The Fifth Stage

Fucking hell.

Are you kidding me, LeBron? Are you flippin’ kidding me? With your piss-poor performance, your lackadaisical lumbering up and down the court, your ineffectual bullshit in and outside the paint? Are you fucking kidding me?!

And you, Mo, what the fuck?! What are you even doing out there? Shaq scores more points than you! Christ, my three-and-a-half year old niece could score more! My dog could! You bring the ball down the court just fine, but then you get close to the basket and come down with a case of “Oh-my-flippin’-lord-what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now?-Just-get-rid-of-it!-Just-get-rid-of-it!” and throw the ball away like it’s diseased. You’re not playing a game of hot potato, Mo. Set up a play. At the very least, pass the ball to someone else who can make the shot.

Oh wait, there’s no one to pass to! That’s right, because no one can make the shots!

As for you, Coach Brown, you have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! What did you say to the team at half time? Did you read nursery rhymes? Make everyone some warm milk to drink? Because you inspired a bunch of alleged professional basketball players to head out to the court and sleepwalk their way through the second half. Bang up job, Mike.

You know what, LeBron? Just leave. Don’t even show up in Boston. We all know you’re outta here—that’s exactly how you play. You want to come to New York, you traitorous ego-saurus? Fine. Leave all the comforts of home. Leave your hometown. Leave a city who loves you. But remember, the Knicks suck and they will still suck when you come. At some point, the big city lights will stop dazzling you and you’ll be saddled with the albatross that is the Knicks. Still sucking.

A pox on you all!

The fifth stage of grief is the hardest.

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