I was busy twiddling my thumbs after spending several grueling hours removing them from my ass, and while my mind was thoroughly occupied with anything but LeBron James, I suddenly received an inexplicable text that said simply: “LeBron’s going to Cleveland.”
“Gad zooks,” I said, bolting upright. “What in the flying fuck is the meaning of this cruel joke?”
I dashed to the TV just in time to see ESPN’s version of Key and Peele—Michael Smith and Jemelle Hill—pretending they were actually black by babbling about Cleveland’s own Bone Thugs N Harmony as the show thankfully faded into commercial break. “Holy shitstains,” I said to myself, barely accepting reality. “Runaway James is at it again.”
Truth be told, I never saw this coming in a million years. Sure, I heard along with everyone else that the lowly Cavs were somehow shockingly in the running for the Lebron sweepstakes, but I honestly dismissed it as mere poppycock. Anyone following his career can see that LeCon has no interest in trying to scratch and claw his way to a title, but instead prefers to only play on teams with guaranteed championship aspirations. Sheeeit, before the Chosen One showed zero loyalty the Cavs all-time best player was Craig fuckin Ehlo—that’s not exactly the makings of a dynasty-filled franchise. I mean, isn’t Cleveland’s historically sustained shittiness what ultimately forced LeWhore to hold his nose and flee to Miami in the first place? Wasn’t that obviously why he left in “cowardly” fashion according to now seemingly scrotum-less Cavs owner Dan Gilbert?
I mean, what kinda bitch-made move is it to run away from your supposed “hometown team” with your tail between your twat just to win a title the easy way with a “super team?” I’ll tell you what, the same kinda cunt-made move it is to come running back to your homies after the Big Three became the Bum Two. LeGone scurried away from adversity both times for the illusion of greener pastures, pure and simple. Anything but winning a championship the hard way.
I could just imagine LeFag’s wayward travels if he had come up playing during the eighties like the real King of Basketball: Michael muthafuckin Jordan; he’d be jumping ship more often than a Somali pirate. Every year he’d be flipping from the Celtics or the Lakers or the Pistons—you know, whichever team made it the easiest. Then he could piggyback his way to a slew of meaningless and hollow titles, ensuring that his trophy case would remain empty either way.
But there’s nothing as empty as the hollow cavity that is the thorax of the heartless Cleveland fanbase. What kinda battered wives are these pussies? They were burning his jerseys when he left, and now they’re flocking to the stores to buy them back now that their Prodigal Son’s returning. It’s unbelievable.
Let me clarify, I’m by no means a LeBron hater; he won me over years ago by sheer relentless reality. This dude had the most golden-paved and pampered path to the NBA of all time, and yet has still amazingly responded with probably the most successful fulfillment of overwhelming expectations of all-time. Unfortunately, that same Yellow Bitch Road he traveled has also led to his designation as unquestionably the biggest front-runner in the history of sports. The Tin Man’s got more heart than this guy.
LeBron’s lame return to the Fuckeye State proves nothing other than he never should have left in the first place. I don’t care in the slightest about the yawn-inducing prospect of Lebron’s teaming with Kyrie Irving, or the potential of Andrew Wiggins, or even if the Cavs grab Kevin Love (and I’m almost positive they will, there’s no way LeBitch wants any chance of adversity), all I care about is seeing cosmic basketball justice…and that would be never seeing Queen James hoist the NBA crown again.