Dubious Ruffian without the chops or disciple of Leon Haywood with facial hair epitomizing R&B lothario? R&B lothario. Inevitably so. What’s more plausible? Ladies loving 1960′s/70′s Boogie Smooth to the brink of AIDS or 1990′s Boogie Smooth cutting checks, grooving in velour blazers and tapping ass as the fourth member of Next? Hmmm…All I know is, Boogie Smooth wants to do something FREAKY to you…right meow.
From, “There’s a dude in Houston at Gulf Shores Academy that’s better than Lebron,” to rangy, slender 21 year-old Tracy McGrady archetype with fifteen 20 plus point games as a Celtic despite little to no feel for the game, to that stint in “Serbia was a pain in my ass,” to China, to the D-League, to a proclaimed 3 year/$10M role player blunder in Indiana (how he saw zero opportunity at an attempt to ignite the worst performing bench in Eastern Conference Final History was baffling far before this year’s outburst), to without doubt the Most Improved Player of the Year. Gerald Green’s long, winding road back to NBA relevance is one we should all admire. Check you out.
As you all probably should know, the first openly gay player in major sports history took the court for the NBA’s Brooklyn Nets last night. And in laymans terms, I do not give the slightest fuck. Why? Because he won’t have the slightest impact.The dude is worse at basketball than Michael Jordan was at baseball, and that is just the truth. We’ve given the master blaster of plus/minus credit where credit is due; we’ve applauded Jason for embracing his platform of role model and demonstrating an admirable balance of intelligent human being and athlete. In a vacuum, however, throughout the course of his remarkably unremarkable now-15-year-and-counting tenure, Jason Collins has done nothing but take up 7 feet and 250 pounds worth of space.
Oh, cool, sure, let us indulge in the conventional Jason Collins argument of “Jason Collins is the epitome of the guy you want at the end of your bench keeping the team’s moral steady because there exists no other viable statistical argument for paying Jason Collins at 35.” Great, grand, wonderful? How about color you bologna, fuck face. You know that Russian dude employing the league’s most flawed general manager to spend 200 plus million on the most poorly contrived 200 plus million dollar roster ever (yet has a top 3 most formidable, not to mention most lovable, NBA bench thanks to Mirza Teletovic being the burliest of three point shooting Bosnians and Andray Blatche euro-stepping through downtown)? Yea, well a lifestyle looming chock full of repeat tax offender, $55 million worth of damaged goods at its core and ballin’ without a budget remains in tact; a lifestyle capable of making Puff “Diddy Bop” into an epileptic seizure and Isaiah Thomas thankful he never had a Prokhorov to give him the spending power to fuck up the market on four other Jerome James’.
Meaning if the Nets had intended to legitimately navigate the secondary market for a big, they’d have probably abided by Jermaine Dupree’s testament of Money Ain’t a Thing and picked up the already bought out Big Baby Davis as insurance for losing out on Jordan Hill; although there’s plausibility in Garnett having zero intention of reuniting with a bitch. Or, better yet, they’d have waited until March to resurrect Ivan Johnson from China to fill such discrete role? Which brings me to the question of why Ivan Johnson isn’t on a roster? Screw the whole conversation of a mite unpredictable not boding well for any addition intended to provide a low maintenance boost. I’ll take a crazy, banging energizer who can actually do things offensively on the cheap any day of the week. Where in the hell is Doc Rivers on this decent scoring, rebounding psychopath for the stretch run?
Or maybe try something like, I don’t know, take an experimental $350,000 “gamble” on finding any semblance of potential in 6’10, 23 year-old former first round pick stuck in NBA purgatory, Daniel Orton (recently waived by Philly)? Oh, right, money. The Economic Impact of a Dumpy, Dweeby Seven Footer That Fouls Outrageous: A Dissertation by Danny Vineyard. Money.
