NBA Shit-Listers: I’m Not Sure I Can Handle 18 points, 8 Boards and a Heart-Felt Post Game Interview from Jermaine O’Neal

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The bane of every Bostonian. Quote, Bill Simmons: 

Jermaine finished his Celtics career as the team’s least popular player, internally, since Vin Baker. The general feeling is, “He stole money from us.” Just dumping O’Neal from the trainer’s room so the players didn’t have to disgustedly look at him anymore and wonder things like, “Wait a second, isn’t his LEFT wrist the wrist that’s hurt? He can’t play with that? Isn’t he right-handed? He’s really that big of a pussy?” was probably worth a few extra wins already. It’s hard to understand why one of the league’s most thoughtful players — a real warrior once upon a time — felt good about finishing his career with his last set of teammates and coaches believing he was something of a fraud. Just know that, on the slight chance that this Celtics team wins a title or comes close, Jermaine shouldn’t expect a full playoff share.

I applaud Jermaine for a.) having ranked amongst my top five favorite bigs of all childhood, b.) sporting some of the more revered cornrows of the early millennium, c.) unsurprisingly laying considerable groundwork for “Most-Impactful-Signee-at-the-Veteran’s-Minimum” (as expected because Jermaine O’Neal spent several summer weeks in Germany doping his ass off), and d.) invoking abstract comparisons between the 2013-14 Warriors and the 2004 Pacers of Malice at the Palace old—I’ll, however, take Ron Artest pre-collosal 86 game suspension/pre-requesting a month off of basketball to pursue a career as the artist formally known as Schizophrenic Brian McKnight over Andre Iguodala all day every day, and those stating otherwise do not remember Ron Artest of 2004 as one of the more debatable figments of what could-have-been borderline superstar in NBA history; I’ll also take Jamaal Tinsely over Steph Curry because he tossed dimes and apparently drank more vodka than water. Nonetheless, I’m a Celtic. And anyone who fucks with this archaic circle of champions, American Heroes and James Posey’s is an inexcusable loser. A generous $12 million over two years to play in the house that Red, Bill and Bird built and you go from training camp MVP to Vin Baker depths of character depreciation to modeled, storied veteran on a contender basking in character revelation FOUR YEARS LATER? Sans the booze? Painfully nostalgic loss for words.

I’m not here to debate whether any 2010 through 2012 Celtics team was a fully engaged Jermaine O’Neal away from turning the single most catastrophic move in the Garnett-Pierce-Allen era into a plight of brilliance; Regardless of who was on the floor on June 7th, 2012, there was never stopping Lebron’s transcendency. I’m just here to say such fraudulence made an ass of myself, yourself, the city of Boston and Ryan Hollins; watching Doc Rivers–who stated during 2012′s run that he’d take anything 6’6 and above as long as that 6’6 could stay on the floor–have no other choice to but to employ the most inept reserve in playoff history for eight minute stints fucked my shit up and continues to fuck my shit up. Grit and balls are the most celestial substances of this city, capable of turning designated “bums” into the real life embodiment of how hard work prevails upon those who work hard. Jermaine O’Neal never “sucked it up and fought the fight,” thus shitting on the very concept. And for that, I award you no points.

If Bill Simmons did in fact never actually have the Celtic locker room scoop on such underlying attitudes, then I thoroughly apologize. But until that falsified day, in the most relevant of hollywood allusions, I’m Sargent Elias and you, Jermaine O’Neal, are my Sargent Barnes. Shot through the heart, and Charlie Sheen is too late.

P.S. If I was to work for one these ho-hum Celtics blogs and I had a media pass for March 5th, I’d appropriately probe Jermaine O’Neal for all he’s worth. Even at the expense of having my nose shoved in.

“If you want to get to the bottom of something, just look someone in they eye and see how they speak to you”

—Pusha T

NBA Nickel: Rudy Gay and Demar Derozan Must Be Miserable to Play With, Huh?

Rudy Gay in the immediate aftermath of laser eye surgery last July: “I did have vision problems…Actually, it was terrible. I could hardly get my license…It wasn’t even a regular operation…It was some kind of crazy operation that took a lot more time to heal than I thought. It sucked. They had to patch it up [after], and I had to take eye drops, all stuff that I hated. But I had to do it. It’s crazy because as much work as I’m putting in working on my shot, if I come back shooting [a better] percent from the three-point line, everybody’s gonna say it’s ’cause of my vision, not the hard work I’m putting in.”



