Proudest Accomplishment: Disgraced his ancestors and did not wake up with warts on his eyes the following morning.
Biggest Fear: That word will spread that "being Chinese" is not actually a basketball skill.
The Four-One-Wizzle: Sure, he might have fibbed about his age to get a better spot in the draft, but that just means we don't have to lie and tell him we're 18! Chances are he'll be just fine with that... in his own words, all Yi wants from a girl are "Small feet. Very small feet." We normally wouldn't undergo an excruciating binding process to fit into size three slippers, but for him we might be willing to make an exception. If he's extra-sweet, we might even let him bury our firstborn's placenta under the bed to appease his elders!
Cultural quirks aside, most scouts agree that Yin will be a force in the NBA when he grasps concepts like "defense" and "offensive moves that aren't open dunks and midrange jumpers." Even if he doesn't, though, we think he'll do just fine - the league could always use an extra-foreign, even-cuter Zydrunas Ilgauskas!
Favorite Food: Non-poisonous
Second Favorite Food: Only slightly poisonous
The Four-One-Wizzle: Grab a Nerds Rope lasso and a tranq dart full of Karo syrup, 'cause we're going chubby chasing! Don't worry about getting gored on this sexy safari, though, because if Glen Davis is our target we want to get horned!
Snootier girls may look down on us for crushin' on a big man like Big Baby. What can we say? We think guys with Ninja Turtle fingers are super hot. And besides, all those girls care about are wealth and status... Glen isn't going to get drafted until the second round, so we obviously don't care about money! They might call him a "forward" because that's the only direction the laws of momentum and gravity allow him to go, but we don't care. At least we don't have to worry about tending to a cheerleader's kids while daddy's at work!
Like most Hoosiers, I spend the majority of my time in hiding for fear a Muncie resident will touch me and I'll never be able to wash the stink off. Muncie is a dingleberry on the plot of God's asshole we call Indiana, the dirtiest city in a state that contains urban toilets like Gary and Terre Haute. People in Muncie rake their yards year round, fall for leaves, the remaining seasons for fast food wrappers and used condoms stuffed with wet cigarette butts, and last time I checked all the town "welcome" signs said "hold your nose" under the city logo.
From this perfectly rational hatred of Muncie comes a perfectly rational hatred of hometown hero Bonzi Wells. While I could crack a joke about his sharing a name with a certain purple spyware ape - and lord knows every sportswriter worth his weight in associate's degrees and Wal-Mart suit jackets has - for the purposes of this segment, we're going to talk about something called team chemistry.
Team chemistry is a lot like the insane, murderous deer that runs every rural teenage driver off the road at some point in his life. Nobody has ever seen the deer, let alone been able to catch it, but year after year that same salt-nibblin' son of a bitch darts right out in front of kids and buries half-drank six packs of Mike's Hard Lemonade in ditches near the accident scenes. In much the same way, team chemistry is the source of every single loss in professional basketball. If it weren't for lousy team chemistry, that black scourge of the NBA (not Tim Thomas, the other one), we could fully expect to see the Celtics taking on the Trailblazers in the finals this year.
Because of team chemistry Bonzi has decided to sit out the remainder of this season, the first of a two-year contract with the Houston Rockets. This, of course, after it forced him to show up at training camp totally out of shape, then throw a bitch fit when Jeff Van Gundy told him Juwan Howard filled up the team's quota of unmotivated lardasses.
Bonzi, here's the thing: When Rafer Alston manages to get, like, three times as much playing time as you, chances are team chemistry has nothing to do with your problems. I realize that the Muncie in your blood tells you to shout "I ain't do it" and punch the first white person you see in reaction to any problem, but if you're having personality clashes with a locker room that accepted Shane "Mullato Opie" Battier's holier-than-thou ass with open arms, you're probably fucking something up.
If you really want to get back in your team's good graces, I'd strongly advise you stop blaming chemistry for your problems and step up like the manturtle your mother wants you to be. Look for T-Mac - it shouldn't be hard; just shout "there are only four people guarding the three-point line" and he'll come running - stand two inches to his right, look him in the eye, and apologize for letting your team down. You may look like a chemo patient, Bonzi, but you aren't getting any pity parties from your teammates until you actually have cancer.
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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