As aforementioned, and I’ll say it again because the phrase itself might be an all-time best, We’ve paid the “master-blaster of plus minus” his respect. Did Collins once upon a time provide hyper specialized value? Yes. Does he play his fucking ass off? Hilariously so. Watching Jason Collins work relentlessly to screen and re-screen illegally is a trip; O.D. effort. Was Boston’s decision to sign Collins over Greg Stiemsma in 2012-2013 a top-5 all time menial role player blunder? Very much so, given Stiemsma was viable enough to play significant minutes in 2012 against the Knicks; While Jason proved unfit to provide a role for more than half a NBA season. But, is Twin back because the Nets need a defensive backbone? Or perhaps because its nice to have someone who can dislodge a post guy off the block, flatten a driver, set a screen, learn a play book, and bellow out weakside help? No, he’s clearly not. The Nets signing some scrub journeyman/waterboy to ensure Deron Williams stays hydrated for the next ten days (and maybe more, for PR reasons, and PR reasons only) as they valiantly trudge forward to a ceiling of a 6-seed and first round playoff exit in the dismal eastern conference is back page news. Period. It’s the type of information only the nerdiest of NBA fanatics like myself would deem notable.
But, instead this non-event has gotten more press than the on-going malicious assault on humanity in Venezuela, or the fact the worlds most wanted drug lord “El Chapo” was captured today. All because he’s gay. And the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter. Or at least it really shouldn’t. Anybody with even the loosest grasp of the fundamentals of humanity would agree. What goes on in your bedroom has nothing to do with what takes place on the hardwood (pause). To play in the NBA, you need skills. Something a 35 year old Jason Collins is utterly void of. I don’t care if he did spend the past year on a rigorous in-season training regimen, the dude was Kendrick Perkins in his prime, a blip (or plug, in basketball terms) in time that has came and went in a similar fashion as crazy bones, MySpace and bell-bottomed jeans.
Lastly, it should duly noted that a year ago, my prophet of a fellow-site-owner predicted Jason Collins may indeed “putt from the rough” in a hilarious article detailing which NBA players would be considered forgivable transgressions if his future-wifey were defiled by them. He made mention of how preposterously disinteresting Collins was on the court, and how that translated to his twitter following, which at the time was a hop-step (or in the case of number 98, a travel) above 2,000. It’s now over 100K. And that is the part I don’t have a problem with. Because his past, regardless of how boring it was from a fans perspective, gave him a platform. One which he used to address an elephant in the room–for that I applaud him. But that applause certainly doesn’t get extended to the Brooklyn Nets for signing his over-the-hill ass to a 10 day.
P.S. President Prophet, Chris Kattan, reportedly had an in class argument with a professor over Jason Collins being a more viable center option than Samuel Dalembert. Are you fucking kidding me?
Alright, perhaps I was a bit overzealous in declaring the recently waived Stak5 a potential messiah of Los Angeles basketball in 2014, but my dude is still swangin’. Straight up Instagram All-Star. Normally I’m not a fan of people blown’ up my news feed with 14 tasteless photogs per day, but when they’re this good, who am I to complain? Homie put on a clinic…
#HittinEm with some first-class comedy. Bravo, Stevie. Happy Black History Month.
