Re: The LeBron James Thread
Lebron's inner thoughts lol http://hoopspeak.com/2010/12/speaking-through-lebron/
Lebron's inner thoughts lol http://hoopspeak.com/2010/12/speaking-through-lebron/
Brett Favre? Maybe. I wouldn’t know. I’m too tired to read every column by a midlife crisis with a laptop. Perhaps that speaks to my lack of effort? Media before me, please chasten LeBron James well. That is what you do, right? You take to the airwaves and Internet, in a grand collective effort to school marm me proper. And thank GOD for that, really. Because while clawing my way out of poverty, I always prayed for the day when comfortable, pot-bellied slobs could regale me with advice on how to be more Jordanish. Go ahead, write that column…tell me what to do…pick apart these words you’re hearing right now. Like a psycho, address it to my person–act like I’m reading. Pretend your journalism platform gives you a direct line–like I’m the Pope and you’re God.
Do that, but know: I don’t listen to this stuff because none of you matter. You could all die tomorrow and your newspapers would probably cheer at the savings. Well, that’s if they still exist. More importantly, none of you know what it’s like. You just jealously resent my ability to indulge in what it is.
Even less care is reserved for the Cleveland fans. I keep telling these idiots to enjoy what we had and they take it as a license for permanent misery. Sorry I failed as actor in your psychodrama, Steve from Shaker Heights. Sorry your marriage fell apart, I’m sure my continued proximity would have made you whole again. My bad on not winning a shiny ring while rubbing Drew Carey’s belly. It was all I ever wanted for Cleveland back while growing up in NotCleveland.
Gee, guess I really don’t understand the supreme gravity of what sports means to the wealthy ticket holders of poor, blighted Ohio. Oh wait, I totally understood–but it slipped my mind. You see, I don’t think about any of you people, most of the time. And why should I? I’m an abstract symbol, a vicarious thrill for emasculated masses. You wear me like a coat, or literally, a jersey. You don’t care about the actual me. And the feeling is mutual.
Do that, but know: I don’t listen to this stuff because none of you matter. You could all die tomorrow and your newspapers would probably cheer at the savings. Well, that’s if they still exist. More importantly, none of you know what it’s like. You just jealously resent my ability to indulge in what it is.
Even less care is reserved for the Cleveland fans. I keep telling these idiots to enjoy what we had and they take it as a license for permanent misery. Sorry I failed as actor in your psychodrama, Steve from Shaker Heights. Sorry your marriage fell apart, I’m sure my continued proximity would have made you whole again. My bad on not winning a shiny ring while rubbing Drew Carey’s belly. It was all I ever wanted for Cleveland back while growing up in NotCleveland.
Gee, guess I really don’t understand the supreme gravity of what sports means to the wealthy ticket holders of poor, blighted Ohio. Oh wait, I totally understood–but it slipped my mind. You see, I don’t think about any of you people, most of the time. And why should I? I’m an abstract symbol, a vicarious thrill for emasculated masses. You wear me like a coat, or literally, a jersey. You don’t care about the actual me. And the feeling is mutual.
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