Now? Well, Rudy coughed up ELEVEN of THIRTY-SEVEN in Houston en route to a buzzer beating three that did in fact force double-overtime and a loss. 29% on two assists. Oh, and the second member of this “superstar” tandem? Went SIX of TWENTY-FIVE. 24% on ZERO assists. Rudy and Demar Derozan respectively rank first and fifth in league field goal attempts; 301 attempts with 29 assists combined. Josh Mc-Fucking-Robert’s has 29 assists this season. Both are shooting 36% FROM THE FIELD. Let’s just say a.) ya’ll need an overly sentimental lullaby courtesy of the artist formally known as Drake, b.) if Raptors GM Masai Ujiri feels incentivized to bottom out—meaning enter the oh-so fitting Air Wiggins sweepstakes—because his team sucks and they are below .500 come February, can’t move Rudy Gay because no one wants a low-efficiency wing who’s not a great rebounder, defender or facilitator for his position with a $19.3 million player option (damn right he’s gutting it out wherever he’s at for $19.3 million) and c.) Jonas Valanciunas believes there’s shit…everywhere…GIVE ME THE GOD DAMN BALL (bellowing Lithuanian voice)!

2.) Stat of the Night: 13 points, 12 rebounds, 11 assists from LANCE STEPHENSON  


3.) Dunk of the Year: JJ Hickson Makes Himself a Man-wich Out of Marvin Williams 

Marvin Williams…what an unfortunate career path.

4.) Random Musing: Lebron James Must Be Heated That Yo Gotti (of all people) Made a Mediocre Club Banger in His Honor 

As retribution for such atrocity, rub me in oil or die.

5.) Shout out to Four Consecutive Dubs in Boston

Hard fought losses or this…





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EXTRA MEAT.) This just in: The Knicks are sold on Kevin Love in 2015, sources tell Yahoo Sports, and they’ve already begun devising a strategy to lure him when the time comes.

Yea, uh, no. #HitEm, Tom Cruise




Real Talk: I’m Still Full Mast Over Jeff Green’s Buzzer Beating Three in Lebron’s Grill

When all hope appeared lost after Kelly Olynk’s befuddling decision to initiate contact on a  CLEAN right wing 15 footer that would have knotted the match (pop) at 110, we foul Dwayne Wade with .6 seconds; misses the first, intentionally blunders the second, ball is ours, Young Boy Gorgeous draws up something conventional, Lebron freezes, Gerald Wallace throws an improbable, as immaculate as can be cross court skip, Jeff Green nails it, Assistant Coach Jamie Young finds himself in the trenches of Boston’s celebration mid Miami bench and Dwayne Wade walks home with bird shit on his shoulder. Hey, I mean, would have had zero qualms with $50 worth of watching us from the balcony look half-decent for 43 minutes, unhinge in the last five and then walk away with a hard fought loss at American Airlines Arena aka the Dominican Republic —you know, because there’s nothing better than six straight months of hard-fought losses with the best draft in 29 years looming and watching basketball in Miami is the equivalent to shoving a Carnival Cruise to some spanish speaking country through your ear hole. But I guess an emphatic dub to the tune of 111 points, Miami’s third loss in seven games (good luck with the whole 10 loss challenge), Phil Pressy finally breaking into the rotation, and Jeff Green flaring his loins of inner borderline superstar will just have to suffice. Jeff Green: half-amazing, half-I want to puncture my gord every time Jeff Green does things like drop 10 points in 30 minutes and look like the 6th player on a basketball court.

C’s win. Ya boy almost died. You didn’t. Let’s hear it one more time for Dr. Lars Svensson. Feelin’ homesick. #HitEm, Gary Glitter.

