Instantly recognizing the illegality, and to put it bluntly, bitchiness of confiscating Joey’s conch, I sought out this Elephant Boy, and his side of the story. I liked Joey before I read his answers. I loved him after. Here’s our interview:

What was going through your mind when coach K started freaking out?

When Coach K started freaking out I got pumped. I couldn’t believe he thought he could come into our house and tell us what to do. Check the rule book – “artificial”- key word.

How long have you been playing the conch? Do you have any sort of formal training?

I’ve been playing for 16 years, no formal training. It’s tough to master. Most people never will.

Why a conch? Why not a trombone, or air horn?

Our student section is called ‘the beach’ – a conch goes best.

If you could express your feelings to Coach K through Conch song, what arrangement would you pick? “Don’t Make me a Target” by spoon comes to mind

Hood stomp – Clyde Carson. In a metaphorical way.

In your expert opinion, does Coach K discriminate against the conch? Is he a conchist? Would he have ignored you if you hadn’t chosen such a unique method of heckling?

I mean… What do you think? Of course he is a conchist. He knew what that sound was, I’ve been playing it for 4 years and Duke has come to us before.

Were the elephant head and the conch to be used in combination with each other? In other words, was your whole ensemble unified into one character known as Elephant Boy?

Yes, exactly. At UM basketball games I become Elephant Boy. Blowing the conch is what I do.

Does Elephant Boy go to all the games, or just ones involving the over-privileged white boys from Duke?

Elephant boy came out this year, in the past I’ve only played the conch, no hat. But I come out for every game, not just Duke and those white bastards.

Have you ever used the elephant boy idea in other venues besides sport? The one that instantly comes to mind is church: have you ever “conched” a minister trying to deliver a sermon?

No haha, but I should try that. I would love to take Elephant to the next level, by diversifying my improv locations. Maybe play at baseball games, or churches.

Was the conch blowing more motivated by a love of the U or a hate of Duke?

It’s all about this U

Any hobbies besides dressing up like an elephant and heckling Kyle Singler?

I co-founded back\slash, a college media brand localized for 5 Florida cities. Our most profitable asset, a print magazine, circulates 50,000 copies and is being rolled out nationally. I put my life into building that brand. My only other priority is graduating in May. As for hobbies, I like ballin, partying with friends and family, and just kickin it to sportscenter.

That last answer makes it all but impossible to dismiss Joey as an idiot, or victim of excessive weed and alcohol. While serving as CSO of the magazine, Joey has greatly increased the market for his publication, to the degree that his own university banned the magazine in an attempt to salvage the markets of its own less successful publications. Keep in mind, Joey was doing this while attending class as a full time student.

It was my dislike of Duke that instantly drew me to Elephant Boy, and the brazen mistreatment of such a unique student supporter has only increased that dislike exponentially. I encourage all future fans of Duke opponents to carry the flame stoked originally by Elephant Boy: Bring a conch to every game until the NCAA bans them, and blow the shit out of them. Mail conches to the Duke athletic office. Don’t feel the least bit bad for the Nolan Smiths and Brian Zoubek’s of the world. A little heckling is nothing a long weekend on the beaches of Nantucket can’t fix. Never forget Elephant Boy, and long live the conch.

And go check out back/slash…Joey works his ass off

Have you completely given up? I’m not hatin. I love ice cream just as much as the next person. I also love LSD and huffing Glade Air Fresheners, so know that I’m not throwing glass stones from my straw house, or however the saying goes. I just want you to know the messages you are broadcasting to the world. I’ll let you judge whether or not they are positive.

You obviously aren’t a fan of self control. Allow me to use myself as juxtaposition. As a parent, I have the responsibility of taking my children to certain practices and functions. When it’s time to take the oldest gal to basketball, I find myself facing the same question. Hit of acid or couple of puffs from the old aerosol? See it has to be either or…it simply cannot be both. Of course it would be ideal to have both, but controlling yourself is never ideal. It’s a pain in the ass, but you have to do it. That’s life.

