montestewart wrote: I can't keep buying tickets to this farce, but at least there's a few reasons to watch fast-forwarded DVRs of non-blowout games in between rereading Finnegan's Wake and Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
Oh then, in Joycean torrent let me explicate and try to onvince a doubting Tom'r'monte:
For there in the runaround shortpants we re-beefed the frontcourt, with man after mannigan strong and atlas flexing. Massive manbeef in front of any wee-dribbler in the lanes, rises to meet him roaring and foaming like Cerberus snapping his iron chain to chase them back and back and back from Hells gate to stop frozen and instead flinch a midrange fleaflick of getitawayfromme weak ass shot.
Then once shot, the arc of the parabola sailed to the jumbotron domey and desecending proper pinewards to the iron hoop, like Icarus lost his waxens in its plummet, it bounces unhappy with the resonant clang of haephestus shoeing the feet of pheobus or whatsuchrot. And in that hesitate-y mobble, the ball in it's tentative rebounce off the miss, is met by greedy grasping hands, then snug secure in the breast of a kindly beasty giant, and none with the temerity to dare to tickle it away from his bosom.
What's an Okafor? One might ask the gods of old what is in a name like this. Okafor. A man or mecha: made of both wood, a sturdy oak, or machine in form of man this mecha, this holy destination.
Next to him too another doughty stoutwise gentlegreat, a man whose name's itself a soft denial: gentle but sure as a mother who knows what's best. "Nay. Nay cry not, it is never good to try too hard when of a surety you have been refused for sartain. Nay. There there, you wee 'Bronny pamper wetter. Check yer puss for blood if you will but try not to enter my home again or again find a door slapped all face in face'. His very name is a wagging finger of Mutombo, meaning 'thou shalt not' and 'do not try this shzt you four-stepping fraud of a self fellating pantload...'
Who could deny the great glorious roar of laughter and vindication in victory, when minute after minute comes filled with huge god-natured giants, calling out switches and meeting cowardice with honest sweat, sinews like bosky forests, thews like sequioa, and chastising backswatting justice meted out to sour faced whiny children corrected in terms with stinging remonstrance and a sore rear from spanking: 'get that weakness gone'. And let fly for our side a fast break run:
Loose the fleet foot hounds! Our turn now, evoporate into offense like the shadows of clouds blown on hurricane stream-- upcourt gone as quick as shadow meeting light, in savage pursuit of two points sprinting. Exclamation rung! jammed home with clanging like churchbells: as regular, as sacred, each finish a fast break dunk and no mistake.
Let pundits wonder. 'Who will score?' Indeed. And while they wonder, the answer will ever be: never you. Never these Heat or Celtics, or Bulls or pickapponent. But instead the answer will be a high flying lob to a racing Czech or sudden Trevor of any Book'or'riza, Who will score? Will be: these wizards: fast in the freedom of an upcourt run --- and as fast to slam the door and say: 'Nay, Nay, sir, not you sir, and not today...'
Come the whistle and tweet, and fall the final buzz,
none will keep his seat, none will whinge and cuss
as we brothers in misery stand to roar away the years,
finally to a man we have a squad 'at's worth the cheers,
hard working to the last, earn your pennies every match,
never cheating you of effort...
unless we're keeping Andray Blatche.
Magnumt