P.S. I was actually at last night’s game. And I’ll tell ya what: 1.) You know Miami Heat fans are entirely a facade when Michael Beasley aka June’s-X-Factor-of them all dumps on Kelly Olynyk and Kris Humphries for eight straight points and the place is overcome with a meager lull of ovation (I’d have lost my shit) and 2.) How the fuck does one consider bongos a form of ancillary entertainment? Nothing makes my head want to explode more than those fucking bongos. MAKE THE BONGOS STOP! THIS IS AMERICA! NO ONE’S CHEERING! PLAY SOME RICH HOMIE QUAN! OR AT LEAST SOME GOD FORSAKEN LMFAO! PLEASE! THE AGONY! AND, YES, I’M YELLING RIGHT NOW!

I’m All For Boston’s Staff Telling Gerald Wallace to Can It

As you all may or may not know, a stern Gerald Wallace laid into his Celtics’ teammates after Sunday’s 104 to 89 entirely irrelevant preseason loss for shitting a brick in the department of effort. And apparently—and, of course, rightfully so—Brad Stevens, lead assistant coach Jay Larranaga, and other Celtics staff were far from entirely thrilled with Wallace crashing their presumed philosophy of “let’s-take-this-season-every-one-slow-losing-yet-learning-step-at-a-time.”

“I’m getting fussed at by the coaches every time,” said Wallace. “They’re trying to tell me to relax and ease up. But the main thing is I want the guys to compete. If we lose all 82 games, but we lose them going down fighting and competing hard. I can live with that. I can’t live with losing and we didn’t compete, we didn’t give our best effort and we just gave the game away. I don’t want that for these guys and this team.”

Here’s what’s on my checklist of commentary:

1.) I’ll begin with the most arbitrary of them all: If you’ve ever heard Gerald Wallace speak, you’d be hard pressed not to believe he was a descendent of Barry White. Deepest voice

2.) “Fussed at” has to be the most Southern expression of beratement I’ve ever heard. “Fussed at.” Love it. I also love how Gerald Wallace was so Agoraphobic (i.e. terrified of New York City) that he decided to import cat fish and bass to his 2 1⁄2-acre backyard lake for leisurely activity as means of refuge. All makes sense as to why Wallace earnestly let everyone know that he was a psychological wreck and flat out terrible at basketball a week before last year’s playoffs. 

3.) Congratulations, Gerald. You’ve officially been named the greatest Bobcat in Bobcat history. Stephen Jackson must be seething. How do you even compile a list of 50 greatest Bobcats?

4.) Hey, Gerald. This is you: “NOTHING IS OVER…YOU JUST DON’T TURN IT OFF”

Now stop it with the Rambo shenanigans. This ain’t your show.

I’ll admit: My state of Celtics fandom is in a R.Kelly-esque flux right now. My mind is telling me, “We have to suck, we have to suck, we have to SUCK and any impossibly overpriced workhorse looking to resurrect his all-star potential a la doing whatever he can to propel Boston to an 8 seed should be cast aside by means of the stretch provision.” But my body…MY BODY’S TELLING ME, “I’m with Gerald, I’m a winner, I hate losing, let’s do the ultimate culture building experience, and whole heartedly fight for an eight seed.” I then realize (a.) Danny Ainge will trade everything and anything IF the whole future compromising, menial playoff seed thing garners momentum as an actual thing and b.) I’ll have dinner with Travis Knight before I sit through an offseason of neither a single lottery pick nor a legitimate shot at the Mormon Megastar formally known as Jabari Parker. Gerald is right: We should play with the chops needed to stay in more games than not, we can’t live with losing and not competing, guys need to be consumed by an atmosphere conducive of winning and getting better, bad habits cannot fester, our locker room cannot resemble the Kardashians circa 2011 when Kris Humphries was the worst person on earth. Yet, it is incumbent on this group to represent the least overt true tanker of 2014′s true tankers. We’re team building, we’re plodding on open cap space for Kevin Love (I’m praying Courtney Lee shoots 38% from deep for at least a month so he can finally be out), we’re nursing a core able for Rondo’s full year return in 2015. But we’re also in no way trying to win as many games as possible. Young Boy Gorgeous was plucked from mid-major haven to help incubate young talent, build a system of sustainable success with outside-the-box thinking and protect Rondo from implosion at the sight of 27 and 55  And Gerald Wallace needs to sit back, relax, enjoy his $30 million, do his veteran mentorship gig and acknowledge that this isn’t his show. Don’t like it? Well, sorry. Because your stuck. Talk to Mikhail Prokhorov for having launched you into a stratosphere of undesirable market value.

