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Tim Duncan the wise — one of those guys who keeps his eyes on on the prize, lays off on the fries, no stars in his eyes, one step away from unzipping his fly to chastise, the next mother er with quivering thighs tryna improvise, and vandalize his reputation, or his allies', he'll feel elation when he creampies (his manhood is oversize), the ones whom he most despises, and you can infer causation between their ness and prostration at the feet of the Spurs Nation, whilst Tim continues his manic gyration, ignoring even the loudest vocalization, 'cause it's far past the statute of limitation for cancellation of this consecration, the excavation of the inner cavities of this upstart suppliant of a dying civilization, an example to a generation, of those who would forgo the veneration of he, the architect of a domination, the manifestation of the greatest allocation of talent since Jordan's ordination, whose legacy ends with not just any punctuation, but an exclamation, and in this act of penetration, there will be no relaxation, only mutilation; there will be no stimulation, only separation; there will be no sanitation, but only perforation, ulceration, unemployment compensation, and after thrashing like that there ain't no rejuvenation.