You obviously don’t have a boyfriend, and no, a World of Warcraft level 9 Wizard that you chat with three times a week does not count as a boyfriend. And let me say, your loneliness is not a product of your girth. I have seen plenty of plump beauties in healthy relationships. They are happy with who they are, and that’s refreshing and sexy. Men like that…especially plump men. What makes you unattractive to males is exactly what made you scoop that double strawberry on to that waffle cone this morning. You don’t give a f**k. Every heterosexual male in the world has a birth right to not giving a f**k. When you call dibs on that, you might as well wear a shirt that says “Asexual” and has two big arrows pointing at your chunky face. You have to care a little bit. It’s your duty as a woman to care about shit. Am I saying you should care about your large frame? Not at all. Just care about things in general. Say to yourself, “I can wait until lunch for ice cream. Then it will be extra good.” See, that combines self-control and self-concern.

You’ve obviously been in your current mentality for quite some time. A Friday morning chow fest shows that while you may have attempted socialization before, it’s obviously not part of your current lifestyle. If it’s a Friday morning, and you’re wolfing down dairy products it tells me two things. 1) You weren’t partying last night, because if you were, they idea of cold ass frozen milk on your raw, and possibly still inebriated stomach would be worse than facing a world with no chocodiles and 2) You don’t have any plans for tonight, because if you did, you wouldn’t eat morning ice cream for fear of someone in your social circle spotting you. Although our small campus is for the most part deserted until noon, there is still the slight chance that someone would see you. No self conscience college girl would face that sort of detrimental social faux pas.

Again, I am not a hater. The truly crazy point is this. You aren’t even all that fat. Sure you’re packin some extra junk in the trunk, but that just adds a little personality to those incredibly snug Levi 501’s. It’s probably just a minor case of the freshman fifteen. You cannot give up on life now, or you’ll be riding a rascal to the deli meats section by the time you’re thirty. Make the decision now. Be one of those spunky gals, with a little extra husk, and you’ll be married with children in less than a decade. This is a small area, so it’s more than feasible. Or you can choose to keep slamming sweets before your first class, and I’ll see you on the Biggest Loser, Season 18. Your choice.

As Always X Marks the Spot

X Doe

I know it has been quite some time since my last post, and I apologize, but in all fairness I have had a lot on my mind. This week, I bring you the scattered bits and pieces of letters I couldn’t really finish. Just so no one is confused, Tommy Craggs, Drew Magary and AJ Daulerio all work for the site Deadspin. I waste many hours of work browsing their selections. Craggs banned me from being a commenter sometime last week, but in a gracious sign of respect, he agreed to come here and allow me to ban him. I expect he and I will be friends for some time.

Without further delay.

 Dear Tommy Craggs,

            When I told you to “go feed your high horse” I wasn’t being facetious. Do you know what cannabis does to your equine friends’ appetite?

Dear Drew Magary,

            Most try and impress you with detailed stories or intricate questions; I won’t. I’ll cut right to the chase. One consequence free booty slap on a female professional athlete. Who ya got?

 Dear Mrs. X Doe,

            Sorry about that last letter to Drew

Dear Producers/Directors/MoNique/Fans of Precious,

            The f**k

Dear Facebook,

            Enough with the appearance changes, and the farm game. That’s all….for now

Dear Tommy Craggs (again),

            Why can’t I find any pictures of you when I do a Google Image search? Are you a spy? If you are, I hope you’re gruff…even gruffer than S. Connery?

Dear AJ Daulerio,

            Can you retweet the link to this article?

Dear Sarah Palin,

            I have some index cards, or old napkins that you are more than free to borrow. Mama always told me Ink Poisonin aint no joke.

Dear Toyota Prius Owners,

            Take that you hippies

Dear Indie Bands who sell their songs to car companies,

            Yes, I’m talking to you Grizzly Bear, Kings of Leon and Phoenix. Why car companies? Why not cool indie companies like Ikea, Apple and Whole Foods?

Dear Fellas with Ladies who want Babies,

            I say go for it. Of course it’s tax time, and that anticipated refund always makes me love my bundles of joy a little bit more. But on the serious side, you do know how babies are conceived right? And only those with the worst of luck are successful in Round 1.

Dear Lazy Film Executives who decide to remake old stories/movies,

            No He Man and the Masters of the Universe remake yet? Seriously? Come on…Dolph Lundgren would totally be up for a cameo.