I commend the response and enthusiasm. Nonetheless, its time…


Buy or Sell: “Best Friends” With Brad Stevens & “Embracing The Challenge” Are Confessions of Real Love from Rajon Rondo

“Me and Brad have become best friends,” Rondo said on the team’s media day. “We talk every day, we laugh and joke, we just had dinner the other night. I’m going to help him, he’s going to help me. He has my full support, and I told him from day one when he came to my camp [in Louisville for their first meeting in July], I’m 100 percent behind him.”

“I never really backed away from a challenge. This would be a challenge. I’m looking forward to working with coach [Brad] Stevens. It’s a brand-new start for us as a team. A lot of new players and a lot of young guys willing to listen, so I’m very excited about that.”

And so the altruistic dynamic apparently continues. #HitEm with that smooth shit, Mary J.!

Regardless of it having been media day or not, great actually hearing that our heir to Celtic franchise cornerstone has embraced the trudge of captaining the single greatest organization known to basketball from the begrudgingly difficult depths of Eastern Conference cellar dwelling. Even better knowing this acceptance of responsibility comes at the expense of genuinely befriending Young Boy Gorgeous aka the savant of cultivating everything culture, community and maturity building related. And to think a 36 year old with zero experience at the professional level could convince this generation of superstar that NOTHING is more rewarding than immortality under one roof and one roof only, let alone Boston’s roof (you know, the one with narrative of 17 different roads to championship success, Dave Cowens cabbin’ it and millions of other NBA legend?). I thought that was suppose to be as indomitable of a task as turning a Lion into an affable household mut? 

Of course, there’s the whole underlying, disheartening fear that this love affair digresses into something straight out of Ike and Tina Turner. Cinderella is an anomaly to 2013-14 and the ghost of Matt Howard unfortunately will not be snot rocketing the Celtics to an against all odds regular season run capable of ruining the next 10 years of my life. We stink. Jeff Green’s inner half-borderline-all-star-half-superstar, veteran talent, sideline execution, defensive chops (we are stalwart with regards to the perimeter) and toughmindedness might help us stay in more games than not. But we STINK. I’ll even admit that I’ve overblown the capacity with which we could potentially challenge for an eight seed. First and foremost, Boston has been a bottom-10 scoring team for two straight seasons with Rajon Rondo, Paul Pierce, and Kevin Garnett (and Ray Allen in 2011-12). Unless everyone defends like the Knicks, our destiny as a 25th or worse points per possession ball club is sealed and watching us score will be as miserable as being forced to watch a cow give birth from a fifth grader’s perspective (DON’T DO IT! THE HORROR!).

Then factor in our virtual lack of rim protection and Danny Boy’s willingness to move anything and everything (excluding Rondo *fingers crossed*) to remain competitive in the Jabari Parker sweepstakes (The Mormon to Mormon connection here is too ideal) and, BOOM, its inevitable lottery placement for us. Which is great. Nonetheless, how Rondo both interprets and reacts to the first year hardship of rebuilding will ultimately decide how this relationship unfolds—Stevens convinces Rajon that working through these hardships is a much needed character defining experience that will be shortly rewarded and we’re good; I mean, who isn’t willing to grind out a year of culture building for an entire first round’s worth of legitimate lottery pick talent (a draft in which we’ve got two of ‘em) and just enough cap room in 2015-16 for the most inevitable signing of the last decade aka the Great White Hope 3.0 (I’m sure we can afford bordering/marginally flooding over the luxury tax line knowing that Wallace’s $30 million stop gap, poison pill dilutes the following offseason)? Rajon can’t live life without a win now mentality and its sayonara, Brad Stevens, I’m Jacking It in either Sacramento or Detroit.

For now, I’m buying this love affair because Rondo is, as to quote the Iron Sheik, “Le Real, not Le Gay.” Not to mention Brad Stevens is just too incredible of a human being to let Rajon self destruct—nicest gentleman on the market. But I’m not ruling out any unearthing temperamental horse shit. Remember, folks: Rajon’s reputation as intolerable precedes him, he isn’t that young to be content with an ongoing rebuilding process and sacrificing a locker room to meet the needs of an individual as opposed to the team is risk some aren’t willing to take.

