To James Dolan,
You smiling ass mother-f*cker! What the f*ck are you so happy about, huh? Don't you know I hate you?!? Haven't you read every column I've written for the past year? I even find a way to make fun of you when I'm bashing Barry Bonds. Yet you have the nerve to smile, you bumberclot rudebwoy owner....
Don't you know how much I hate you? At my urging, you lured my boy Larry Brown here, paying him $50 million to coach your sh*tty ass team. Then you fired his ass, and why? Because he wanted to be GM and President, too? Because he purposely threw the season? So what.
Larry Brown was a god. He was the basketball Selassie. He would do interviews with me. He would take the time to drive out to Connecticut, to the Lupica estate, from where I do all my reporting on New York city sports. He would drive up here for these interviews. He was a good man, that Larry Brown. He was a real New Yorker, born and raised and living in the city. Me, I lived in the city, briefly in the late 80's, before I blew up enough to work from home in Connecticut. But Larry, he was real, from Brooklyn. Yet he would come up here and interview with me, so that I could write a story like a real reporter would.
We would sit together in my home office. The green mint tea, that was his favorite drink... I always made sure it was ready for his arrival. We would drink our tea, and talk about sports. Basketball. Life. Our fathers, our children. Smoked gangja. We talked about our future together, sailing around the world on the yacht he bought with Dolan's money, hitting casinoes in the Caribbean during the day, sleeping with prostitutes at night, all the time keeping on the move. Larry never liked staying in the same place for too long. We would both grow dreadlocks. I was supposed to keep a journal about it, about our adventures. Remember we!
Then you fired him, you smiling fucktard. Who am I suppose to interview now when I feel like pretending I'm a real reporter?!? That Vulcan-looking mofo Isiah? He won't even do a phone interview with me, much less drive up here like Larry. Damn you, Dolan. I vowed revenge, and I won't stop until I get you and your boy Zeke.
Haven't you read the clever nickname I came up for you - it's pooppoophead, Son of Dolan. Yeah, that was ME who coined that, beyatch. Kneel before Zod!
Oh, and you think fat-ass Eddy Curry backing your boy is gonna stop me from bring the heat?!? I'll just tear him down, too. Check out this line, baby:
"The Knicks' defense of Eddy Curry's All-Star credentials last week was more impressive than any defense played by Curry himself."
I spit hot fire, bwoy! Don't fuck with my psych, G!
That's right, smiling boy. I got juice. I told my boys over at SI to put in that fake poll in which NBA players voted you the worst owner in the league*. It's all true, only replace "NBA players" with "overrated has-been sportswriters". You're the worst, Son of Dolan!
I'm gonna get you, and that Vulcan mo-fo. And if that overweight battieboy Curry wants some of this hot molten lava, I'll get him, too. You no want to con-test me, bwoy. Check this new nickname out: "Curry In No Hurry". That's freestyling straight off the dome, man. Don't fuck with my psych, G.
It's on now.
-Mike "Hot Fire" Lupica
*Note: This refers to this note at the bottom of this blurb:
"An advance copy of Sports Illustrated's story on Dolan revealed that a poll conducted by the magazine had said that NBA players called him the league's worst owner. The magazine later concluded that such a poll did not exist and removed it from the story that eventually appeared in this week's issue." Mighty suspect...
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