Fables of sacrifice, determination and the souls of young men uniting as one galvanizeing towards a single goal of winning a championship......

Mistaerearls Tales of the forgotten whose have fallen further than a man can see into the depths of knowlege and disciplne desplayed in Woodsons abyss of facial hair tells of the fabled greats on thier quest for greatness! So shall it be done the land will know a peace that can last 1000 years and bring prosparity to the people!

A builder of bridges that shall unite one side of MSG with the other and meare mortals can look down like the gods they acended from and view the spector of Melo and his merry "let know ball lie!" men!

Championships, legacies, and dynasties await those that shun the Non Believers and embrace "Mooby" as their symbol of love and acceptance of the golden open hoof!

Crowds of dozens watching pointless teams in dead end franchises fueling the neverending liberal need to associate with anything and everything underdog that doesn't smell of 'The Man'

Faded stories of huge afros and insane feats of blind athleticism that give meaning to the new Russo-hiphopphoenix rising from the ashes.

Endless whining pointing endlessly to a future potential that never was, and obviously never would have been, should one care to glance at any number of statistical boards.

Ten, fifteen and now approaching 20 games into the new era, and still, we resist the urge to even touch the appearance of homerism with 50 foot titantium coated stainless steel tongs.

Tempering our Knick worldview and extrapolations with a glistening eye towards the yoots in far off, less Dolanized lands who show promise and home-grown growth as young men. An underlying sense of physical fragility undergirding their true love for the game and playing it the right way. Durant. Saying the name makes one just shudder with glee. Melo. Thinking of even typing it correctly at this point in this mythical season that just can't be makes one want to projectile vomit.

And somewhere, fading dimly into the rearview of this possibly .800 ball season, the growing hate continues to live, to wait for it's time to arise in all it's dark and dismal glory. The raging rightness of self-hate, of loving the other, of knowing this grass is not green, it just appears to be that way! It's not true, doth I say! Record be damned Say I! I shall no be moved! Out, thy damned homeristic spot!

Say no more teamly things, thy damned Starphuckian Melo!

Wrap thy hand and shut thy piehole, oh prodigal point returned! I never really did like thee, despite thy value during "the Trade"!

Ahh Gallo, I knew thee well.

jrodmc wrote:Mystical legends of wierdly colored balls and leaky venues with fishsticks served courtside.

Crowds of dozens watching pointless teams in dead end franchises fueling the neverending liberal need to associate with anything and everything underdog that doesn't smell of 'The Man'

Faded stories of huge afros and insane feats of blind athleticism that give meaning to the new Russo-hiphopphoenix rising from the ashes.

Endless whining pointing endlessly to a future potential that never was, and obviously never would have been, should one care to glance at any number of statistical boards.

Ten, fifteen and now approaching 20 games into the new era, and still, we resist the urge to even touch the appearance of homerism with 50 foot titantium coated stainless steel tongs.

Tempering our Knick worldview and extrapolations with a glistening eye towards the yoots in far off, less Dolanized lands who show promise and home-grown growth as young men. An underlying sense of physical fragility undergirding their true love for the game and playing it the right way. Durant. Saying the name makes one just shudder with glee. Melo. Thinking of even typing it correctly at this point in this mythical season that just can't be makes one want to projectile vomit.

And somewhere, fading dimly into the rearview of this possibly .800 ball season, the growing hate continues to live, to wait for it's time to arise in all it's dark and dismal glory. The raging rightness of self-hate, of loving the other, of knowing this grass is not green, it just appears to be that way! It's not true, doth I say! Record be damned Say I! I shall no be moved! Out, thy damned homeristic spot!

Say no more teamly things, thy damned Starphuckian Melo!

Wrap thy hand and shut thy piehole, oh prodigal point returned! I never really did like thee, despite thy value during "the Trade"!

Ahh Gallo, I knew thee well.

jrodmc - The unwashed may smite thee with cries of boredom. They greet you with a blank stare.

The haterade sippers manufacture one entire line of fury, signifying nothing. You will be 'buked and scorned as sure as you were born waving a faded Knicks pennant from the Old Garden. A souvenir from your Dad at your first pro basketball game. The ushers wore starched uniforms and expected a tip.

Only a gifted few understand context. Lonnie Shelton should have never been exiled to Seattle. Spencer and Bob would never work together. Truck Robinson was not a reasonable facsimile of Dave DeBusschere and Kiki was just one slot away.

Then again, Clyde and The Pearl did not need two basketballs and life was more groovy than a two dollar movie. Can Jerry Lucas pleeeaaassseee have a three point line? Pretty please?

We who are about to bleed orange and blue salute you.

Can I get a witness?

IronWillGiroud wrote:Don't feel out of your depth DurzoBlint, it's just writing whatever comes to your mind at the moment, like:

Sometimes you bring a diseased animal to a knife fight and it goes off the trail biting rosy-faced peasants along the cobblestone path to oblivion.

