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.