Blue’s Colts Wrap-Up: Week 1
Larry Bird: I think you should stay, son. I got 44 million reasons why, but I ain’t gonna beg.
Lance Stephenson: I find your offer flattering, sir, yet not as fulfilling as the prospects of playing in Charlotte. I cannot explain it. All I can do is quote the American author H. Jackson Brown, Jr., who wrote, “Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”
[sets locker room on fire]
Hi there, Indy folk! Because we are all busy at work doing our daily
cross-burnings/Jim Crow Laws/restricting voters’ rights various work stuff, you may have missed it! So I’ll get straight to it because T HESE “WHITES ONLY” DRINKING FOUNTAIN SIGNS WON’T PAINT THEMSELVES you’re busy.
There is a writer-fella in Miami who wrote yesterday that he definitely saw a photo being held up in the Pacers crowd on Sunday that definitely seemed kind of racist, maybe. Here, I’ll just block-quote it:
I have nothing to support this, but if you were born in Indiana between 1975 and 1983, there was a 48% chance you were conceived in the infield at the Indy 500. Such was life back then, in that magical time and place, when the world made sense & pretty much everyone was naked/smoking mescaline under the heavy vibes of marshal law. Just a bunch of dirty, naked people running amok doing dirty, naked things. Because if every single old Snake Pit photo we’ve ever seen is any indication, the infield of the Indy 500 was a wonderful, filthy hellscape of boobs and debauchery and brass-knuckled mayhem.
Oh hey would you look at that? Indiana went all NEW-AGE HIP-HOP ILLUMINATI FANCY PANTS with its new tourism slogan, to which we — the fair-skinned pearl-clutchers of the state — say NO THANK YOU, GODLESS HOOLIGANS, TAKE YOUR VAGUE DEVIL-TALK BACK TO THE SODA FOUNTAIN FROM WHENCE IT CAME!!!!
No, sir, that will not stand. Please forgive my language, but it is a daggone CRIME against our sense of morality & aversion to risk-taking. You want to be “cutting edge” and “think outside of the buttermilk jug?” DO IT ON YOUR OWN TIME, MISTER! This is Indiana. We tell it like it is and do not think outside of the buttermilk jug — for that is where danger and/or minorities lurk.
So pick a new one, please. Any of the following will do:
Indiana: It’s a State!™
Indiana: Latitude 37° 46′ N to 41° 46′ N!™
Protons, as we understand them, are made entirely of three quarks and erratic energy. They do as they please for the most part, bouncing through their nucleus with erratic bursts of speed and A.D.D. — or sometimes not at all.
Paul George is a proton — albeit a brilliant & refined one. Roy Hibbert and George Hill are protons too, prone to fits of electric proficiency, yes — but also capable of wandering off into nothingness when the mood strikes. Lance Stephenson is certainly a proton. He is the mutant KING HELL proton to rule all others in fact, crazed with 9,000 up-quarks and a howling V-12 and a tsunami’s overbite. (#BORNPROTON!)
But the Pacers have been overloaded with protons for some time now. What they lacked was a neutron.
David West, of course, is that neutron.
Biochemically speaking, with a mass larger than that of a proton, a neutron is the necessary element that binds protons. Keeps them together. It is the stabilizing force of the nucleus, the brawn and brains and the keeper of order. It is the particle whose wallet says BAD MOTHERFUCKER.
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