P.S. While we’re on the topic of the grams, here’s the dumbest thing I saw today:
Anthony Kiedis doesn’t twerk…Safe to say whatever shit-eating, do-goodist soccer mom from the bible belt that came up with this incongruous logic ought to pack up her capri-sun filled ’97 Ford Winstar and drive it straight off a local bridge. Won’t be a tragedy. #HitEm
Precariously enough drafted into the most ideal circumstances for failure by the same man who never thought signing Earl Clark to $4.5 Million a year was inexcusably fat headed. Yes, dumb. Dan Gilbert has been dumb at basketball. Duh. Neglecting any such thing called “Big Market Fools Gold”–exceeding above and beyond one’s supposed expectations when doing so looks better on paper because they’ve done it in say or LA or New York despite sucking dick or being wildly mediocre in real life (i.e Landry Fields); Coercing Mark Grant into going clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose for Luol Deng and, hence, the playoffs when reasons for making the playoffs and trading for a “premier” wing expecting “premier” money yet will never be “premier” in Cleveland (let alone stay) makes zero sense whatsoever—If I’m Luol Deng and you don’t sign me to an extension right now, then why would I stay in Cleveland? In fact, why would anyone stay in Cleveland after getting a whiff of that locker room let alone Dion Waiters? And if I’m Cleveland, why would you ever put yourself in the position of paying Luol Deng, like, $50 Million over three years because you’re looking at the second best available free agent come this summer (the truest of anomalies) either walking for nothing or say a trade exception and something reminiscent of a Randy Foye. This wreaks of Summer of 2013 Andre Igoudala, but on a far shittier scale.
SIDE NOTE: A.) Who knows if either Dan Gilbert or Chris Grant pulled the trigger on the Luol/Bynum deal. I say Danny did, but that’s just this jew aka Chris Kattan speaking. Regardless, we’re talking Bryan Colangelo in Toronto sans signing the most inefficient 20 plus shot attempts there ever was (RUDY) type of way. “I might as well do this, I’m getting fired anyways” scenario. And B.) I say Luol Deng might be the second best available free agent come this summer because the period won’t be the blockbuster we’ve supposed it as being. When going down the list EVERYONE is restricted and/or Lebron, Carmelo, Lamarcus, etc.
Anyways, enough with Dan Gilbert and back to why those believing Anthony Bennett is a lost cause have shit for brains. Well, when you yourself know you should never have been drafted first overall and are thrust into immediately playing out of position for an organization already facing a log jam of forwards that just added $4.5M of Earl Clark to essentially do what you do, terrible times and unachievable expectations fester; diaper stacked to the brim. Sure he was noticeably out of shape, sure this is one of the worst things YouTube could ever do to reaffirm Anthony Bennett sucks.
My god, dude.
But when the number one overall pick is fluctuating between DNPs and rarely ever to never playing plus 15 minutes, you sure as shit should expect…well, shit. Will Anthony Bennett ever reach the standards of career for a number one overall pick? My guess is probably not. You know why? Because Anthony Bennett–out of pure dumbfounding managerial choice–was assigned forcibly to a label never coinciding with his actual self. I’m not spitting reverential fucking rocket science here. We’re talking about a creative gamble at formidable small ball four with potential to play heavy minutes at the three who’s stock would have seamlessly fit NBA standards had he not been picked first overall. But he was. Thus, life sucks and rumblings are Kwame Brown might be off the hook for “worst ever.” Nonetheless, give the kid a break. A lenient outlook on Bennett’s window of opportunity for development and success will go a long way.
All ya’ll non-4-lyfe Anthony Bennett advocates can suck toes #HitEm
Michael Beasley emerging from the dark with his best rendition of Mr. Manny I Have No Eye-Brows Fraiche. Fraiche.
Ain’t no Battioke…like a Shane Battier Battioke…because a Shane Battioke…don’t stop. Man, am I cliche. As am I borderline retarded for it taking me upwards five read-throughs to realize “Battioke” meant Battier plus Karaoke and not Japanese Steak House meets Art Basel. Shane Battier: You and your Denny’s, and Bud Light, and being conducive of ultimate team building, and Karaoke. Back that azz up, my friend. Oh, and while you’re at it, how about letting Lebron know that shredded jeans are so passé. Literally what are you doing.
