Poor Isiah Thomas. All those years gracing the court, floating the basketball, swish, through the net, time and time again, from anywhere: three-pointers, jump shots, layups, dazzling the crowd as he melted through bigger guys, hands in his face, trying to clobber him. One of the beautiful, beautiful players: face like an angel too. He retires, comes back coaching, becomes an exec, money dripping off him at every stage.
He's long lived in a world where Wilt, Magic, Clyde ... have the female asses come right into the hands at the bar after the game. Wilt made himself a bed rivaling the court in size to accommodate all the beauties taking turns at his cock, sitting on his face ... God knows how many women Magic had climbing on him before he got AIDS.
Isiah, Michael, Kobe ... could afford to pay everyone of them a C note, or ten times that. But we can bet that the amateurs lined up to take their panties off, no fee required.
Kobe invites the concierge to his room, she goes; then she cries rape. Much of the world laughs, many groan, lawyers come out of the woodwork, the media, as always, stay on the town.
Now some female Knick exec doesn't shed her pants the instant Isiah rubs her -- she says. (Hell, he's older. Hell, he's no longer swishing the pill; not in prime time.) And the Knicks fire her. Everybody in basketball's got a dick. Everybody in basketball's got balls. But don't any of the Knicks have any brains?
All the Knicks are chanting how honorable Isiah is. Of course he is. For basketball. I'm a huge fan. For basketball, for its angel-faced jocks. Would this chick have resisted Patton during the war? But now it's another kind of news. Bureaucracy takes over. God help us all.
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