OFFCOURT BASKETBALL SHOES

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.

SHIRTS THAT TELL ME THERE IS NO OFF-SEASON

There is in fact an off-season, in every sport. In Major League Baseball, it goes from November to February depending on how far you go in the playoffs. In football, it starts right after Labor Day and ends sometime in December or January. Basketball and hockey – May through September. It’s a time to stop cheating on your wives and spend a couple hours a day watching your maids play with your kids. A time to catch up on your reading of comic books and positive articles about yourself. It’s your chance to get talked into purchasing the car dealership that will eventually bankrupt you. It’s months and months of nonstop pinball next to that stripper pole you had installed in your house. It’s heading down to the Keys with your teammates for some deep sea fishing by day and wife cheating by night. So, when you see someone with a “There is No Off-season” shirt, remind them to kick back and take it easy. You can't crush it 24/7/365. Then ask them why they tore the sleeves off. Those were probably perfectly good sleeves.