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NBA promises to crack down on "OUCHIES"!
As I famously once quipped, "If all bacon is crispy...oh damn damn damned whore of a life!" And ne'er tru'er words 'ere spoken. But you know what?
Sometimes damned whores are okay
And sometimes life is okay too. And if this passing hope is nothing but a flickering picture-show on the vaginal walls of the succubus, well then get me some popcorn, because this film has won my heart. Yes, awards season is upon us, and these Zardonauts are the wildest romp since "Un Chien Pervis" (1923).
All this chatter of Most Valuable Players is but a fig leaf on a castrato
Middle-aged Bryant is little more than an incipient Pharaoh Salieri, mule-driving the Jews (Farmar, Seckbach) to "glory." And Most Improved? Hedo Turkoglu dares speak of personal improvement when he still cannot fall asleep after road games without cuddling "Nicky," his plush donkey sewn from Vlade Divac's used nicotine patches?
Nay, the real winners live and bowl much closer to home, in our own dwindling Chinatown.
Coach of the Year is Dave Hopla, narrowly beating out Mike O'Koren, who moistly collected nut after nut in those bulging cheeks. But Hopla has to be the choice - the man who taught Brendan Haywood to accept his vulnerabilities and squat deeply. Phil Chenier posthumously collects a Lifetime Achivement Award from the Lifetime Network for his Golden Girls teleplays. Sixth Man goes once again, and forevermore, to Don MacLean. Andray Blatche is my pick for Best Actor in a Dramedy. Antawn Jamison: Best Smile. Stay sweet Antawn!!!
Point is, my friends, none of us are fools. We all know how this movie ends.
We have read of Icarus and the sun, we have read of Oedipus and the succulent succubus. The chorus murmurs and our cilia tremble in accord: "The story is a story about overcoming odds, but mostly not overcoming odds." We can hope otherwise - but hope and five kronors buy you nothing but a five-kronor whore (and, two months later, a case of the Austrian Prickles). Nay, there is hope and then there is the screeching harpy, and the screeching harpy does not lose. The screeching harpy is like Robert Horry, carpetbagging her way to victories - unearned victories, but victories nonetheless. My overcoat grows slightly more soiled, and the wind outside this Merrifield Taco Bell grows cold.
But! At times like this I return to the scriptures. Camus tells us: "I must imagine Sisyphus happy." Schwartz speaks: "In dreams begin responsibilities." Buckhantz proclaims: 'It's not possible! It's not possible - but it happened anyway!"
Brother Albert, Brother Delmore, Brother Steve, do not fail me now!
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