WELCOME TO THE MORGUE

At this point, I could have a better time writing about sweaters, bread, and/or Hitler.

In the midst of this current (men’s) pro basketball coma, the hoops enthusiast is left disappointed time and time again as he or she attempts to gather news that doesn’t refer to the bison-stuck-in-concrete matter that is the dispute between players and owners.  “THE FUTURE IS DEAD,” says Billy Hunter (or something along those lines).  Of course, that has been all but assumed by yours truly, so I’ve done my best to just avoid most of it and try to find some sort of light.  Not a glimmer of hope, mind you – I’m no fool.  No, I just search for some sort of luminescent distraction that temporarily clouds my summer of discontent…

… and my goodness, it never ends well.

It’s dead-end after brick wall after closed door after empty well and so on.  To briefly demonstrate what I’m speaking of, let us track my figurative heart rate on a typical quest for daily knowledge.  After all, the heart is all that is keeping me in it.

STEP ONE: WITH HOPE

A trip to ESPN.com basically always reveals that:

“(insert meaningless player name here) has signed a deal with (insert European team name here) for (insert number < 500,000) dollars.  (Meaningless player) averaged (insert number < 6.5) points per game with the (insert lottery team here) last year and has been hampered by (insert chronic injury here) since being drafted by (insert lottery team here) in (a year between 2006 and 2009).”

STEP TWO: THE GRADUAL DESCENT

Armen Gilliam has passed away.  Steve Francis has groped a dwarf that can’t sing, whom he signed to his record label.  Michael Beasley has been arrested for essentially being partially composed out of marijuana.  Jalen Rose will do some jail time for some DUI action.  Robert Swift is being investigated for indecent exposure.  The Timberwolves are interested in Bobby Hurley as a potential successor to Kurt Rambis.  Mark Jackson is the new head coach of the Golden State Warriors.

It’s all either sad, pathetic, untrue but likely, or true and horrifying.

STEP THREE: FLATLINE

NBA Gametime opens with Rick Kamla and Steve Smith talking about how nothing has happened regarding the labor dispute.  From there, we kick it to Dennis Scott, who has the latest on… well… nothing.  This lasts approximately three minutes, and the rest of the fucking show is dedicated to WNBA highlights:

“… ANNNNDDD NOW… WE COUNT DOWN THE TOP TEN PLAYS FROM THIS WEEK’S WNBA ACTION!!  AT NUMBER 10, INDIANA’S TAMIKA CATCHINGS WITH THE DAZZLING INBOUNDS PASS!!

Announcer: 4:13 left to play here in the 2nd.  Fever up by 12.  Catchings… kicks it into so-and-so…

(slow-motion replay)

Color Commentator: Boy, she really bounced that thing right in there, eh, Chet?!

Announcer: She sure did.”

It’s seriously not much more exciting than that.  A bunch of threes, a no-look pass, maybe a wicked pump-fake, and you’ve got your top ten.

That’s not me.  That picture is a metaphor.  It’s the near-empty arena that is my interest in the NBA.

As I write this, the Seattle Storm are battling the Connecticut Sun (because when I think “Connecticut,” I immediately also think “SUN”) on my television.  The play-by-play guy is announcing it like it’s Ali-Frazier.  It has put me in, without a doubt, one of the worst moods I’ve ever experienced in my entire fucking life.

Be thankful for this:

… it’s the only thing that can save us.  The basketball necromancer, and he’s still way too far away.

– Wes Lilliman can be resurrected at @WesDestiny on Twitter.

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