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His beloved Steve Buckhantz had a meltdown at the end of the game this evening: yelling about the 5-second rule on the final inbound play, not to mention his conniptions over numerous calls or noncalls that didn't benefit the Bulletz. Plus, Buck's despondent "BACKBREAKER!" scream when Vinpenisity hit the 3-pointer as time expired -- even though there was a whole overtime session for the Wizz to pull out the game -- gave August the second boner of his life. (The first came when his mother, Ulrika Eleanora Norling, placed him in a dry well and washed him with hot bacon fat.)
We would have video excerpts to support Strindberg and Buckhant'z depression, but the game was shown locally on NewsChannel 8, which Wheaton Circuit City bans due to excess frontal nudity during 2004-2005 season, so we have no TiVo tape. Instead, read our old tale of The Brothers Grimm and please view the photo below from the first game of this 2006-2007 season -- this was shot before the game even started!!! This image perfectly illustrates the violent darkness that pervades the mulched souls of the Wizards' annoucers:
Phil is even giving Buck the finger!
Now, on to August's incites!
When they say Christ descended into Hell, they mean that he descended to earth, this penitentiary, this madhouse and morgue of a world -- this phone booth of death. For murder does not come from a phantomous 5-second call on a 7-second inbound -- ah, 7 seconds is all it takes for an atomic explosion or a New Wind to blow our bones to dust.
Nor does sweet release come from a gratuitous man-slap in the paint while in the act of lifting one's balls to the rim -- for gratuity is all a man can ask for when two palms of dilapidated flesh wrap themselves around an orange latex orb, thrusting toward a puckered hole that is small and angry, with no gliding force to ease its transition from light to darkness, to pleasure and pain, such pain, such pain....
For a fleeting second, when the Sciuridae Fearer took a charge from Tha Carter, I felt something long lost. It wasn't joy -- never. Yet, it was not nonjoy. Alas, happiness consumes itself like a flame. It cannot burn for ever, it must go out, and the presentiment of its end destroys it at its very peak.
So, lo, from the depths of my fetid overcoat, I smell this loss more deeply than I do the rat skulls who have nested deep inside my own. From this recondite view inside Norra Begravningsplatsen, I can examine moss and metal, stone and sulfur, penury and punishment. The rotted rhizomes of this loss will spread beneath this team's frozen soil like a viral death march. Let the season end before it ever begins, is it ever thus.
I desiderate darkness, surely, but on my own terms. Joey Crawford, you of the polished pate, the tempestuous temper, the Oedipal eyes -- you have brought such night to my life, such blackened sky to my soul. When a man has come back from so many points that he must use his teammates' hanging digits to properly count the amount, you should pity him, praise his efforts, caress his hands, and clean his wounds like the nurse maiden who once dressed me up in gauze and lit me afire. But, no. Once the ladder has been climbed, and the abacus put away for all is even, a man opens his eyes and sees...nothing. For you, Joeth, are a blindfold for hope in the waning seconds, a desert for the thirsty, a venomous snake for the perpetually bitten. May you be slapped with a double technical in the game of life.
Why is it so painful to watch a person sink, or a team flounder like this morning's poisoned catch? Because there is something unnatural in it, for nature demands personal progress, evolution, and every backward step means wasted energy.
We are waste, we are such waste.
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