On the Midnight Train to Texas

So a certain someone who shall not be named had the sheer audacity to uh...haze me up on my own daggone outfit. These bloggers, I swear. LOL. I guess that person, whose name rhymes with Tex-Mex will be quieted knowing, despite an exhausting two weeks in M. Elle's world, she has returned.

cues radio to Aaliyah and Timbaland, "It's been a long time. Shouldn't of left you [left you] Without a dope beat to step to [step to, step to, step to... Fricky, fricky, fricky]."

Lucky for me and everybody pulling for da "313", the Pistons didn't give up when they were felled like Teeny did the Tin Man in the Wiz in Games 1 and 2 of the NBA finals. They used their hutzpah and grit to play like the true champions they know they are. And again, in game four. But what the ham sandwich happened in game five? *shaking my head*

I must state again, that you won't get a point-by-point analysis here...I'll leave that to the pros. But a few comments if I may...

I love the ruggedociousness of the Pistons, but here's a thought. Would it be possible to place a barber on the Detroit bench during those time outs? You know, Ben "in a coupla good fights before" Wallace could get a little shape up. Not sayin he should cut the fro, but he could make it look a little less like a parallelogram. For Rasheed "the rugged warrior" Wallace, maybe a little cut and mustache trim? I know that gansta is their motto and I love that. But, like my Alabama granddady would say, a little haircut never hurt nobody. Maybe just mull it over guys.

Ricky Hamilton, my boy, I stand corrected from my previous commentary. Clearly, as you displayed in games three and four, your mask has magical powers...like Rick James' imagined orange glow. LOL. You played like we knew you could, aided by Chauncey (*singing* "C" is for cluuutch, that's good enough for "3") Billups. Each game I become more of a fan. Ricky with his agility and speed and Chauncey because he reminds me of Sam Cassell in his prime minus the latter's strong resemblance to "Jack the Pumpkin King" in the "Night Before Halloween". Free throws like freaking close to 90 percent? Check. Speed of a lynx? Check. Hustle-osity? Uhm yeah... Like Jay-Z, what more can I say? But alas, in game five, "the best laid plans of mice and men, etc., etc."

Which brings me to my next point. I.hate.Robert.Horry. And his momma. (No, just kidding.) Aargh... the dude has been shooting the lights out ever so nonchalantly for like...I dunno... evah and no one bothers to guard him?! What kind of rooty pooishness is that? And it's not like he hasn't been in the league for a minute... Did not the Pistons watch the archived game footage of the NY Knicks-Houston Rockets series when the man shut them down...beat 'em like they stole something? I screamed, flailing my hands, seemingly in slow motion and Matrix-like at the TV, "Nooooooo!" as Robert went for the shot and too little, too late, Tayshaun "L'il Tay" Prince made a valiant leaping effort to try to block it. (*sidenote* If you read my last post, it seems that none of y'all threw him a meatball sub from the stands to help him bulk up, like I requested, because Horry seemed to smirk as if to say "You--block me? Dude, I can see thru you.") So he shot and... insert a boombastic "Swish!!!", "$$ in da' bank!!!", "Oh, it's so prettay!!!" or or whatever clever phrasing you'd like to describe that yet again, the team I was rooting for was felled by Mr. Horry. And now, the players from the "313" must head nobly into the great west, down 3-2 and valiantly try to shift the sands of fate. I wish them well. And that Tonya Harding sneaks on the Spurs team bus...with her spiked club. To borrow a phrase from Durham, North Carolina, "We finna get dirty."