Here’s my weekly Tony Yayo omen for Rajon. NO FAKE LOVE UP IN HERE!


David Stern Openly Pulling for the Sixers NOT to Get the First Pick of 2014′s Draft is The Tits

And I quote with regards to his opinion on Philly’s “Winless for Wiggins” movement: That is so… small,” said Stern. “I hope they have a great season & don’t have the chance for the No. 1 pick.”

BOOYAH! Whaddaya Say, David Stern foreseeably having his footprint written all over the best draft since 2003 post retirement? Whaddaya Say, Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce having enough career mileage to excuse the loyalty factor with regards to two plus 35 year-olds and make all front office executives think we aren’t explicitly chasing the crown jewel of 2014? Whaddaya say, Danny Ainge doing it “right”?  Ain’t no illicit tankfest up in here and falling victim to ye ‘ol lottery odds sinking due to ongoing Abe Pollin’s widow/neurofibromatosis ping-pong ball conspiracy theory. Its all in the act of facade, baby! “Trying”/impressing enough on paper for a foreseeable eight spot if everything unfortunately goes according to “plan.” Yet, inevitably sucking in knowing that we are entirely inept in the department of size and defense because the backbone of what we’ve done on the other side of the ball just took his clinical insanity to Brooklyn–not to mention Boston has sported a bottom-10 scoring for the last two seasons with Rajon, Paul Pierce and Garnett. We’ll probably end up as the 25th or worse points per possession team in the league and its going to be AMAZING.

Think a commish atop a revenue sharing league approves of a cellar dweller bottom feeding off of others’ financial success? Pshhh. Replacing already established, youth-filled franchise cornerstones with enough potential young talent and cap room to form an organization worthy of perennial season ticket holders is for savvy General Managers and the birds ONLY (*sigh of sarcasm). Filling the stands at 1/4th capacity to watch Michael Carter Williams turn the ball over five times a game (Its called a learning curve starting for the worst team in the NBA at the game’s toughest position) will have you in Big D’s dog house. Fact: No one is going to Sixers games, our season ticket holding percentages are still kick ass, and Air Olynyk might oddly enough be my favorite basketball player ever. All about finding that 25 to 30 win team with a 8.8 percent chance of nabbing Wiggins. And if all else “fails” in the lottery then landing the apparently bigger, faster, stronger version of Carmelo aka Jabari Parker. I’ll take Danny Ainge’s informal Mormon advisee and an overachieving, under the radar early 20′s first round pick named Kyle Anderson of UCLA ANY day

I’ll also take the whole fitting “NBA owes us thing,” please. I’ll call it “NBA Cares.” Tim Duncan retribution time. I’m just going to throw Travis Knight a non-sequitor “fuck you” for having ruined my late 90′s/early 00′s memories of Celtic fandom in light of the ’97 draft. Man, did Timmy look good that night (*daydreaming).

P.S. Sorry for the words of criticism, MCW. Like I said, learning curves are a bitch. I have all the faith in the world that you’ll pan out. In due time, Cambridge’s finest.


Reality Has Finally Set In: A Tribute to Paul Pierce From a Lifelong Celtic Fan

“It’s now starting to sink in. I am no longer a Boston Celtic. I’m a Brooklyn Net.”–Paul Pierce

As a realist and someone who continually puts himself in the pressurizing, convoluted drivers seat of a GM, I chose the far less emotional route of focusing on the glitzy, viable, down the road revels of a $10 million trade exception come 2014-15′s blockbuster offseason, the favorable odd’s that our 2016 unprotected first round pick shows closer to lottery when Deron Williams/Joe Johnson are in their mid 30′s and Brooklyn’s committed salary continues to hover around $80 million, the inevitability of rebuilding, landing an Ex-Kardashian heartthrob who goes full asshole once Kanye Drops at a club and strategizing more than realistic sign and trade scenarios for Kevin Love. Yet, when I tuned into Brooklyn’s web space at 12 PM for the Nets’ introductory press conference, I finally broke down; thought suppression had expired.