A Collective X Marks the Spot

X. Doe

The Australian Open is not exactly captivating. I happen to be a tennis fan, so can usually sit through a set or two, but the majority of the population would rather watch Skip Bayless try to pull his own head of his ass, or enjoy Mike and Mike’s sophomoric attempts at comedy. Factor in the stupid Australian time delay, the completely uncalled for (and quasi-sexual) grunting, and the “My shit smells like lavender hand soap” voice of every tennis announcer/analyst and you have a recipe for poor viewership.

The solution for this is really quite simple, and I can thank Andy Roddick for the inspiration. I was going to show you the video, but Tennis Australia is being selfish, and claimed copyright infringement. (Stupid Australians) Andy went apeshit on the chair umpire, yelled a bunch of expletives, and opened my eyes to the beauty and entertainment of angry tennis players in the heat of competition. Why haven’t the powers that be exploited this? Are they that afraid of the FCC? They can edit out the actual words on delay, and to be honest, the cussing isn’t nearly as captivating as the idea that an overprivleged professional athlete can still act like a petulant four-year old who wants and ice cream. It’s awesome…you all remember Serena’s little outburst at last year’s US Open. (and if you don’t too bad, I’m not wasting more time looking for a blocked video) For a day or two, Professional Tennis was swinging a big wang around the ESPN news cycle.

That is my proposition: either mic the players for the entire match, or just turn up the mics in the arena that pick up crowd noise and the judges’ calls. Think of the possibilities; if you happen to be too uncreative for that, I will think of one for you: The Williams’ Sisters getting catty during a match.

Just for reference….this is Serena

This is Venus

Announcer: Game Venus, 1 Love

Serena: Quit droppin it to my backhand, you lanky ass bitch
Venus: Quit eating three omelets every morning, and maybe your fat ass can get to the net
Serena: Fat, FAT…bitch, I know you aren’t familiar with the idea of breasts, but to have them you have to eat something
Venus: Keep your titties hoe. You look like the damn Predator anyway so its not like anyone’s lookin…they’re all watchin their back to make sure they don’t get their neck snapped.
Serena: You should talk with your Na”Vi lookin ass…James Cameron shit a brick the first time he saw you. If you were blue, you’d have to beat him off with a stick…wait a second….are you blue?
Venus: I couldn’t here you…I think your rolls are absorbing the sound
Serena: Could be, or it could be the deafening sound of your crashing career
Venus: Well…ah, well…..bitch…..(Venus starts weeping uncontrollably)
Serena: I’m sorry V, I didn’t mean it…you’re good….real good
Venus: (wiping away tears) Re…Really?
Serena: Yeah…Yeah totally
Venus: Well, you’re really pretty…I don’t think your fat…I’m just jealous of your bodacious rack

Alright that went downhill quickly, but you get the point. Its not like Tennis will ever have a large and loyal following like the NFL, but its not so unreasonable to believe that Tennis could tap into the Jersey Shore demographic and edge out professional bowling for 9th most popular sport in America. Evolution is a mandatory part  of every sport. The NFL tweaks equipment for the safety of players, commissioner experiment with revenue sharing and salary caps…why should this be any different? In a sport that will always resemble a game of Atari Pong, every little change should be welcome.

You’re Welcome as Always, X Marks The Spot

X Doe

I consider myself a fan of the draft. It’s a giant crapshoot that affects the succeeding two or three years of professional football, if not more. You can get a Peyton Manning, who may go down as one of the top five pro quarterbacks in history, or you may get a Ryan Leaf, who sucked more ass than…well, I don’t know, but he really sucked a lot of ass. Scouts and team officials, with their authoritative clipboards and statistical print outs, run around the country and the NFL combine, noting 40 speeds and vertical jumping abilities, but no one in the world knows that a prospect is going to be good until he or she (have you seen the boobs on JeMarcus Russell) plays the first game.

That being said, I will, without fear, tell every NFL team in the country to pass on Jevan Snead. I don’t know Mr. Snead personally; he may be a perfectly nice fellow. That being said, he appears absolutely inept at being a quarterback, and with the mass of talent available in the world, Mr. Snead doesn’t even seem worthy of a third-string spot. Having watched more than a few drafts, I know one of you assholes will still draft his sorry self, and the rest of this letter is for you. I’m going to use bullet points, because bullet points are snarky, and if you draft Snead, you deserve your fair share of snark.

