LeBron James: The Anti-Black Mamba

What a PUSSY. MJ and Kobe can’t stop laughing at this complete and utter tit. 6’8″, 240lbs, runs like Secretariat, jumps like a kangaroo. Strong as a fucking ox. Has the heart of a 67 year old African American male from the deep south who is 80lbs overweight, has hypertension, diabetes, and has been eating 3 squares of fatback and cheese grits his entire life. Makes that lion in The Wizard of Oz look like fucking Bill Russel on steroids and cocaine. Clutch time rolls around, “King James” clinches up tighter than a virgin’s honeypot on prom night. Can’t wait to get rid of that ball. Forgets everything he knows about being awesome at basketball. Pisses down one leg, shits down the other. You give him the ball down 1 in the 4th quarter with 30 seconds to go, he cries for his mama. Unfortunately she is getting balled 6 ways from Sunday by Delonte West, so she can’t hear him. If it were the NBA Finals and Scottie Pippen would have even thought about dominating down the stretch, but then thought better about it and still passed to Mike….Mike would have known he considered it by the look in Pippen’s eyes. And after MJ won the game, he would’ve waited outside the arena after the game, underneath Pippen’s car, and when Pippen tried to open the door MJ would’ve taken out a blade and severed his Achilles. Would’ve spit on him as he writhed in pain and told him “Clutch time’s owned by MJ, mutherfucker”. King Lames couldn’t score on my grandma with the game on the line.

I have a one time, goodness of my heart, can’t miss deal for the Miami Heat: Sign me as an unrestricted free agent. They only have to change one small thing. I’ll play for league minimum. They can leave LeBron in the entire season, 45 minutes a game. I won’t do shit but wave a towel and get Gatorade for the starters. However, when they go deep in the playoffs, sub me in for LeBron for the 4th quarter. Boom, problem solved, titles won. Lots of ‘em. And you know why? Because I have fucking ice water in my veins. You are at the gym, the park, someone’s backyard court and our pickup game is 13-13, and you pass the ball to me, guess what happens? Drained 3, 15-13, us. Game over. Will translate easily into the NBA. I don’t give a shit if I miss, I’ll shoot it again. You know what I won’t do? Pass the ball, when I’m wide the fuck open, to some asshole who sucks. It will not happen. I want to hit the game winner. Makes me feel like a big man. I am 5’6″ and white as all hell. I am not fast. I have an average, at best, vertical. My handles aren’t what they were 15 years ago by any stretch. But I have the heart of a goddamn lion and I won’t puss out like King Lames. And as an added bonus, I’ll wear short shorts right off a poster from 1979. On every 4th quarter nailed three in the NBA Finals, you’ll know right where my balls are. You know what else you get? The sickest, low-down fucking nastiest 5’6″ white post game, possibly on planet Earth. So when you throw me the ball in the 4th quarter and I’m guarded by JJ Barea’s little ass, I WILL NOT throw the ball back to Dwayne Wade at half court. I WILL NOT get called for a charge. I WILL post him the fuck up and unleash an array of baby hooks, left-handed baseline fades, Hakeem turn arounds, and up-and-unders that will leave him punch drunk and begging for the bench. I’ll face him up, and as I’m faking right I’ll throw up an one-hand, overhanded with the left shot that he won’t even see go in the hoop. It looks like someone did a hard dribble and lost the ball, only you got scored on, bitch. I can post up dudes much taller than me. I would say that I will post up anyone, but after playing for several years against my friend Jed who is 6′ 10.5″, I now understand there are limitations to who I can post up. He recorded the kind of blocks on me that make your mom wince from 2 states away. I may possess zero of the physical tools that King Lames has, but I do have what he critically lacks: The heart of a goddamned lion. So Miami Heat, don’t let this opportunity pass you by. You can substitute me into NBA Finals 4th quarters for your Class 1AA PUSSY forward, and I will handle all the business he is too much of a PUSSY to handle on his own. And for a fraction of the cost. But please be aware that I will not listen to one fucking word that tits-on-a-bull Eric Spoelstra has to say about anything. Seriously, just stuff a fucking scarecrow and put it on the bench, it will add more value to the squad than does Spoelstra.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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