Monday, December 29, 2003


Will sign former members of the Utah Jazz for food

Replacing John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt in the front office (Reverend Layden is no doubt somewhere in Utah scouting the plentiful basketball bounty of the Church of Latter Day Saints for the Mt. Zion Angels (THE NBA: WE KEEPS EXPANDING)), Zeke Thomas was treated to quite the spectacle in one of his first game as the Knicks' night watchman.

There was Latrell Sprewell, now a Timberwolf, putting 31 points on Don Chaney's ass, and adding a few insults to injury, mostly directed at Knicks checkwriter supreme James Dolan, James Dolan's mom (hold your head, Mrs. D.), Cablevision's lack of Yankees coverage, and Assistan Coach Lon "I Coached The Atlanta Hawks And All I Got Was This Lousy Hair Piece" Kruger.

Much was made of Sprewell so publically snapping on Dolan and Kruger. Allen Houston managed to lift his weary head out of Psalms for a hot minute to ask, rhetorically, one would think, "What are we supposed to do? Clothesline him?"

A dude comes into your building, puts 31 points down and proceeds to inform of one of your coaches and the man who keeps you in church donation money that they are a bunch of asshats?

You put him in pampers.

Latrell, whose passion makes him one of my favorites, should be eating through a tube right now. I love Latrell Sprewell because he understands that when you drop 30 dollars to sit in the worst seats of an NBA arena what you want is basketball players who at least give off the illusion that nothing else matters other then beating the living Christ out of the opposing team. You want to believe that it matters, that the logo on their chest might as well be tatooed on their heart.
As embarassed as I am to buy into the whole team = country/gang/family/whatever, that's what this is. Why the Knicks and their 11 undersized power forwards, and their Pentecoastal point guards even bother taking the floor is a total magic bullet mystery.


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