It's The End of the Nets As We Know Them

Ah, the good old days. When New Jersey Nets basketball thrived and anyone who wished had the opportunity to sex Mutombo. But with the trade deadline ended, the Nets have let go of the most important player in franchise history not named Julius Erving, after years of subtracting the players Nets fans truly appreciated. So as I mourn a team that seems doomed to being irrelevant until they move to Brooklyn, allow me a few words of rememberance to former players, and wishful thinking to those that remain.

Jason Kidd

Without him, this team would have moved to Brooklyn already. And not a shiny new Bruce Ratner funded arena, but a dilapitated building in Bushwick that would still draw more fans then the Meadowlands. He introduced the Tristate area to crazy wives before Anna Benson and the former, richer Mrs. Strahan, and convinced slightly motivated and highly overpaid versions of Alonzo Mourning and Vince Carter to wear the Nets blue/white/grey/red/whatever jerseys.

Plus, it's a shame the Navy recently shot his kids head down from space. Christ, it's like Sputnik.

Vince Carter

 

A disaster 3 days before he got here. Remember that Nike commerical with Carter and Jefferson going toe-to-toe in dunks before he was traded to New Jersey? The commercial was funny because they were the same person, only Carter had a little more skill, and half as much heart, energy, ethics, personality, and 100% less balls and 200% more vagina. Seriously, would anyone in 2003 have traded what K-mart brought to the Nets for this Vinidiot? Because that's essentially what happened. Thanks, Bruce Ratner, for giving us this piece of shit.

Jason Collins

 

Tim Duncan: Righty tighty, lefty loosy!

O, Unsung Soldier,
We miss thee.

Ye were brought to us for the rights to Eddie Griffin,
along with RJ and Brandon Amrstrong.
You could not score,
You could barely rebound,
You were helpless against Shaq,
But dammit, you were always there,
And you always made a few good plays,
and you defended everyone but Shaq extremely well,
And you were a good teammate.
And most importantly,
Griffin got drunk and drove into an oncoming train at the age of 25,
and now we have shittin' Stromile Swift.
You are way better than either of those assholes.

We miss thee,
 O, Unsung Soldier.

 Todd MacCulloch

 

Eric Snow: Stick with me, bitch, I'll have you pulling in $125 a night! Now you see that older gentleman over there?

Todd MacCulloch: *Gulp*

 

Speaking of Unsung soldiers, Todd brought more intangibles to this team by spacing out the offense and passing well and playing respectable defense. But since he played in the time where Shaq could destroy him, we got rid of Todd for...

Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo
aka Dikembe Mutombo

 

WHO WANTS TO SEX MUTOMBO!!!

Devin Harris

 

Our new Net!  Traded to us from a team poised for a spirited playoff run to a semi-homeless pile of crap. Drinks Appletinis. Heal up from that sprained ankle and report to Riker's pronto, Devin.

 Clifford Robinson

 

The last active member of the early 90's Portland Trailblazers I so dearly loved. Then he started getting suspended a lot, including with the Nets in the playoffs against Miami when we really needed him. I blame these guys:

 

GA: Uncle Cliffy!
AJ: Wanna talk to Sampson?
LH:  Fucking Chicago!?!?  Aw, C'mon!!

Yinka Dare

 

HAHAHAHAHAHAH

 Brian Scalabrine

 

 HAHAOHOHOAHAOHOHO

 Gheorge Muerasan

 

( I couldn't find the "Score one for Zee Kids!!!" commercial, but maybe the ESPN Dancing commerical will suffice at explaining the glories of My Giant.)

 Drazen Petrovic

 

Aw. Germans drive fast, making his death somehow more tragic then Yinka Dare's. What, you didn't know Yinka died 4 years ago?,.

Keith Van Horrrrrn

 

Derided as being soft and unclutch even after making the shot that beat Indiana. Also, Ken used to say "Keith Van Horrrrrrrrrrn!!!" before missing a beer pong shot. Now he will earn $4,300,000 to sit on a bench for a month. Lucky bastard.

Kenyon Martin

 

Yeah Bruce, it's always a good idea to trade away the jowelly heart and soul of a team for draft picks, and then trade those away for the heartless, souless Carter. Choke on Jay-Z's dick, please.

Richard Jefferson

 

Save us, Obi Wan Jefferson. You're our only hope.  The only Net left from the glory years, a guy who came to our team on draft day 2001 in exchange for a guy who drove his car into a frigging train. Start hanging out with Obama and learn some speeches, because our hope lies in you, The Nad, and a guy holding an appletini.  With that, I think I might need to start hanging out with Antawn and Gilbert again. 

The Andy Pettite Congressional Hearing Drinking Game

Just when I thought I was free from creating any new drinking games involving Andy Pettite, he has to go and do a thing like testify before Congress.  Let's keep it uncomplicated, shall we?

If Congress declares a statement by Roger Clemens is either false or a lie, drink.

If Congress declares a statement by Brian McNamee is either false or a lie, drink.

If Congress declares a statement by Andy Pettite is either false or a lie, drink 3.

Anytime a congressman mispronounces someones name, drink.

Anytime the name Jose Conseco is mentioned, take a drink and immediately puke.

Anytime Rusty Hardin or Richard Emery speaks, drink until they stop, or someone beats the crap out of them.  You can stop if you go to the hearing and beat the crap out of one or both of them.

If Roger Clemens admits he took steroids, do a shot.

If Andy Pettite admits he took steroids, do 2 shots.

