Thursday, October 29, 2015
Listen, just because you see me at this Olive Garden every Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights doesn’t mean we’re buddies, Rick. I appreciate your little witticisms about as much as I appreciate you not remembering to refill my coke every six minutes like I requested. Yeah, you got me, I practically licked the plate because I get a little insane when it comes to pasta in cream sauce, what of it? At least me and my skeletons bust out of the closet doing the Macarena. What are you hiding, Ricky? I don’t need you prancing over here like some Prancy McPrancerson with your little flair and your little judgments and your little jokes while I’ve got a raging case of the carb sweats. Yeah, I am crying if you really must know. But make no mistake, those aren’t tears of laughter from your clever little wisecracks, those are shame tears from eating my ever-increasing weight in bread sticks. Goddamnit those things are good, of course I’ll take another round. When are you guys getting a soft-serve machine?
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Too bad sportswriters never rank players, because I would finally get my comeuppance as one of the top five basketballateers of all-time. I can run fast, jump like the dickens and score easier than Lou Ferrigno at Comic Con. Here are my three biggest weapons: sky hook, sky hook, sky hook. Are you crying because you just got served? Or are those tears of joy because getting served inspires you? Either way, you just got served like a vegan at Coachella. Pick your poison, Johnny Shortpants, because I’m gunning for you. And I don’t even use holsters. When they say “Ball Don’t Lie” they’re talking about me because I’m the truth. I’m dishing out a serum that’ll make you go cross-eyed faster than Bill Clinton at a U.S. Open Women’s Doubles Final. My game is tighter than Philippe Petit’s butthole in 1974. I can dribble with my left hand. I can dribble with my right hand. I can dribble with both hands and the ref wouldn’t even call it because he or she would be too scared. That’s right they have female refs now. And one of them gave me her number, but all I did was text her my junk because my game is just that nasty. You better strap on your jock, because I dribble balls for a living. The triple threat position? That’s for losers with championship rings in the single digits. I administer the quadruple threat with extreme prejudice. But not in the racial sense because I voted for Barack. Twice. Even though his jumper is wack. What’s the fourth threat? Wouldn’t you like to know? It’s the death stare. Whoops, I let that slip. Just like when I slip on shoes and sky hook over you like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. Damn right that doesn’t make sense because neither does my game. Speaking of shoes, it offends my inner-baller that the Nike Corporation has failed to endorse me. I wouldn’t sign anyway because they make basketball shoes for offcourt. Ball ain’t for hallways or Sadie Hawkins dances. And it certainly ain’t for video arcades or Home Depots. It’s for places like Rucker Park, Venice Beach, Madison Square Garden and my cul de sac. That’s where I got my first greenlight to dazzle. And this hot rod is ready to peel out once again.