•    20 TD’s vs. 20 INT— And this is in college. Do you really think someone with those efficiency stats is going to have any positive impact on a pro team?
•    In 13 games this season, Snead only managed to put together four outings where he threw more touchdowns than interceptions. (31%) Against the powerhouses of Southeastern Louisiana he managed 3 TD’s, no interceptions; In a loss to South Carolina, he threw one TD, no interceptions;  3 TD’s, no interceptions against UAB, and against Northern Arizona, 2 in the end zone, none in a DB’s hands. That’s not exactly the finest collection of four opponents.
•    In his final college game, the Cotton Bowl, a game in which Snead sought to garner the attention of pro scouts one last time, he threw three picks, no touchdowns, and notched a less than impressive 168 yards through the air.
•    He threw for over 300 yards one time this season, ONE TIME. Unfortunately, the 332 yards came packaged with only 2 touchdowns, and two picks.
•    Nearly every one of his major stats has decreased from 2008, including lower total yardage, completion percentage, and touchdowns. He slightly increased his number of attempts and completions, but this seems unimportant compared to his 7 extra interceptions this year. Instead of progressing with age, Snead has digressed, and I don’t think moving to the pros will do much to get him back in the saddle.
•    Ole Miss started off the season as #4 nationally. They were expected to do great things, but Snead, as the foremost on the field leader, had other plans. A #20 national ranking, with a dismal and uninspiring win against OSU in the Cotton Bowl for dessert.

The statistics are daunting, but wait until you see him play. Watching him in the Cotton Bowl was like watching a Parkinson’s stricken surgeon perform brain surgery; like watching a boa constrictor eat himself; like watching the Tiger Woods drama unfold for weeks on end. It was sad, gross and I just wanted it to be over.

I love the great state of Mississippi and have nothing but respect for their history and passionate fan base. But Mr. Snead is a blight on the face of professional quarterbacking, and sitting idly while some team invests more money than I will ever have in him, would be the sports equivalent of watching a desperate old woman get mugged by a hobo with a limp. If NFL execs are going to get bent over the barrel, sans lube, I would prefer it be by someone who was at least somewhat impressive in his college career, and not by college football’s quarterback version of the gimp. Despite my advice, Snead will still be drafted, and some poor GM, tied to a chair in Zed’s basement, with a red rubber ball stuffed in his mouth will have a lot of explaining to do.

X Marks The Spot
X. Doe

I have never pretended to be a fan of you. I’ve never liked your hair, I think you have a big stupid Kraut face, and most importantly, you tend to be a choker:

Exhibit A: “It just feels like at home I’ve got to make every shot down the stretch to win,” said Nowitzki, who had 27 points on 10-of-16 shooting in his first game since a gruesome collision Friday night with Houston’s Carl Landry. “That’s how it feels. If I don’t make it, like that pull-up left, we’re losing. I don’t know; we’ve got to figure something out.”

That quote doesn’t exactly scream clutch, now does it Dirk.

You said in the last sentence you need to figure something out. Well I figured it out for you…grow some balls Dirk, some huge, hairy Shaq sized balls.

With giant nuts and a jump shot like yours, you would be unstoppable, FREAKING UNSTOPPABLE.

I’m no fool. I know a full and hearty sac doesn’t just fall out of the sky. You have to work for dem rocks. Its not a matter of practicing harder, or being a better teammate. You have to learn the Way of the Badass. You are probably asking yourself, in your goofy German accent,What is the Way of the Badass? I will tell you

The Way of the Badass is a ten-step program I invented specifically for you Dirk. Live it, breathe it, quote it and in no time, you will feel those little pebbles of yours growing into robust, testosterone filled thigh-slappers.

1. If you have a girlfriend, cheat on her: I know this sounds terrible, but nothing says “I have big balls” like sleeping around. It doesn’t have to be permanent. As soon as you have sufficient dangle, you may resume fidelity.

2. Go punch Cuban right in his smug face. Standing up to authority figures always fills the nether region with a serum of manliness.