If George Mitchell admits he took steroids, do 3 shots.

If Chuck Knoublach fields a question from Congress only to lob it 5 feet over their heads, do a shot.

If George Steinbrenner attends the hearing, and says something incoherent, do a shot.

If an announcer references Andy Pettite's pick off mood in any context, drink 3 shots.

If Congress mentions Andy Pettite's pick off move in any context, pull out your liver and hit it with a bat a few times.  It'll be quicker.

The Epic of Toyota Al

My friend Al was recently named Cars.com Salesperson of the Year.  This made me happier then Angelina Jolie is around minority babies.  So, I decided to leave him a congratulatory comment with the first picture that resulted in a Google image search for "cars.com al".  This was my prize:

I was intrigued by this gentleman and his glorious Toyota.  If a picture speaks 1,000 words, then surely I could come up with a 1,000 word story to reveal the life of Toyota Al! With spellchecker/wordcounter in hand, I began the Epic of Toyota Al.

Al McBigHead was born in a quiet subarb of Aspen, Colorado to a devout religious family of scientologists.  His father, Norm, was a male stripper and his mother, Norm, was a housewife/CPA.  Al was an only child because the Norms killed off all of the children they deemed to be ugly, sparing Al only because of his full-bodied luscious hair, which was fully formed in the womb of Norm.

Al was an average student in school, excelling in mathematics and art.  Most of his paintings were oil based, and had a tendency toward shades of maroon and beige.  He was also adept at posing with a sense of self-satisfaction and confidence that screamed "Yeah, boyee, I'ma bussa cap in all y'all!" in otherwise non-descript situations.  These traits would go on to serve Al exceptionally well later in life.

Al majored in Theatre at Duke University in North Carolina.  It was there that he met Renaldo Rodriguez (aka "Al-do"), a mid-level crystal meth dealer who needed a courier to transport product to Nashville on the weekends.  After several initiations, Al won Al-do's trust, and was awarded the keys to Al-do's prize 1982 Toyota Corolla to make deliveries, in exchange for cash, mousse, and all the crank he could possibly, um, crank.

Let's see, how many words were in the above paragraphs.  Just 191?!?  Fuck you, Al McBigHead.

Al's business flourished under Al-do, and his courier territory expanded even as his GPA receded at a proportionate rate to his hairline.  He began making deliveries all over the Carolina's, the Virginia's, and even into Washington D.C.  He diversified his portfolio of narcotics, which eventually landed him his three best customers.

GA: My leg hurts bitch!!!

AJ: We are winning more games with you injured!

LH: I am irrelevant in Cleveland.  And LeBron don't even smoke weed!!

Nevermind that these player's were barely even born while the Epic of Al took place, or that the Wizards were actually the Bullets.  The point of the story is that Al McBigHead and the events leading up to the congratulatory picture to Al, Salesman of the Year.  Focus, people.

Yes, business for Al was truly prospering.  But like all E True Hollywood stories, his life was about to take a turn for the catastrophic the likes of which had never been seen before by man or beast or God.  Al had moved up to bigger targets, which led to the end of his illustrious era of prosperity.

RC: I've found someone.

AP: Jesus?

Al began selling steroids to Roger Clemens massive ego.  For the first time in the glorious history of illegal narcotics trafficing, supply could not outweigh demand.  Al started taking bigger risks, bypassing Al-do and purchasing directly from Jose Conseco and the weird thing that grows on Jose Conseco's hand.  Al was eventually strung out on quaaludes and rogaine and was caught selling a large package to an undercover federal agent.

BG: Oooooo baby I done caught somebody!!

Al turned over evidence to the federal government in exchange for a reduced sentence.  He served 3 years in prison while finishing his college degree.  Al-do escaped prosecution by returning to his native North Korea.  Gilbert Arenas continued to slap men, and Antwan Jamison continued to take it like a little bee-atch.  Larry Hughes remained irrelevant and high.  Roger Clemens was eventually disgraced.  Andy Pettite found Jesus in an El-Paso Exxon parking lot.  Black Guy clapped.

Al McBigHead returned to civilian life in Colorado as Al McNoggin, removing himself from his past life of indiscretions and immorality.  He landed a role as Banquo in a local production of MacBeth, and stocked vending machines for the Pepsico corporation.  But he could not shake one missing ingredient in the key lime pie of his life: a Toyota.

Al McNogginstein (note: he converted to like totally Jewish and stuff) worked his way to supervisor of vending stocking and earned a salary commiserate to place a down payment on the car he so desired.  Nah, are you kidding me?  Carmelo, Iverson, and Kenyon Martin all live up in that Mile-High Mothafugga.  McNogginstein was McSlingingstein!!  Down payment in hand, Al strode purposefully to the local Toyota dealer to acheive his goal: his own Toyota.  Su propio Toyota.  Zijn eigen Toyota.  His own.

And thus ends the story of Al McNogginstein-Lee (Note:  He married a Chinese woman and took on a hyphenated version of her name) and how he came to pose pantsless in front of his beige Toyota that I found while finding a picture to attach to a comment of the Salesperson of the Year.  And if there is a moral to this story, it's that the Toyota does not make the man, it's the man that makes the Toyota.  How many words is that?  791?  Ah piss off, bloody wankers.

GA:  That Toyota is hot!!

AJ:  I preffer a Ford Focus!

LH:  Seriosuly, even Zydranus Illgaukus won't take a bong hit with me, please Lord, HELP!!!!!!