blocked about the block on the block

I have to write something about the Clippers, but I can’t.  Well, it’s not that I can’t, it’s that I won’t.  Let me clarify, I will, but I won’t like it.  I’ll enjoy myself with the loathing of a parakeet in an atom bomb facility, keeping an eye on the horizon for double agents.

Are the Spurs too much?  Yea, verily, some potential truth doth rear its ugly head in yon environs.  But I think of a world in which Chris Paul carves, Blake Griffin dunks, DJ grabs boards, Eric Bledsoe does Eric Bledsoe things, and a man typing on a keyboard tires of rattling of player names and giving them “roles” a la TNT and their silly cookie cutter loyalties, and instead finds a deeper truth in a pool that only grows more and more shallow.

Which is an elongated way of saying don’t lose hope, Luke, there’s always another tomorrow, like Annie said, homelessness is next to doglessness, and the sun, it can only hide for so long, like a rat in a sausage factory, wait long enough staring down the scope and it’ll come slinking out, and like a Caron Butler trey will drop like feather into the soup of the net of life and the juice will be tough and will squirt forth for all the nation to devour.

Go clips.