Walton Buys Off Me
06-16-2014, 12:25 PM
Sometimes the sun shines on a dog’s ass.
A random sequence of events conspired to rob the NBA’s greatest franchise of the ultimate goal last summer in South Florida.
It was travesty on par with genocide in Rwanda, tsunamis in Indonesia, the BP oil spill in the Gulf…I would dare say worse than all of the above.
Front running, ring chasing, attention seeking, ‘bought’ wannabes playing in the weakest conference of any sport used fortuitous bounces to defeat the pillars of excellence, class, dignity and magnanimous professionalism of the most storied ‘built’ franchise in sports.
That kind of cruel, heartbreaking irony that would have sent a lesser squad into complete disarray, never to be heard from again.
One night, while watching my Spurs lay waste to yet another pretender squad, the Golden State Warriors, their announcers, while talking about the charade of June 18, 2013 said “the Spurs will never get over that, how could they”?
Well lowlife Warrior fan, you of ill repute and insignificance personified, I’d say the ass raping perpetrated on Misses James, Wade and Bosh in these NBA Finals- by a league record margin of points I may add- is the very definition and realization of ‘getting over it’.
The Spurs did not just beat the Heat last night. They didn't simply ‘get revenge’.
They rode into their village, plundered their gold, set their homes ablaze, raped their wives, tossed their children off rooftops and then, as Miami burned in effigy and the screams and tears of Heat ‘fans’ were heard from coast to coast, Gregg Popovich dragged the beaten, broken body of Pat Riley into the centre of the devastation, pinned him down, smiled that Pop wry grin and said “now you have my permission to die insect”. The veritable coup to gras to Riley, the entire city of Miami and this hapless pretender of a franchise…a proverbial Cleveland Steamer right on the belly of Riley while mocking his ‘vision’ of a champion and reminding him that 2013 was nothing more, nothing less than cruel irony.
So now I ask where are they now? Where is the dancing, nonsensical theatrics from these drama queen Heat losers? Where is the wing flapping Birdman this morning? Where is Ray Allen and his moxy?
What are these guys doing right now? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aD9lZflXsgU
I’ll tell you- they’re cleaning out their locker rooms wondering why their asses feel like smoking craters.
The Heat’s feeble attempt at greatness will be remembered not as a triumph of any kind but rather an accidental pit stop on the road to immortality for the Spurs. A reminder that the universe is random and that a momentary lapse of focus can sometimes allow the sun to shine on a dog’s ass….that’s it Heat, that’s all the narrative has for you now. Your title, in the minds of sports enthusiasts around the globe, the opinions of those who really ‘know’, recognize your reign as simply accidental. You kept our trophy shiny for us…that’s your contribution to history.
So as I glance back at these imbeciles dancing and showboating, the greatest satisfaction I derive from yesterday’s annihilation is that history, the ultimate decider, will forever remember the last 12 months as the greatest story of redemption, vindication, emancipation and exoneration in the history of sport. How the team long thought dead and buried returned to the scene of the crime one year later and left their inferior opponent violated, pregnant and penniless.
Fuck you Heat. Fuck you Ray Allen. Fuck you Dwyane Wade, Fuck you Queen James. And fuuuuuck you Pat Riley.
Yet another franchise that tasted revenge in the form of a chin omelet dripping off their face because they had the audacity to tug on Superman’s cape.
Where’s the dancing now?
A random sequence of events conspired to rob the NBA’s greatest franchise of the ultimate goal last summer in South Florida.
It was travesty on par with genocide in Rwanda, tsunamis in Indonesia, the BP oil spill in the Gulf…I would dare say worse than all of the above.
Front running, ring chasing, attention seeking, ‘bought’ wannabes playing in the weakest conference of any sport used fortuitous bounces to defeat the pillars of excellence, class, dignity and magnanimous professionalism of the most storied ‘built’ franchise in sports.
That kind of cruel, heartbreaking irony that would have sent a lesser squad into complete disarray, never to be heard from again.
One night, while watching my Spurs lay waste to yet another pretender squad, the Golden State Warriors, their announcers, while talking about the charade of June 18, 2013 said “the Spurs will never get over that, how could they”?
Well lowlife Warrior fan, you of ill repute and insignificance personified, I’d say the ass raping perpetrated on Misses James, Wade and Bosh in these NBA Finals- by a league record margin of points I may add- is the very definition and realization of ‘getting over it’.
The Spurs did not just beat the Heat last night. They didn't simply ‘get revenge’.
They rode into their village, plundered their gold, set their homes ablaze, raped their wives, tossed their children off rooftops and then, as Miami burned in effigy and the screams and tears of Heat ‘fans’ were heard from coast to coast, Gregg Popovich dragged the beaten, broken body of Pat Riley into the centre of the devastation, pinned him down, smiled that Pop wry grin and said “now you have my permission to die insect”. The veritable coup to gras to Riley, the entire city of Miami and this hapless pretender of a franchise…a proverbial Cleveland Steamer right on the belly of Riley while mocking his ‘vision’ of a champion and reminding him that 2013 was nothing more, nothing less than cruel irony.
So now I ask where are they now? Where is the dancing, nonsensical theatrics from these drama queen Heat losers? Where is the wing flapping Birdman this morning? Where is Ray Allen and his moxy?
What are these guys doing right now? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aD9lZflXsgU
I’ll tell you- they’re cleaning out their locker rooms wondering why their asses feel like smoking craters.
The Heat’s feeble attempt at greatness will be remembered not as a triumph of any kind but rather an accidental pit stop on the road to immortality for the Spurs. A reminder that the universe is random and that a momentary lapse of focus can sometimes allow the sun to shine on a dog’s ass….that’s it Heat, that’s all the narrative has for you now. Your title, in the minds of sports enthusiasts around the globe, the opinions of those who really ‘know’, recognize your reign as simply accidental. You kept our trophy shiny for us…that’s your contribution to history.
So as I glance back at these imbeciles dancing and showboating, the greatest satisfaction I derive from yesterday’s annihilation is that history, the ultimate decider, will forever remember the last 12 months as the greatest story of redemption, vindication, emancipation and exoneration in the history of sport. How the team long thought dead and buried returned to the scene of the crime one year later and left their inferior opponent violated, pregnant and penniless.
Fuck you Heat. Fuck you Ray Allen. Fuck you Dwyane Wade, Fuck you Queen James. And fuuuuuck you Pat Riley.
Yet another franchise that tasted revenge in the form of a chin omelet dripping off their face because they had the audacity to tug on Superman’s cape.
Where’s the dancing now?