November 24, 2010
Look at Blake Griffin, flying high in the sky.
"Not necessarily dunking, in the strictest sense," they cry.
But what does it matter, when Amar'e gives you the eye?
I'm not entirely sure, why everyone else is in black and white.
It's not as if Timofey should be in color, he hardly put up a fight.
Just be glad you live in an era, where we can document Blake's might.
Performed in a bad game between two terrible teams, on a random Saturday night.
This isn't even the strangest painting I've had the pleasure to have seen.
No, that would be the one with radio guy Chet Coppock, and his family.
But there is something startling about it, even to those who didn't minor in art history.
One that allows for middling NBA writers, to bust out some truly terrible poetry.
It's Blake's insouciance, his derring-do. His joie de vivre, and his je ne sais quoi.
All written by a plonker, who'd like you to think that he knows what those terms are.
The way that he leaps, and flies through the air.
Seemingly unburdened with having Michael Rapaport's hair.
So I thank you this indulgence, on this chilly autumnal morn.
And hope that these comment pages all fill up with derision, and scorn.
Now if you'll excuse me, alas, I ... uh, I have to go get on Twitter.