On another note, how pissed should we be about Michael Beasley performing “Back Dat Azz Up” sans the volcano of dreads? For if sweet dreams were made of Alonzo Mourning not threatening to beat Michael Beasley to a pulp upon his refusing to cut the mentally ill antics…I’m also going to go out on a limb by saying you cannot not invite Juvenile. Horseshit. Juvenile has been living at Tootsies Cabaret since “Drop That Azz” was never nationally recognized as club brilliance. Which equates to eight years now and running. How was there never a music made for this jam? Throwww that azzzz thisaaawayyyyy
P.S. I’m a fool for Greg Oden, Shane Battier and Ken Jeong
Source–Prior to New York’s victory over the Philadelphia 76ers, Smith spoke with reporters about being benched against the Miami Heat and showed little remorse forShoelacegate, basically pleading innocence: ”He’s [Mike Woodson] been telling me [to grow up] since I got here,” Smith told the media, according to the New York Post‘s Marc Berman. “Honestly, growing up I really don’t understand the true meaning of it. I’ve been misunderstood my whole life. It’s not going to change now.”
And I understand the nature of the $50,000 fine having all to do with the reputation that precedes him. But untying laces was Grade A in-game, “let’s take it back to the blacktop” swindling. The least bit harmful; Tony Kornheiser went as far as to say it was “dangerous.” Suck rope, dude. If you’re going to write a scathing follow-up piece and conclude JR is a spoiled suburbanite turned utter lost cause, then #HitEm as it pertains to JR trending via an instance of strictly basketball related “Rich Kid Asshole, Paint Me as a Villain” (shout out Donald Glover). Like when he went full ass hat and refused to shoot against Boston after Mike Woodson tried coaching him into not posting the most notoriously suck percentages in NBA history. Now that calls for Scarlet Letter, Hester Prynne, humiliate you at the stake type shit. Thus, although a retarded public relations move with regards to salvaging one’s brand (I wonder where Creative Arts Agency has been throughout this slew of self-debilitation) and another reason for God to smite JR with Steve Francis Syndrome by age 36, I surprisingly enough applaud the decision to publicly mock the need to “grow up.” Because the Douche of the Last Decade argument has spawned a la the most ridiculous fine ever. And whoever is rocking those 2-Chainz-esque leather astronaut knee pads, good lookin’ out.
Second, through this typhoon of JR Smith admonishment, how has no one paid any mention to his showing up to a Nuggets shoot around the MORNING of a 2010 playoff game blunted to the max? $3,000 worth of Chinese hotel child labor my ass. You know what I’d have done to reincarnate myself as Anthony Carter—the most average to below-average point guard to ever play 20 plus minutes a game in any given season next to Eric Snow–or at least the upper left corner of Sheldon Williams’ gargantuan forehead as means of sniffing an NBA playoff bench? Everything. Quintessential JR Smith further defining himself as the bane of every 5’9, Jewish Man’s delusional NBA self. I’m sure if James Dolan had let basketball operations research 400 other similar occurrences instead of valuing JR strictly on the premise of social media impressions, the Knicks wouldn’t be held at the three year, $18 million immovable mercy of professional sports’ most ratchet “adult.”
Lastly, JR Smith is about to turn WorldStarHipHop’s roof a flame. Not one person in that organization wanting him thereplusvengeance for fallen brother Chris Smithplus caring more about his Instagram following than shooting pull-up jumpers at a historically terrible rate plus just not giving a motherfuck equals blow up of epic proportions on the horizon. Meaning the angry black Knicks fan that went viral and JR will joust at mid-court like never A Knight’s Tale before two weeks prior to the trade deadline.
Team Take Over in this bitch. Even though I’m one of seven from deep prior to and amidst shooting some of the more suck percentages in NBA history. Scratch that, THE worst percentages in NBA history…RAIN MAN. Pardon me…WEED MAN! Wait, what’s that, dude? My fault, b, I thought we was down two? Oh. my. god. Fireable offense 378 for JR Smith? Beyond unbearably mind boggling. As the saying goes, you can’t shoulder the ire of an organization, play like an ass hat, have your cake and eat it too. I think this honestly might be the first time in my life I feel terrible for Knicks fans. Play two Western Conference elite well enough to garner some viable momentum only to see JR Smith fuck a bunch of faithful strangers in the ass. #HitEm, Walter Sobchak.