Finals Player of Most Value SCANDAL
May 30, 2019 0:57:19 GMT
TimPig and 👨🏼⚕️delapandemic🚑 like this
Post by eric on May 30, 2019 0:57:19 GMT
CHICAGO, Illinois
A near riot erupted on the Near West Side of the Second City tonight.
The fourth estate were enjoying un troisième apéritif, expecting the imminent and long overdue induction of Raymond Michael McCallum the Second, only Finals Most Valuable Player in T.M.B.S.L. franchise history, to the Large Basket-Balling Club Honors of the local franchise, little knowing the ensuing deluge of torrential oration, a near fight, realistically a melee, a royal brouhaha.
As young Billy R. Hearst once put it, "begin at the beginning.".".s's'.
Who made us?
God made us.
What else did God make, if anything?
The playoffs.
Why did God make us and all these games?
Hello‽
You play to win the games.
And when the boys in sanguine and argent pulled down that brass cup, which bovino pulled the hardest?
From the cats in Baltimore to the schism also in Baltimore, the answer is clear. It's the same answer as the only Chicagoan to make any All-Defensive Team that season of the year. It's the same answer as the hornéd one to by far lead the squadron minutes played during the regular- and post- seasons.
But a certain G.M. had a different answer. In the year of our Common Era two thousand as well as seventeen, an unnamed pig pigeon-holed multiple reporters to report he declined that player's well below market value offer to resign, a feat made all the more fatiguing by the undisputed fact that such declination was as unnecessary as the physicists redefining theta in the third dimension as a declination angle
, adding multiple ethnic slurs this reporter does not have the indecency to repeat, only deigning to sign the Dionysian deity to one lower level exception before consigning him to one life-time of misery in the blasted hell-scape of the Upper Peninsula.
This was not the beginning of the end. It was not even the end of the beginning. But it was, perhaps, the middle of the beginning of the end of the middle's former room-mate. Which meant absolutely nothing to the family and friends of my close personal friend Raymond as he shuttled across the unfathomable depths of that vast body of water that lies between those places of those teams. Multiple United States and State Senators openly criticized G'Manager P'Gulski for his brazen commercialism, but this critical crescendo crested and cratered when the credentialed cruiserweight cryptically crossed the crestfallen crackerjack creators From Troit, opening the door for the one who honors God to find a suitable finale. Indeed, to say nothing of meeting that person half way, Raymond even agreed to a league minimum "deal".
"DEAL OF THE CENTURY" screamed the headlines.
"YOU ARE OUR HERO" screamed the fans.
And as the journos sat patiently in the room whence employees confer it seemed at last, at long last, at very long last, the two could go out on a high note. As the saintly- no, divine McCallum strode onto camera the crowd was struck dumb in awe of the awesome figure. Here was one they could follow. Here was one they could call M.V.P.
But a certain porcine had other ideas. Staggering out from the lockeréd room, a figure later identified with G.M. Pigulski croaked "What in the blank are you doing here, didn't I just trade your blankety-blank for a used jock strap?"
In the stunned and staggered silence, a few of the assembled mustered a musty muttering merriment at the moronic merry-andrew. Mr. McCallum stoically stayed the string, bringing tears to the eyes of more than one hardened flack if you ask me, which you did, don't act like you didn't.
But at this time the Tim was obliviously emboldened, grasping his curved stick for emphasis, shouting "NOW GO GET YOUR FUHASTERISKASTERISKASTERISKING SHINE-BOX!"
Even the unimpeachable dignity of the newspaperman was imperiled at this point, and the conference (such as it was) broke up in an uproar.
When reached for comment, the so-called "Chicago" team responded "mike [sic] not sure if it was intentional but you didnt [sic] put mccallum [so sick] on your DC".
Far be it for this objective observer to pass judgment but pretty despicable. Abhorrent, really. Literally worse than you-know-whomst.
A near riot erupted on the Near West Side of the Second City tonight.
The fourth estate were enjoying un troisième apéritif, expecting the imminent and long overdue induction of Raymond Michael McCallum the Second, only Finals Most Valuable Player in T.M.B.S.L. franchise history, to the Large Basket-Balling Club Honors of the local franchise, little knowing the ensuing deluge of torrential oration, a near fight, realistically a melee, a royal brouhaha.
As young Billy R. Hearst once put it, "begin at the beginning.".".s's'.
Who made us?
God made us.
What else did God make, if anything?
The playoffs.
Why did God make us and all these games?
Hello‽
You play to win the games.
And when the boys in sanguine and argent pulled down that brass cup, which bovino pulled the hardest?
From the cats in Baltimore to the schism also in Baltimore, the answer is clear. It's the same answer as the only Chicagoan to make any All-Defensive Team that season of the year. It's the same answer as the hornéd one to by far lead the squadron minutes played during the regular- and post- seasons.
But a certain G.M. had a different answer. In the year of our Common Era two thousand as well as seventeen, an unnamed pig pigeon-holed multiple reporters to report he declined that player's well below market value offer to resign, a feat made all the more fatiguing by the undisputed fact that such declination was as unnecessary as the physicists redefining theta in the third dimension as a declination angle
, adding multiple ethnic slurs this reporter does not have the indecency to repeat, only deigning to sign the Dionysian deity to one lower level exception before consigning him to one life-time of misery in the blasted hell-scape of the Upper Peninsula.
This was not the beginning of the end. It was not even the end of the beginning. But it was, perhaps, the middle of the beginning of the end of the middle's former room-mate. Which meant absolutely nothing to the family and friends of my close personal friend Raymond as he shuttled across the unfathomable depths of that vast body of water that lies between those places of those teams. Multiple United States and State Senators openly criticized G'Manager P'Gulski for his brazen commercialism, but this critical crescendo crested and cratered when the credentialed cruiserweight cryptically crossed the crestfallen crackerjack creators From Troit, opening the door for the one who honors God to find a suitable finale. Indeed, to say nothing of meeting that person half way, Raymond even agreed to a league minimum "deal".
"DEAL OF THE CENTURY" screamed the headlines.
"YOU ARE OUR HERO" screamed the fans.
And as the journos sat patiently in the room whence employees confer it seemed at last, at long last, at very long last, the two could go out on a high note. As the saintly- no, divine McCallum strode onto camera the crowd was struck dumb in awe of the awesome figure. Here was one they could follow. Here was one they could call M.V.P.
But a certain porcine had other ideas. Staggering out from the lockeréd room, a figure later identified with G.M. Pigulski croaked "What in the blank are you doing here, didn't I just trade your blankety-blank for a used jock strap?"
In the stunned and staggered silence, a few of the assembled mustered a musty muttering merriment at the moronic merry-andrew. Mr. McCallum stoically stayed the string, bringing tears to the eyes of more than one hardened flack if you ask me, which you did, don't act like you didn't.
But at this time the Tim was obliviously emboldened, grasping his curved stick for emphasis, shouting "NOW GO GET YOUR FUHASTERISKASTERISKASTERISKING SHINE-BOX!"
Even the unimpeachable dignity of the newspaperman was imperiled at this point, and the conference (such as it was) broke up in an uproar.
When reached for comment, the so-called "Chicago" team responded "mike [sic] not sure if it was intentional but you didnt [sic] put mccallum [so sick] on your DC".
Far be it for this objective observer to pass judgment but pretty despicable. Abhorrent, really. Literally worse than you-know-whomst.