Sunday, May 07, 2006

Grammar is poop and so are the Spurs


Without a doubt, the worst idea ever conceived is the San Antonio Spurs. Yes, worse than cancer, the Ebola virus, war, famine, pestilence, or lights in Wrigley Field, the San Antonio Spurs top the list of things badly and irresponsibly created.


First there is the terrible languid game of Tim Duncan. His awful, plodding, ugly Vulcan body and pointy ears are like a terrible foreign film you have been made to sit through by a humanities professor who wants to teach you about attention to the fundamentals of film making, but leaves you desiring something that may not lull you into a coma. Horrible.


Surrounding this pylon is a cast of misfits who thrive on the open jump shots his towering, seven-foot mutant body creates due to the necessity of double teams. Tony Parker and his beautiful girlfriend, who is too busy text messaging her agent to notice his skinny ass getting freed up for another open 20 foot gimme. Manu Ginobli and his strange and constant expression of consternation and dismay. Some guy named Michael Finley.
I don’t want to go any further, just check the box score. Duncan gets 20 to thirty, then it’s a cast of miscreants scoring 8, 6, 14, 12. Who cares? Bologna has more flavor than this.
The Spurs play possum all season with the wounded and ailing Tim Duncan, then make a push at the end and finish tops in the conference. The league is dissatisfied with both Mavericks and Spurs, to be truthful. They would rather have big market teams, or dazzling slam dunking stars with Nike contracts with slogans like, "We are all witnesses to the atrocity of 120 dollar sneakers." But these are the best two in the west. Screw the league. The Washington Generals played more compelling basketball than San Antonio. I’m not even making any coherent sense about this, just ranting.


Most worsest of all, they were losing game one until some bad turnovers by some normally solid Mavs changed things. It was a tight game throughout.


Here is how I remember the last play. This is not necessarily how it happened, this is how I remember it. Dirk drives across the lane. He is matched up with someone tall, some strange Frankenstein Spurs interchangable part of a player. In fact, that is what the Spurs are, they are the interchangeable Tim Duncan Frankenstein machine. Just mix and match people in black and white jerseys around Carribean boy and crush the opposition. Maybe the player was Nesterovic, maybe it was Tim Duncan himself. Anyway, Dirk can probably get his shot, but the object with feet he must shoot over is tall, and he spies an open Stackhouse in the corner. Stack has been hot in the fourth quarter. He hesitates, and makes the pass. The hideous Bruce Bowen sticks out a claw and deflects the ball into the air. His work complete, he recedes into a dark recess in the AT&T center floor. Stackhouse, incredibly, gathers the ball, despite being hounded by a player that looks like a human Bruce Bowen, although there is no such thing as a human Bruce Bowen. Bruce Bowens are nocturnal creatures that gather in dark places and feast on human remains. Continuing, Stack then suffers an attack of brain fart. He backs up to the three point line, suddenly remembers he isn’t that good a three point shooter, and understands that the Spurs organization villainously laced the gatorade cooler with some drug to confuse him. Unfortunately, it’s too late to foil the plot, and he tosses up a wild three pointer in the international signal of distressed basketball players who know they have been the victims of skullduggery. The refs ignore his plea, pretending they have not seen it, then are whisked away by men in black suits and sunglasses to the innermost recesses of the arena to receive enormous monetary compensation for their cooperation.


Evil bastard people conspired to steal this victory, but the Mavericks will prevail.

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