You suck. You make me a hypocrite cause I used to say that nobody who won a championship could suck but— there you go. I couldn’t even watch the game. I passed out. When I woke up, you were covered in grease, wearing one of those stupid hats, holding the Larry O’Brien trophy and talking to one of those bozos on ESPN. It was like seeing Darth Vader wearing a swastika armband giving the American Presidential Inaugural address in the voice of Bobcat Goldthwait—everything about it was wrong.
Before you came into the league, I was like, “I don’t like this guy.” You were taking Brandy to your prom and had your face all tight like you were carrying liquid explosives in a cocktail glass. I was thinking, “All right, dog. That’s good for you. You got Brandy, now leave us alone.”
Then you shot airballs and lost in your first playoff series against the Jazz and I was like, “Ha! Iverson’s better.” Then you started winning. I attributed it to Shaq. Guilty of post-coital rape of a hotel clerk in Denver cause you made her feel like a fool after the fact and what’d you do? You blamed Shaq! What did Shaq have to do with it, dog? You still ain’t answer that one. Then you ran Shaq out of town.
Don’t let me sound like a lunatic here, though. I never fronted on your skills. I always admitted to your superfan, N’Gai Croal, who’s probably watching porn right now in his Laker jersey and calling the male star Kobe (I don’t wanna suggest what else he’s doing) that I’d take you on the Knicks in a heartbeat. I even named a character after you in that book that I self-published and that only my closet friends and family bought. Trust me dog, that Kobe is NOT the hero.
But in fairness, this win moves you onto my own personal Top Ten All-Time list. You and Clyde Frazier come off the bench behind Jordan and Magic and while there’s not too much of a drop off in scoring, my defense actually improves.
I ain’t ever gonna like you, dog.