In retrospectively looking back on the 17 years I actually remember, my career of Celtics fandom has been as close to ideal as imaginably possible. Sure, there are scarring memories of M.L Carr telling David Wesley to throw games, Rick Pitino whimsically losing a franchise lead guard turned NBA Champion by the age 26 over a crush on Kenny Andersen, Kedrick Brown’s fading into draft bust oblivion, Boston’s boy Chris Herren fading into the oblivion of oxycodone, and Danny Ainge royally tarnishing chemistry a la Kendrick Perkins moving to Oklahoma City in most untimely, regrettable fashion. Nonetheless, when 1998′s ping pong balls thankfully bounced in favor of Los Angeles, Vancouver and Denver, Boston Basketball’s narrative leant itself to 15 irreplaceable years of following the stark embodiment of perseverance. A man who’s play, character, leadership and even physical make up encapsulated the definition of a warrior disinterested with the allure of national media attention. A man who’s unheralded patience and faith in an organization’s storied history deterred him from rarely ever to never stirring controversy, lashing out against overwhelmingly ignorant in-state critics and seeking an escape route where championship aspirations immediately resided. A man who admirably plodded through 10 years of front office/sideline volatility, horrid lottery picks, boo’s after stab wounds, Vin Baker and other atrocity highlighted by an inflated run to a Conference Finals in a year where the East resembled the competitive stature of a Wakefield Summer Youth League. A man who’s passion and plight allowed him to embrace his role as a leader of a lost franchise until help arrived. A man who became above and beyond emblematic of a childhood hero for every Bostonian 20 years or older.

With Paul and I, I’d like to think I’ve endured all there is to seemingly endure with regards to an emotional roller coaster of one’s career: I’ve moaned and groaned watching Pierce go for 25 and 6 through all of 2000′s 82 games mulling over what life would be like if Boston’s third option wasn’t named Bryant Stith, I’ve thrown hissy fits over bone headed Game 6 ejections against Indiana, I’ve thrown haughty high fives over countless bone chilling, juicy pull up and step back elbow to elbow extended jump shots, I’ve laughed whenever he’s defied his definition-less bi’s, tri’s and calves, unsuspectedly flushed the rock, and turned Chris Bosh female, I’ve nearly pissed myself over Game 7, eternity felt free throws, and, last but not least, I’ve cried en route to The Garden’s Parking Lot 5 when his tank looked all but rightfully empty in 2013′s demoralizing Game 6 loss against the Knicks (no 36 year old not named Kobe Bryant deserves to play 35 minutes a contest through an entire regular season).

The memories are undoubtedly infinite. Yet, when forced to retrospectively assess the legacy of the same man who personally handed me his day camp’s Sportsmanship Award in the form of Walter McCarty’s size 18 Nike Air Max’s painted green (true story), there’s only but a single glaring, demonstrative moral that defines Paul’s narrative as it relates to the shallowness of professional sports: stand pact and roll with the punches. Because when life in the interim appears clogged and the immediate future daunting, there’s always the satisfaction in knowing what an indefatigable will to succeed, an ability to intuitively look ten steps ahead, and a trust in an organization with a proven past of cherishing the process of winning championships can bring you. And that, my friends, is immortalization.

Looking at the presently incoherent general scheme of Boston’s future, Danny’s inconspicuous yet transparent agenda to deal Rondo, and Rajon’s risky temperamental-ness, who knows who our next all-encompassing superstar ready to bite the bullet and endure excruciating hardship might be. In fact, who knows if the Pierce’s, the Nowitzki’s, the Ginobili’s and the Duncan’s are of a dying breed given the constraints of the new CBA and the increasingly less loyal nature of the NBA. But what I do know is Paul Pierce has left an indelible mark that should forever be internalized by an organization in need of a personnel embracing persistence more than ever; a mark soon to be hung in the rafters for eternity and harped on when wooing/recruiting marquee names. Man, does the mere thought of the opportunity to sit in a bleacher and explain to my kid what that determined son of a bitch meant to Boston as he points to a balcony full of inordinate stories of breathtaking legend fire me up.

Thank You, my man. I cannot wait until I ball my eyes out upon your return to The Garden. Shall The Truth at 28 minutes a game set Brooklyn free.