3. Get a tattoo for God’s sake. Your lily arms all but advertise to the world what a sissy you are.Chris “Birdman” Anderson will be happy to help you design your ink.

4. You’ve always been a decent shot blocker, but decent doesn’t cut it at your height. Forget the high post. Just camp underneath the basket, move around to avoid the three seconds, and maliciously attack every person who drives to the basket. Maliciously…if the refs are going to call you for a foul, you better make sure its a damn good foul.

5. Cut that mane of golden gayness off your head, once and for all. It’s not cool to have to push your hair out of your eyes, or wear a headband to restrain it. Your shaved head look will suffice for now. I would eventually like to see you go with the Artest, as you shave deceased homies names into your west coast fade, but baby steps for now.

6. Take a page out of your teammate Jason Terry’s book and shoot whatever shots you damn well feel like shooting. Four feet behind the three point line: go for it. Running floater over four defenders: why not. Hell, why not volunteer to be the inbound passer and just shoot it, instead of looking for a teammate?

7. Steal food from the fans. Lebron takes French Fries, but you can go even further. Next time you get pushed out of bounds,  find a fan and recreate the Jules speech from Pulp Fiction, in it’s entirety, right down to the “May I have some of your delicious beverage to wash this down?”

8. From now on, when you rebound a ball, you will yell expletives, LOUDLY. David Stern will ask you to stop. You will tell him to kiss your ass.

9. Brawl….and don’t just be a participant. You be the instigator of the brawl, act the most mad, and throw the most punches. Take your suspension like a man, and when the press asks you what happened, tell them you were high, and that you don’t take shit from anyone when you’re high.

10. Every NBA player has pre-free-throw routine, here’s yours: First, tell all the other players how much you hate them, including your own teammates. Then rub the ball on your genitals for 10 full seconds and drain it. As you run back up the court, tell the opposing coach you are boning one of his female relatives. Do it every time Dirk, EVERY TIME

Unlike you Dirk, the Way of the Badass cannot fail. It is statistically perfect. The swelling in your under shorts will be but one of the benefits. Your popularity will go through the roof, other players will look at you as a source of manly inspiration, and Jason Kidd will be able to stop taking The Elixir of Life and finally die in peace. You will get invited to all the cool parties, sponsorship deals will flock in like seagulls, and best of all, YOU WON’T BE CONFUSED AS TO WHY THE MAVERICKS WANT YOU, THEIR BEST PLAYER, TO TAKE THE IMPORTANT SHOTS.

Sincere as always
X Marks the Spot,

X Doe

How is it that Outside the Lines gets thirty minutes a day, while SportsCenter, The Herd, and First Take get four hours? OTL reports on some interesting tidbits, and it’s not like the Worldwide Leader would have to sacrifice much to give thirty extra minutes to these stories grown off the beaten path.

What happened to Stump the Schwab? Did the writers run out of interesting factoids, or did Stuart Scott just grow weary of trying to make the Schwab seem cool?

Why has no one made this programming suggestion to the big wigs: “Hey why don’t we change “Jim Rome is Burning” to “Charles Barkley is F***ing Angry” or “Ron Artest is All Up in Yo Sh**”? Jim’s had a good run.

When is John Clayton going to put his hair out of its misery and just shave it off? It has to be soon, right?

Who thought hiring Skip Bayless was a good idea?  Was it his Mick Jagger-esq visage, or the fact that he cannot, under any circumstances control the volume of his voice?

If you have any information regarding these, or other unsolved mysteries, please contact lu in the comment section of this post. As always, your readership is appreciated.

Sammy Sosa v Mark Mac Part 2—-if you have a chance to check out the Sports Illustrated 1999 Year In Review, please enjoy the statements on the heroic place in history Sam and Mark will always occupy, that is, unless you are the person who wrote them

The USA Women’s Soccer Team Brang Home the World Cup— The Hormonal Teenager in me provides the best sense of Nostalgia regarding this event. As the ecstatic Chastain ripped off her shirt, and showed the world her surprisingly sexy sports bra, I knew it was something I would not soon forget. I was correct. I can still visualize it perfectly

Duke was dominant, and everyone was shocked as Calhoun’s Huskies cut down the nets

Lance Armstrong Gave Cancer One in the Stones—and deservedly so. Cancer had already stolen Sweetness and Joe DiMaggio from us. Then Lance, like a beacon of light in his patent yellow jersey, transcended the sporting world, and stoked an ember of hope into a fire.

