DISCLAIMER - No actual Russes, Russells, Wussells or MVPs (real, imagined or poorly chosen) were consulted, participated, wrote, spoke, were harmed or were involved in any fashion in this recap. It is a work of fiction for entertainment purposes only. Please, no wagering.
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Dear Adoring Public,
I’ve eaten sushi in Oklahoma. I’ve removed the tags from my mattress. I’ve worn stripes, plaids, camo, and brand-new “Ramones” t-shirts together. I’ve pretended to like the taste of Mountain Dew. Now, I’m going to write this game recap for a Rockets site because I do me. Often.
Now, to start, you couldn’t possibly understand the elevated workings of my mind. That’s fine, I like pets, and that’s how I think of you all. So I’ll explain this to you in simple terms, rather than the higher maths that typically characterize my ponderings. To further your, regrettably limited, ability to follow along, I’ll describe the events in chronological units known as “quarters”.
Thankfully, all the faux-friendship stuff is now concluded. I find it distasteful, but necessary. So the game begins anon, and I shall dominate it, as ever. I attempt to remind my teammates of the stakes, my, and to an extent, our mutual success. If we should lose to an uninterested Rockets team we may well find ourselves in an unnatural position: out of the playoffs. That would be embarrassing, if I had any help, which I do not. They seemed unaware of this situation, so it is a fine thing that I reminded them.
I rebound a bit, score a bit, and restrain myself from scoring all the points, and stopping all opponent shots. My fellow Thunders appear to be fully engaged, even Carmelo, so what’s the harm in letting your servants have a bit of a giggle once in a while, I always say. It shows compassion to allow your domestics to flourish, so long as they remember their place.
My, my, Mr. Anthony seems to have found the fountain of youth, or at least a mouthful of its restoring waters. It’s as though he was 27 again, instead of 67, which he normally appears to be. Paul George (ha ha - a man with two first names, simpletons adore that) is playing to his capacity as well. How long will it last, how long until I must rescue them from their inevitable ineptitude, only time will tell.
I, naturally, haven’t a care for statistical achievement. Counting is for those who can do nothing but count. I’ve said so, in my heart, innumerably . I will, nonetheless, note that I approach the vaunted triple double at the half. 12pts, 6 rebounds and 7 assists. If I’m honest, which I always am, some assists are simply due to good shooting from my teammates. My own shooting rate, I’ll admit, is somewhat lackluster at 5-15, but there is, can anyone doubt it, a method, a purpose, to my play. My intention lack of prowess has inspired my compatriots to a fine effort, and we enter the half-time break only one point behind. When I truly apply myself, this will no doubt be instantly remedied.
A back and forth affair, lacking in interest for me. Mr. Anthony and Mr. George have slacked their torrid pace of scoring, meaning it’s time for me to do what I do best. I score a good bit, and that large, obedient colonial, Adams, does his utmost. Still, our opponents have the best of it.
The time between the third and fourth quarters I spend in silent questioning of the universe. The few powers higher than myself that may be out there had best listen. I have two simple questions for these vast intelligences: can an NBA playoffs without me exist? And if it exist, can it be, quite, profitable?
Soon and very soon, I have my answer. As if by magic our fortunes change, not due to my questioning, never that, but to my great exertions. It might be said by some that our opponents are lackadaisical, perhaps dispirited, even overcome by ennui. I’ll hear none of it! Sheerest balderdash. I play superbly, perhaps slightly more superbly than usual, and, my efforts are justly rewarded. My scurrilous opponents are punished for their infractions, perhaps for their very existence. It is only justice. I win. And by extension, the OKC Thunder win.
What is good for me is good for OKC, I always say.
Now I must assume my “Man of The People” persona for the press. It is tiresome, but the plebes adore this sort of thing, and of course, believe it fully. I even refernce “The Man Upstairs”, who is, possibly, me. Brilliant, as always.