Antoine Walker’s Interest in Coaching Celtics Explains Our Being Fucked in A Nutshell

A bright spot of comic relief to help us remove ourselves from the worst week in Boston Sports we’ve collectively ever been apart of since Bill Bucker shit his pants in 1986. Fair to say Jason Kidd has laid trend to an uncontrollable slew of once upon a time All-Star caliber pro’s delusionally running for vacant head coaching gigs? ‘Toine, I will forever love you and your shimmy, but I’m not entirely sure if I feel comfortable with even entertaining the idea of an interview when just a year prior you were forced to sell a 2006 championship ring for a mere $21,500 to help chip away at the mountain of dept accrued by blowing through upwards $110 million in salary (plus plenty of more endorsements) earner over a 12-year career. Not to mention you slogged through a D-League stint full of ice cream cake, deviled eggs and Hot Cheetos at 315 pounds. Both may not speak to the quality of one’s basketball insight. Nonetheless, I’d liken an interview at this point to essentially know you are oh-so yearning for a steak from Abe & Louis, but stealing cherry pies off of suburban window sills will have to suffice. One realistic priority at a time.

On another note, how does this relate to the inherent “Boston is royally FUCKED” nature of these rebuilding circumstances? Simple: There is nearly no opportunism in us hiring a head coach that properly accommodates to our personnel. Lionel Hollins perhaps? Brett Brown from San Antonio? Have yet to hear either of those names. Nonetheless, Brian Shaw, our lead candidate is on his Jay-Z tip (Vamose, son of a bitch) and now I would be far from surprised if Danny is unconscionably leaning on Vinny Del Negro, a guy who both Rajon Rondo and Josh Smith (yes, all $65 million of an AAU player who legitimately NEEDS a Doc Rivers or a Brian Shaw to unearth his superstar worth is one way or another coming to Boston) would spurn mutiny under. Combine such sideline volatility with our having virtually no way of dumping the near $11M Jason Terry is owed over the next two years in LA, swapping the near $11M Courtney is owed over the next two for unconditional draft picks, renegotiating Brandon Bass’ mind bottling $14 million remaining on his deal, having to absorb a hefty percentage of our future cap space with a HIGH risk yet high reward defensive center in Deandre Jordan and BOOM, maybe Danny Ainge understands the importance of hiring a sick joke of head coach such as Antoine Walker just so us die hards can laugh all while we feel the need to kill ourselves.

I have a sick feeling we are returning to the M.L. Carr, Rick Pitino, Jim O’Brien and John Carroll era. Christ Almighty. Hopefully our lottery pick in 2014 won’t succumb to cardiac abnormalities…It takes time to rebuild, we’ll get there, but man has this unfolding of events ruined what could have been a somewhat seamless transition. Completely decimated with sour contracts, bad blood and compromising emotionality.

The Things I’d Do To See Rajon Rondo Lose In Connect Four….

When the Maniacle Wizard of Connect Four miraculously gets out witted by a 12 year old at Dorchester’s own Blue Hill Boys and Girls Club, does he have the urge to do this?

Kids…what a flick. Went straight for the “wow” factor there. Let’s hope Rajon doesn’t channel his inner Brain Game anger onto Danny Ainge after he promotes KG to player-coach in lieu of Doc Rivers abandoning Boston (its the only way of convincing KG to stay in town, brother!). Man, is the 2013-2014 season going to suck ass…Management will regrettably/inevitably either buyout the remaining $15 mill on my childhood hero’s contract (makes no sense to trim $10 million off our committed salary when he’s an expiring contract worth $15 mill and a movable asset) or “preferably” sign and trade him and Avery Bradley for Josh Smith (an AAU player only “worthy” of the dreaded max with Doc Rivers at the helm). In addition to my sorrow, amnestying Courtney Lee is of no relevance to Danny Ainge even though he’s due $16.4 FUCKING million over the next three years (HE PLAYED 19 TOTAL MINUTES THIS POST SEASON! WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOOD WITH THAT CONTRACT!), Fab Melo still can’t walk without tripping over his two feet and KG most likely will part ways. Bring on the re-building period, folks. Let’s just hope management can creatively and brilliant finagle its way into preventing a decade’s worth of horrid basketball memory. If I even have to think twice about the days of Kedrick Brown and Jerome Moiso I’ll off myself.

P.S. If Nate Robinson fails to make Courtney Lee types of guap this post season then I vote hate crime.