Saturday, February 10, 2007
Their English grammar came down like a hammer!
Left in Brendan Haywood's locker, February 8, 2007:
Brendan Todd Haywood, clod. Hey - good God, This beef you're on With me, Etan, Needs to be ending. Your selfish ways are rending the fabric of the locker room 'till, like a Strange-love Doctor, "boom" - our conflict scorches the earth. Who made your playing time into a dearth of minutes? Not me. Coming back from injury, trying to see whether my ankle bothers me as we lose 110 to 83. You should be incensed by your defense. Not me. I take no responsibility. Yet able will I be if ere I see your elbow flying heedlessly. A pacifist, yes, but that's overseas. You trying to step? B.T., please. First I'll yawn, then I'll sneeze. You haven't seen the likes of these fisticuffs.
I never seem to have enough. I'm an angry man. Babies thirsting for their own self-worth while first-string players labor just to muff offensive rebounds, rather than stuff them down. Why do those babies cry? They want to see the Wizards win. That's the only skin I'm in. Get it to fit comfortably. Haywood, you just let me be the shot denier, rebound supplier, always on fire, taking it higher, the NBA's best versifier, E.
Left in Etan Thomas' locker, the morning of February 9, 2007:
The poet-forward once more dips his pen In inkwells of deep thought - and comes up dry. Why must we fight this battle once again? The only Wizard who cannot see why I get more minutes than you do is you. You play hard about every fifth game. The rest, you try to conjure apercus That will make all the poets speak your name, Head in the clouds, eyes far from the ball, An indecisive shot and subpar D. I reign supreme, and yet you want to brawl. You and your pen know where to find me: In the paint, on the run, or off the glass, Believe me: I am going to kick your ass.
--posted by intern Rex Immensae Majestatis Chapman