In the words of the bard Buckhantz, "An injustice anywhere is a backbreaker everywhere." Even with our recent misfortune, harmony still reigns -- Kindly Antawn, Hobo Cal, Beetle-Browed Eddie Jordan.
But a foul wind blows off the Cuyahoga. Disturbing rumbles have been belching forth from Cleveland for some time now: Larry Hughes's missing smile; the inexplicable suppression of Ira Newble; Eric Snow.
Too long have we stood silent, allowing the questions to remain unasked, the answers to lurk behind a veil of Pussycat Doll interstitials. But though my tongue is little more than a blackened slug, more adept for producing pus then words -- nevertheless, I must speak! Mine eyes hath seen this before, y mine eyes willath see 'tagain: The Cherokee Trail of Tears; the Bataan Death March; the Island of Dr. Moreau; the Cavs 2007 playoff run.
We are all witnesses, yes -- witnesses to a cruel, repressive regime, a technofascist police state that will stop at nothing in its frantic, hubristic quest for domination. Suddenly it all makes sense! The sleepy, narcotized gazes of once-proud Donyell Marshall, Zydrunas Ilgauskas, and David Wesley -- the squeaky wheel gets the lobotomy. The floppy flailings of Anderson Varejao -- clearly a Frankensteinian experiment gone horribly awry. And poor Ira Newble, an innocent victim of rampant anti-Semitism.
Blame not LeBron! This "King James" is nothing but a puppet prince, a billboard figurehead. Like China's Last Emperor, he is an innocent child shielded from the crumbling realities, a baby-faced opiate for the gullible masses, with only his wet nurse Maverick Carter for comfort. LeBron knows nothing of the suffering beyond his palace walls.
Nay, the blame lays with Cavaliers' owner Daniel Gilbert, a spunky blend of Kim Jong Il, Saparmurat Niyazov, Idi Amin, and J Edgar Hoover. Or is there a force even above him -- perhaps even the mossy, mottled she-succubus herself?
Our recent troubles are nothing compared to the sufferings of these boys in beige. Like the Lincoln Brigade fighting for our Spanish brothers, we must hear and heed the call of duty, of dignity, of freedom. It won't be easy -- it might be ugly -- it'll probably last only four games -- but we have no choice. We are summoned. Onwards, my syphilitic hordes! Our faces will be unfelt, our nuts will sit unharvested, and the child Andray shall lead us to glory.