Chillin at the spot, not tryin to holla at any shoties cause I got my girl on the arm now, I was sittin with Po', talkin bout the NBA. As always B be havin the weirdest of opinions- always jockin someone's strap as if fool was the cheerleader and the head he was supportin was team quarterback. I sat there, next to homie, drinkin a screwdriver, watchin the Lakers play Orlando on the big screen. Watchin Kobe and T-Mac go at it is pure heaven. They even guard each other. How much better can it get? Two of the top ten ballers in the NBA throwin down each other's mug; now that's some shit.
Now that Shaq's fat, yet talented ass, is back in the fold, you know how it goes: feed the big man down low, watch him mash on helpless bystanders' mugs; watch the ball bouncin' off they helpless grill. I swear, son could dunk on just bout anybody, even with a piece of KFC in one of his fat, grubby ass hands. I didn't care about that though, cause with Shaq, its always the same. Trust me, when he's playin there aint no guessin to the outcome no mo'. So, I wasn't waiting for the outcome. Braggin' rights ain't comin from that. Braggin' rights gonna be shouted by who drops a two quarters on the other's dome.
By the end of the night, goin back an forth, T-Mac, jacked stomach from the flu and all actually poored as just as many points as were plopped on his mug by I-ain't-got-no-mo'-shoe-contract-Kobe: 38 points. The endin was different, tho'. The Magic won the game. I know it ain't have to do with Grant-'my-bum-ass-ankle'-Hill. Instead, Mike Miller, who looks like a cross between a taller Eminem who embraced his dark hair instead of finding the nearest high-lighter, and that other white fool on every street corner in Ghettoville USA who always tryin' to act black and is accepted by the heads, yet always worried about droppin racially negative comments. Gon' ask how I came to that conclusion? Well, after son hits a three the night before, droppin three dimes and a penny on a hapless team, while Hill and Mac'donalds were out, Son kept pointin to his chest like he was eatin chitlin's and collard greens for Thanksgivin'. 'Member B, you ain't black. Don't fret.
After half a dozen gin and juice's was helpin my mind percolate and restin easily in my gully, Po' and I went bout our weekly NBA conversation as usual. Two of us always soundin' like women cause we can't agree, even if we know we wrong. One thing, I don't like about Po', aside from the fact that he can't admit when he wrong, is his thoughts always be empty, lackin substance. Sometimes I feel like I'm bickerin with a ten-year-old. Still though, he had some candid thoughts that I agreed with. As always, droppin a gem here and there.
- "Yo son. Don't Shaq remind you of a black Fred Flinstone? Always lookin cross eyed an shit. Stupid, but don't know it."
- "Is it just me, or is Kobe's head lopsided."
- "T-Mac got that lazy eye syndrome. B look like he channelin' Biggie from the grave."
- "Whats up with your boy Vince Carver? Cameras out catchin son runnin 'round, out dancin at Nelly concerts. Shit, his legs a bum. That ain't mean he's got to have bad taste. Best ask Nelly where all that pimp juice be at, cause V.C. fallin like the Nasdaq."
- "Dos, man, why ain't they playin that commercial for Kobe and Mickey D's, son? Kobe figure he get some street cred by droppin shit like that, and maryin a boricua mami? Yo, you heard those thugged-out tracks on that bootleg homey copped? I swear, G, no wonder they dropped him."
As always, I feel compelled to come right back at ya' boy, though. Cause shit talkin always be a two-way street.
- "Eh, yo, 'Po, why you always jockin those Sac-to Queens man? Seriously, I know they got game. But I ain't seen nobody ever defer clutch shots to anybody else like Webber. Son cursed. Remember back in Michigan? You ain't got no time outs, B ! He doin' it to himself though. All up in Tyra's shit, yet aint got the balls to take an important shot. Wipe my ass with you sixteen million a year, kid."
- "Man, 'Po, why you jockin Garnett? You wearin son's kicks. And 1? And 1 what? And one more year our team gonna get the boot in the ass in the first round? Oh, he still lookin like the Kid too, cause bein seven-foot-one ain't shit when you weighin a buck-seventy and some change."
- "How bout them 9ers, G? I told you Garcia was homo- ever heard son talk? -, and Owens was nothin but evaporated milk at crunch time. Hey, another thing, since Jerr... I mean, Jeff Garcia got straight problems, ain't you think Garisson Hearst sayin shit about the homosexual populace might be directed at a certain someone?"
- "Steve Nash may got as much game as Stevie Franchise, but at least Franchise aint got a mullet attached to his grill. That almost prohibits you from getting laid. Regardless of millions, B."
Words of wisdom right there. Some of the things 'Po be comin up with, just ain't right. Its like bein in grade school, and kids start cappin on yo' momma's fat ass cause they seen you rollin up with her in the ride earlier in the mornin'. Ain't nothin more demoralizing than that, son. After a few more instances, and the round-mound-of-blub, Charles Barkley's ass popped up on the screen, the highlights came. As usual, the trio of old folks brough up a few peeps from around the league. Something about A.I. raisin his drop dead field goal percentage. Seriously, he's Tupac with a jump shot. Got the heart of a thug. Doin' everything as expeditiously as possible- runnin into everyone, takin shots you take in fifth grade, breakin bones like he was porcelain. Next thing you know, son gonna start wavin' a gat around, screamin out obscenities. Oh wait. Son already did that shit. Well, my ass be out. It's Thanksgivin. Got to go to give thanks to the lord for havin' all this and a lovely woman by my side. One love, and peace.