped tooth!
Besides, if it gets close can't you just see something like this playing out in the H-Town locker room:
Well I want you to understand somethin'. To me, being perfect is not about that scoreboard out there. It's not about winning. It's about you and your relationship to yourself and your family and your friends.
Being perfect is about being able to look your friends in the eye and know that you didn't let them down, because you told them the truth. And that truth is that you did everything that you could. There wasn't one more thing that you could've done.
Can you live in that moment, as best you can, with clear eyes and love in your heart? With joy in your heart?
If you can do that gentlemen, then you're perfect.
And he would die to be out there on that court with you tonight. And I want you to put that in your hearts.
Boys, my heart is full. My heart's full.