I have nothing to say, nothing of significance, but sometimes a man must speak, if only to wheeze the death rattle, a moist garlicky waft in the face of the she-succubus. The Wizards' season approaches and my heart spasms like a bird with a broken wing. My loins are bestirred, a damp warmth that I have not felt since my Academy days (when scalding tea was often pouredonto my lap).
And, what is this? -- my overcoat somehow seems slightly less soiled. Perhaps it is the bleaching power of hope -- a rare chemical alchemy engineered by the chemical engineer himself, M. Ruffin.
Ruffin is perhaps the best emblem of this preseason, engineering the chemistry among such disparate elements: Constable Hayes, who has momentarily apprehended his criminal nemesis, the fiendish Kneecapper; Andray, young Bulletproof, the victor of a much-anticipated Slava-clash this summer in Long Beach; Awvrwee Storryy, who plea-bargained with the Miami PD, turned State's Evidence, and is now undercover in New Jersey, cozying up to Cliff Robinson; etc.
The Jimmy Olson of these superfriends is a newcomer, an energetic scribe who has not yet succumbed to the inherent futitlity of the written word (a futility I know all too well). I speak of course of Steinz, a nut-harvester supreme who has already provided more scoops than Gar Heard at Baskin-Robbins. Lead on, Brother Steinz! Send Wizznutzz back to the bleak journalistic irrelevancy where we belong.