Scandal rocked the Olympic committee.

The Yankees Rounded out the Century in Style— Here’s one for the conspiracy theorists. How is it that Mariano Rivera has not aged one iota since 1999. Look at the pictures, and tell me with a straight face that some sort of magic or extraterrestrial technology is not involved somehow. Actually, try and keep a straight face while repeating that last statement out loud.

The NFL was losing, or had already lost, stars at alarming rate. No more Sanders, or Elway with Marino and Aikman looking as good as gone. My award for statement that is exactly 2/3rds prophetic and 1/3rd laughably wrong in hindsight; “Cue Peyton Manning, Kurt Warner and Charlie Batch: the meek have inherited the turf.”

Andre Agassi made a comeback, dethroned Sampras, and started his ten year countdown towards a crystal meth admission, and the great Wig Scandal.

A Great Headline: “Tiger Burns Bright.” It’s funny to think that at the dawn of 1999, prior to the ace whooping Tiger laid on everyone, experts and the related ilk thought David Duval might actually be superior to Tiger. Fast forward ten years, and Tiger is certainly burning, but none of us are jumping to the foreground to announce his brightness.

Break ups, lost loved ones, being “TOO” drunk: these are all hard “first’s” to deal with. And dealing with Tiger’s first pit fall is probably hard for most true sports fans to stomach. Lay odds on every superstar, regarding the likelihood that he or she would headline a media scandal, and Tiger, the Tiger of three weeks ago, would have been near the bottom of every list. Will it be the only blemish in the history of the Talented Mr. Woods? Only time will tell; yet, I can’t help but feeling that this first chink in his armor will be the deepest, regardless of what the future holds.

For comparison sake, turn your mind’s eye to Ron Artest. He too had a shocking revelation this week: drinking at halftime of a professional sports game is usually reserved for the fans…not so with Ron Ron. As shocking as the Hennessey Revelation was to hear, it certainly wasn’t earth shattering. This is Ron Artest we’re talking about: rush into the stands and assault multiple fans (only one of whom is truly at fault), full on mount an opposing Bucks player, go on Jimmy Kimmel Live wearing only his underwear, RON ARTEST. Ron Artest is like the Problem Child. Ten minutes into the movie, the problem child’s father is blatantly apathetic towards millions of minor infractions. So we the fan base are regarding Baby Worm.

Tiger was different: classy, elegant, reserved and even-tempered (save the occasional blow-up at a heckling fan….but as a heckling fan I would much rather take a tongue-lashing from Woods than a Ron Artest ace whuppin). When news first broke that Tiger was in an accident, my first thought was, “I hope he’s okay.” (That’s not to say I am unhappy that he is okay after the scandalous revelations. The man has kids for goodness’ sake.) Had I heard of an Artest accident, I probably would have thought something like “Dang, Artest had too much to drink, and convinced himself that a light pole was talking crap to his Escalade.” Is it fair? No, Artest could easily get into a completely harmless wreck. But this is desensitization at its strongest; the ability to instantly joke about an accident, instead of hoping immediately for the safety of those involved.

Turns out Tiger’s minor car accident, opened one major can of worms. The suits of every major news outlet are probably still cleaning the joyful feces out of their britches. Tiger Woods has made the next two months of their job very easy. No wonder the guy who runs TMZ got out of the legal business; life is much easier when your material affluence hinges on the stupidity of famous people.

I personally fall into the camp that feels Tiger deserves everything coming to him. Yet, I can’t help but feel for his wife. Anyone who has been cheated on knows how horrible it would be for everyone of your spouse’s infidelities to rerun on an endless news cycle for months. And here is the one shred of sympathy I can spare for Tiger. In five, ten, twenty and maybe fifty years, he is going to know what he did to his wife and children. That is one completely unenviable burden to bear.

