LOOK BACK UPON THE ASHES: WE’RE USED TO VIOLENCE

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This is the first post in what will be a recurring weekly wrap-up series titled Look Back Upon The Ashes because a trail has been “blazed” and the Blazers’ offense is like a dragon scorching everything in its path and whatever, you get the idea.

MIKE RICE FAN FICTION

Lance Stephenson walks towards the sideline and slams his fists in frustration on the table in front of Mike Rice and Mike Barrett, causing Rice to say, “I’m used to violence. I’m from Detroit.”

That actually happened, but Rice continued:

“I can remember a cold day in 1949, when my neighbor Tommy O’Malley and I were playing knucklebones — what you call ‘jacks’ nowadays — in the living room of my family’s house. Tommy accused me of cheating, saying that I was picking up the knucklebones after the ball had already bounced a second time. So I did what any true competitor would do. I smashed my bottle of Faygo root beer against the wall and swung the jagged, broken end at Tommy’s neck. Tommy dodged my lunge and sprinted out of the house, but I chased after him until he slipped on the icy steps of our front porch and fell onto the snow-covered grass. Like a lion with Przyzbillian focus, I leapt on top of him and thrust the shards of glass — still glistening with droplets of root beer — repeatedly into his soft flesh until he finally lay still, bloodied and unconscious. I’ll never forget the sight of his warm blood dripping from his abdomen onto the fresh white snow. I left him there — this was Detroit, after all — and went back inside the house to finish the game. Tommy was right. I had been cheating. But I still won. It’s one of my fondest childhood memories of Christmas.”

Careful where you slam your fists, Lance Stephenson. You may not get them back.

 

WE’RE JUST HAPPY TO KNOW THAT YOU HAVE FRIENDS

 

A LETTER FROM A FARAWAY LAND THAT ISN’T THE EASTERN CONFERENCE

Grady O’Brien: I just moved to a very small town in North Carolina. I mean a very small town. Like, the population density of this place is greater than the actual population (do the math). I think I could pay my rent in Confederate money and not turn any heads.

Now, with this small town living comes advantages (low rent, peaceful neighborhood), but also setbacks. I lived my first four days there without internet before the Time Warner people were able to arrange a visit. I know, I know, four days of unglamorous, off-the-grid, roughing it. It was excruciating.

It was made all the more difficult on Monday when I had to follow the Pacers/Blazers thriller through only tweets and the NBA Game Time app (I still had my smartphone, I’m not a heathen). Based on the razor-thin sliver of the NBA internet I was able to follow on Monday (the majority of which was our editor’s twitter feed), I assume this was the single greatest sporting event to have ever taken place. Basically it was every March Madness buzzer beater crossed with that one old football game with Kathy Lee Gifford’s husband. I assume that when the game was over, all the players agreed to give up any further playing of basketball because they had reached true enlightenment and the pinnacle of human fulfillment.

Meanwhile, I watched “Ocean’s Twelve” for like the ninth time.

I have internet again and therefore LeaguePass. But I’m wondering whether it’s even worth it to continue following basketball this season, now that I missed the NBA game equivalent of the Taj Mahal and the Hagia Sophia and KFC/Taco Bell all fused into one. We’ll see.

[Ed.’s note: special thanks to Confederate stamps for making Grady’s letter possible.]

 

WE READ THE DICTIONARY BECAUSE WE VALUE ITS OPINION

soft / sôft / adj.

1. a noted aversion to touching other human beings in an aggressive manner, resulting in subpar defense, low rebounding relative to positional expectation, and a lack of shots around the basket.

2. perceived by fans to be ill-equipped for long-term survival in hypothetical league-wide bare-knuckle boxing tournament.

3. if locked in prison, would presumably steal spoons from cafeteria to make into lovely commemorative silverware with ornate detailing on handle to send as gifts to relatives, instead of whittling into shanks.

4. can recite names of all Santa’s reindeer.

5. regularly strolls through local pet store to look upon cute animals and imagines potential life together (even with the fish [especially with the fish]).

6. is not LaMarcus Aldridge.

 

BATUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM

 

SAID DAMIAN TO THE WESTBROOK

Keep talking though, Russell.

 

WILL BARTON’S FIRST CONCERT, AN INSTAGRAMANOVELA

Drake #pdx
A star descends into the Theater of the Clouds with blinding glory and irresistible seduction.
Me and the homie @dwrightway
Melange abounds when a bench flexes.
Joel and I posted at the Drake concert. #Worsttt
A window into a Briton’s interior reveals an alien skeleton.
#Drizzy
Ego feels smaller than expectation, but an empty cup feels smaller than everything.
Me & drizzy after the show. Cool dude talked to him & his dad they say they remember me from my days getting buckets at the University of Memphis. #poweron
An empty cup learns the meaning of “Turnt.”
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