Thursday, December 3, 2009

Can't Kick

I, unlike many of my peers and comrades at DR headquarters, am not addicted to brown liquor, prescription pills, or the trusty services of women-for-hire. I don't take spontaneous trips to Atlantic City for the rush of losing my meager fortune to a dealer named Gary, a waitress named Loretta, and a pile of shitty cards. I've never had the pleasure of gushing rivers of crackhead sweat in nervous anticipation of my next trip to planet crackrock. As a teenager I watched a movie about heroin addiction and decided then and there to sidestep the tempting yet ultimately unfulfilling life of a scary ghost carcass. I hear working out with large ropes, kettle balls, and private trainers can be euphoric, but that too is another one of life's addictive joys I have stupidly not fallen prey to. Sometimes this despicable wholesomeness keeps me up at night and nearly pushes me into the arms of a crushed up percocet and a small bucket of whiskey, but DAMMIT, I have neither the emotional nor psychological wherewithal to make that beautiful dream a reality. Which is why today was such a wonderful day for me. I realized, around 10:30 pm, that I too am burdened with an affliction that does me more harm than good and threatens my sanity. Quite simply, I am addicted to Allen Iverson.

I never thought I'd have an epiphany about my own addiction while watching a skinny black man wearing a v-neck undershirt cry his eyes out with a chubby and bald white man beside him. But this, folks, is the unique process of enlightenment. Sure enough, there sat Allen Iverson, a grown man crying little boy tears, triggering all manner of flashbacks and feelings of old. See I had forgotten what the Iverson addiction was like, because I had kicked it years ago. At least I thought I did.

But watching him cry and listening to his raspy eloquence brought the AI addiction back into my life with force. I know he's made more poor decisions than Cuba Gooding Jr. I understand that the likelihood of his shooting many shots, hogging many basketballs, and avoiding many if not damn near all of Sammy D's post-up efforts will be, to borrow a well-worn word and picture, high. But I don't care. I have sampled this man's basketball offerings, the game, the wardrobe, the press conferences, the drama, and I decided long ago that his product was the best on the block. For a while his product disappeared and I had to rely a cornucopia of crap to get by, but now that the good shit is back this is a no-brainer. Some things in this world aren't right. And some things make sense. AI is back in a Sixers uni and for today, all is right with the world.

Haters speak up, I wanna know what the hell is wrong with you.


  1. Pookie is an early picture of the year candidtae (Trung).

    So glad AI is back where her belongs.

  2. First of all, the DR is back!
    Secondly, i take issue with your characterization of us at the DR as drunks and pill-poppers. That's merely a weekend hobby... or per Tone's above post, a very late Thursday night/early Friday AM occurrence.
    AI is crack, it's that simple. Preach, brother, preach!

  3. I am not a pill popper nor a drunk. I indulge in other things that are great thank you very much.

  4. As well as this post captures DR staffer's feelings on AI, it does an even better job of characterizing and describing my various addictions. Well met, I say!

  5. I love A.I. And, much to Big Firm's chagrin, I will be sporting his jersey to games, no undershirt, like a true king.

    And, Chief, I've been to A.C. with you and seen you at the roulette wheel.

    "Always bet on black."

    I too am accurately characterized in this post, though I would add dip, weed, pizza, and internet porn.

  6. ... And Super Squishies:

  7. My thoughts on the subject are very well documented.

  8. I have to disagree with Bubak's statement above that he is not a pill popper. The Bul once went for an ironman stretch of OC doing. I think it was something like 27 straight days.