I feel terrible for Tiger’s parents, Tiger’s friends, and anyone close to Tiger. I feel notably bad for Tiger’s loyal fan base. They will probably support him until the bitter end, but deep down they feel the slices of his awful revelation. I feel bad for those at the ad companies that will have to work countless overtime hours, covering up this media mess, but in a way they are reaping what they sowed. I am heart-broken that in less than two decades, Tiger’s two beautiful children will be slammed with the heinous reality that their dad, is at best a weak self-gratifier, and at worst an arrogant megalomaniac with no regard for anyone’s feelings, including his wife and children. The two people I turn an acrid eye towards, are Tiger and his strumpet who saw the dollar signs, and metaphorically (expletive) on everything related to the Woods’ family.

To borrow an overused simile, Ron Artest is Sonny Corleone, and Tiger Woods is Michael. Sonny was short-tempered, irrational, focused on the moment. He met an untimely end because of his recklessness and was ultimately thought of as a loveable mess of man. Michael was cold, calculating, immeasurably smart, and yet his world would not line up in perfect marching order like his strategies demanded. At the end of the Godfather II, Michael had nothing, and despite his guile, natural gifts, and recognizable personage, he couldn’t help but feel like a failure. I do not know the future of Artest, so have no basis to predict whether or not this metaphor will ring true forever, and I’m not privy to the current inner monologues of Tiger, so I don’t know if he is walking through his lifeless house like Pacino. But if I was betting man, I’d lay serious cash on the line that said tonight, Tiger is feeling like absolute refuse and Artest is sleeping comfortably.

I am writing this letter as an avid fan and frequent viewer. I know you are probably awash in advice and suggestions regarding your future, but I would just to like to throw my two cents in. I apologize in advance for the length of my two cents, but I want to convey just how much I have your interests at heart. Below I have assembled a rank order list of the teams I think you should consider as you come upon the sure to be crazy time of your free agency. I am no financial expert, but I am sure you are up to your elbows in those already. I am not particularly crazy about you, which is not to say that I don’t admire your skill. I just like great basketball, and I think if you were to choose one of the top five teams on my list, basketball fans would benefit…and so would you.

 Worst Ten (starting with the Worst)— Grizzlies, Timberwolves, Bobcats, Thunder, Bucks, 76ers, Kings, Pacers, Raptors, Nets

 I don’t feel these teams require much explanation. These teams represent markets that are too small for your excellence, or personnel issues that won’t be resolved in your prime. Or they just aren’t that cool. I want you to look badass in your new uniform Lebron, and nothing about a Bucks uniform screams badass.

 Here’s what I will say. The Kings have the promising guard Evans, but do you really want to bet your future on his timely maturation. The Raptors are a decent squad, but you might clash with Bosh, and let’s be honest Bron, you don’t really seem like someone who would dig the Toronto scene. Please correct me if I am wrong.

 The Thunder are also promising to a certain extent, but they seem to be focusing on developing a Kevin Durant centered squad that might be relevant five or six years down the road. Do you want to wait that long, and deal with potential Durant divaism?…I didn’t think so.

 Next Worse (or Best) Ten—- Pistons, Warriors, Trail Blazers, Jazz, Hawks, Clippers, Rockets, Nuggets, Spurs, Wizards

 The Pistons are definitely not hip enough for you with their crippled economy. You would be fun on the Warriors, but are ready for Maggette, and the instability that will come with Nelly’s imminent retirement. You might kick ass on the Blazers, but just imagine yourself surrounded by dudes in Lumberjack shirts, while Greg Oden bitches at you for not coming to the Buckeyes. Plus you might hurt Brandon Roy’ feelings.

 The Jazz would be an excellent choice for you, if they weren’t located in Utah. Nothing wrong with Utah (I’m talking to you Utah residents) but it just doesn’t flow that well: “Lebron was spotted in downtown Salt Lake City today….” The Hawks are stacked and the Clippers are historically hexed. Speaking of hexes, do you really want to put yourself in the evil voodoo circle that surrounds Yao and T Mac? Better let that witch doctor’s doing wear off before you make a trip to Houston.

 Denver isn’t a terrible scene, nor is San Antonio, but the character clashes are imminent. You don’t smoke enough weed to hang out with Melo (sorry Melo, low blow) and Tony Parker is way too French. You would punch out Chris “Birdman” Anderson or Manu Ginobli within a week of being on the team. You know you would. The two innocent casualties are Billups and Duncan. You would be spectacular with either one of them.

