Size Matters in the NBA
Aug 30 2013
I fell in love with Myla Sinanaj the first time I saw her big, magnificent round ass in a bathing suit on TMZ. My love quickly turned to hate, however, when I learned she was dating former Nets center Kris Humphries. Then, when I realized that her dating Humphries was only news because it angered Kim Kardashian, who I hate almost as much as the Nets, I fell in love with her all over again. The first 30 seconds of my imaginary relationship with Myla were a real rollercoaster ride.
I won’t get into my tirade about why I hate Kim Kardashian and her unapologetically privileged family of shallow, vacant narcissists. I think we can all agree that they are everything that’s wrong with America. My guess is if we hired a team of private investigators we would learn the Kardashians are somehow behind the recession, the war in Iraq, world hunger, and 9/11. I’m even willing to bet they had something to do with the Holocaust.
But do you know what’s worse than the Kardashians and the Holocaust? My New Jersey Nets, the team I’d stood by for decades, aligning themselves with a mediocre rapper and then uprooting and relocating to Brooklyn.
Fuck the Nets.
I stuck with them through every possible incarnation of suck from every 80s’ dud draft pick to Euro stud Dražen Petrović’s death to ball-hogging Starbury’s refusal to be a team player right up to the J Kidd trade that briefly made us a contender. When they shipped my beloved Kenyon Martin to Denver and hired the ginger ball boy, Lawrence Frank, to be our coach I was bummed, but I’d been through so much worse with the team that I was willing to let it slide. But when they announced they’d sold the team to a building developer who couldn’t give less of a shit about basketball—and that he was using the team as leverage to get prime reality in Brooklyn for pennies on the dollar in exchange for building a stadium and moving my team—I officially washed my hands of them.
I remember the night of the Nets’ last game in Jersey when our fat New Jersey governor, Chris Christie, said, “You don’t want to stay? We don’t want you!” I was like, “YEAH! FUCK THOSE DUDES.” I honestly felt like my wife just walked out and handed me the address of her lover’s house where I could forward her belongings.
Had they forgotten everything we went through together? Had they forgotten those nights when I was one of ten people at the game and they’d make us keep moving to where the TV cameras were to make the stadium look fuller? Did they forget how loud I screamed for them when we crept upon the longest losing streak in NBA history? Did they forget that time I pulled a Fletch in Indiana the last regular season game of 2003 and lied and said I was with Dime magazine to get press credentials and then roamed the halls and locker rooms, dressed in all Nets gear, posing with Pacers players and Coach Isaiah Thomas?
And how could they forget how I single-handedly won the 2002 Eastern Conference Finals for them against Boston with my "WILL SOMEONE PLEASE STAB PAUL PIERCE SIGN?" Pierce, who was stabbed 11 times in 2000, was lighting us up, averaging 26 points per game before I held up my sign in Game 5, causing him to clank both his free throws and choke the last two games, allowing the Nets to advance to the Finals against the Lakers (where we got smoked). Sure, my brother (who was holding the sign with me) and I were voted Worst Fans of 2002 by Sports Illustrated, but that sentiment was not shared by any Nets fan.
People actually ask me if there will ever be a day when I forgive the Nets. I tell them to ask Baltimore Colts fans or LA Raiders fans or Seattle Supersonics fans if they ever came around. No, this wound will never heal and that day will never come. To root for the Nets would be like rooting for the new guy fucking my wife, and that’s never going to happen.
Two weeks ago Myla Sinanaj, ex-girlfriend of Kim Kardashian’s TV puppet Kris Humphries, dropped a celebrity anal-sex tape. I assumed that since she lived in Jersey and dated a former Nets player that she would join me in my anti-Nets crusade, so I decided to sit her down at NJ Skateshop to discuss who her picks are and who is the biggest threat for the 2013–2014 season. Sadly, she and I do not see eye to eye on anything sports-related, and I doubt our romance will blossom.
The one thing Myla and I can agree on is that my VICE book, Skinema, is best enjoyed half naked in bed before butt sex. In Myla Sinanaj's Celebrity Sex Tape for Vividceleb.com there's a brief moment before the romance begins where she is reading it, probably in an attempt to moisten herself. When I sat Myla down to talk basketball, I also asked her if she'd be so kind as to read an excerpt from my book. Here is that:
Previously - Skateable Art Is Not a Crime
Watch Myla’s sex tape here.
Follow Myla @NYAngel24
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