Dear Dwight Howard’s Elbows:
Please stop fucking my team up!
Dear Vince Carter’s Vagina:
Sorry you are so worn out…stop using Dwight’s Elbows as soap.
Dear Rashard Lewis:
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, stomach virus aka KG is drinking my milkshake, Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Dear Big Baby:
Sorry about calling you Leon Powe a few months ago. After that shot to the squash last night, I thought I heard you say, “I aint f*ckin Leon Powe.”
Dear Paul Pierce:
I love you, but would you PLEASE get a shot off at the end of a quarter / game! 95% percent of the time, you struggle to beat the clock as much as I did the first time I tried getting a condom on…24 is apparently a tough age and not enough time to get a shot off.
Why didn’t you confiscate all tape of the Celtics whooping your ass? Much more embarrasing than barely getting dunked on at a summer camp.
Dear Stan Van Jeremy:
Still love the stachey as much as the physique!
Dear Danny Ainge:
When did we sign this Sheed guy? How come he has only played the last two playoff series? Where was he all season?
Way to bring it this season! Shake and bake, baby!
Love how you still aren’t dead! Keep hope and bloggin’ alive!
Dear NBA Players:
Please stop crying after every single call. I feel like I am watching Old Yeller every time the whistle gets blown.
Dear J J Reddick’s Clamydia:
What’s that blonde’s number that you came from again? Dam she was smokin’!