 The Wizards is an interesting choice. You would be with Gil and Jamison, and as long as you avoided Alpha Dog issues, Washington might be fun to watch…but you aren’t Daniel Radcliffe, and I would hate to see you typecast as a Wizard.

 Five Honorable Mentions—Lakers, Celtics, Bulls, Suns, and Knicks

 Let’s just get it out of the way. Kobe + Lebron = Disaster waiting to happen. You threaten everything egocentric about Kobe. He would be playing against you and the Lakers’ opponent. The Celtics are already a tight-nit group, and you would feel like crap if you broke up their March Madness dynamic. The Bulls aren’t bad, but I have two strong words for you: Joakim Noah—interpret them as you will.

 Man would it be fun to watch you and Nash together, but he doesn’t have long. You and Amare might clash. The PHX scene is cool, but not the coolest.

 The Knicks shouldn’t even be this high, but their open lust for you is just sickening enough to vault them. They may do some ridiculous shit just to get you on the roster, and the Jay-Z/ Lebron parties would be off the hook. But let me just say this one thing: right now, the Knicks absolutely suck. They are horrible to watch, and if they ruined your career, I would hate them more than I hated them when John Starks was playing. And I really hated John Starks

 Top Five

 Mavericks- I know, I know…Dirk is kind of a douche. But Cuban would fawn over you like a psychotic mother, and Dirk would adjust just to try and remain relevant to his beloved Mahk. It’s a fairly big market, the Texas themed nicknames for you would be endless, and you might get a few years with Kidd if you hurry.

 Cavaliers—- Stay or don’t. I know your ties, but you will just have to decide for yourself on this one….You know Cleveland way better than me.

 Heat— If you and D Wade could get along, and Michael Beasley was comfortable being third fiddle, a Miami squad with you, would be terrifying.  You would look super sweet in a Heat uniform, and you know you would blow up Miami like Crockett and Tubbs…Pretty women, great weather….good choice

 Hornets— Something about you and New Orleans just clicks Bron. You would be an excellent Hornet. And you and Chris Paul might completely reinvent the game of basketball…you are both that good…I know they lack a superstar big man, but you and Nawlans could be special. Imagine the signs: “Geaux Lebron.” “King of Mardi Gras”…yes, it would be sensational…Had it not been for the big man issue, this would have been my number one choice.

 Magic—- Awesome location: check…unbelievable supporting cast/ realistic title contenders: check…..other potential superstars hitting their prime with you, simultaneously: check….Imagine this starting lineup: Lebron James, Dwight Howard, Jameer Nelson, and….and….well, it doesn’t really matter who the other two are. The Magic are going to have to deal contracts anyway, so grab a couple of hobos of the street and through a jersey on them….. the Trio of James, Howard and Nelson would haunt the Eastern  conference for nearly a decade. Throw five decent role players into the mix, and we may be talking dynasty. But what separates Orlando is the lack of an Alpha dog issue: Imagine you, Nelson and Howard are canines….Nelson is a little guy, like a Jack Russell terrier, high energy….You are a Pit Bull, bad ass, killer, unshakable, fearless…Howard is a Great Dane- bad ass in his own respect, but certainly not someone who is going toe to toe with a Pit Bull for top dog status…If Howard was  a Rottweiler like Shaq, or a tough ass German Shepard like Duncan, it might be a different story. But Dwight Howard is more happy-go-lucky then Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. He will be ecstatic to play Robin to your Batman…he might even get better.

 The only problem is it will never happen. I know I said I was no financial expert, but this one is just too far fetched.

 Everyone wants to tell you what’s best for you, but no matter where you are, you are going to impact the game positively….so just take a few weeks when the season ends, call Melo and see if he has a blunt to spare (two in one article…I understand if you want to fight me Melo…it will be an honor) and think about the best all-around place for you. The one favor I might ask is that you don’t drag it out….within a month of the season ending, call me up, and I will organize a killer event where you can rip off your top shirt to reveal your team of choice on the undershirt….think Sting choosing which faction of the NWA he will shack up with.

Godspeed Great Emperor of Hoops