Copeland has dreads and they're wild, flails and flairs of brown soulful pixie dust accentuating feverish slams and cuts to the hoop. You can't wear a baseball cap in winter.

Yell "SHOT!" and box out.

IronWillGiroud - Poetry is not simply moving the ball without purpose. You gotta go with the flow.

Trophies won one game a time, this you surely know. Tonight we shootin' for thirteen and fo'.

IronWillGiroud wrote:Don't feel out of your depth DurzoBlint, it's just writing whatever comes to your mind at the moment, like:

Sometimes you bring a diseased animal to a knife fight and it goes off the trail biting rosy-faced peasants along the cobblestone path to oblivion.

Copeland has dreads and they're wild, flails and flairs of brown soulful pixie dust accentuating feverish slams and cuts to the hoop. You can't wear a baseball cap in winter.

Yell "SHOT!" and box out.

sounds like Ghostface Killer lyrics. I swear that dude makes no sense to me

Still, its very creative and comes across as poetic....at least to me. There really is some talent there, you and Nalod really floored me.

IronWillGiroud wrote:Don't feel out of your depth DurzoBlint, it's just writing whatever comes to your mind at the moment, like:

Sometimes you bring a diseased animal to a knife fight and it goes off the trail biting rosy-faced peasants along the cobblestone path to oblivion.

Copeland has dreads and they're wild, flails and flairs of brown soulful pixie dust accentuating feverish slams and cuts to the hoop. You can't wear a baseball cap in winter.

Yell "SHOT!" and box out.

It's nice though if your free association spew of vocabulary has at least something to do with the topic at hand.

Otherwise we're all just mumblers in the asylum.

misterearl wrote:jrodmc - The unwashed may smite thee with cries of boredom. They greet you with a blank stare.

The haterade sippers manufacture one entire line of fury, signifying nothing. You will be 'buked and scorned as sure as you were born waving a faded Knicks pennant from the Old Garden. A souvenir from your Dad at your first pro basketball game. The ushers wore starched uniforms and expected a tip.

Only a gifted few understand context. Lonnie Shelton should have never been exiled to Seattle. Spencer and Bob would never work together. Truck Robinson was not a reasonable facsimile of Dave DeBusschere and Kiki was just one slot away.

Then again, Clyde and The Pearl did not need two basketballs and life was more groovy than a two dollar movie. Can Jerry Lucas pleeeaaassseee have a three point line? Pretty please?

We who are about to bleed orange and blue salute you.

I refuse to nod to the hater need to repost my own postage. Nalod's conveniently spaced reading style not included, of course.

One thing to the answer man: The faded Knicks pennant was my souvenir, not from my Dad. We attended the game together. Nosebleed seats. No ushers. No Usher, either, that being over 30 years ago. Pointless facts, but we need to set context correctly for the uninitiated who might stumble upon this thread out of sheer boredom.

Kiki was as bad a deal in reality as the DiceMan turned out to be in fantasyland.

The happy now meets the past. We have Shump's head channeling Chris McNealy. Has someone told Tyson he looks alot like Spree when he preens?

Kids these days. They barely read or care to. This generation thinks with it's eyes and sees with it's feelings.

Better to be a blind homerlover in a world of swirling inconsistent hate.

Nalod wrote:

jrodmc wrote:

misterearl wrote:jrodmc - The unwashed may smite thee with cries of boredom. They greet you with a blank stare.

The haterade sippers manufacture one entire line of fury, signifying nothing. You will be 'buked and scorned as sure as you were born waving a faded Knicks pennant from the Old Garden. A souvenir from your Dad at your first pro basketball game. The ushers wore starched uniforms and expected a tip.

Only a gifted few understand context. Lonnie Shelton should have never been exiled to Seattle. Spencer and Bob would never work together. Truck Robinson was not a reasonable facsimile of Dave DeBusschere and Kiki was just one slot away.

Then again, Clyde and The Pearl did not need two basketballs and life was more groovy than a two dollar movie. Can Jerry Lucas pleeeaaassseee have a three point line? Pretty please?

We who are about to bleed orange and blue salute you.

I refuse to nod to the hater need to repost my own postage. Nalod's conveniently spaced reading style not included, of course.

One thing to the answer man: The faded Knicks pennant was my souvenir, not from my Dad. We attended the game together. Nosebleed seats. No ushers. No Usher, either, that being over 30 years ago. Pointless facts, but we need to set context correctly for the uninitiated who might stumble upon this thread out of sheer boredom.

Kiki was as bad a deal in reality as the DiceMan turned out to be in fantasyland.

The happy now meets the past. We have Shump's head channeling Chris McNealy. Has someone told Tyson he looks alot like Spree when he preens?

Kids these days. They barely read or care to. This generation thinks with it's eyes and sees with it's feelings.

Better to be a blind homerlover in a world of swirling inconsistent hate.

Nalodcrotes:

The Homer thinks thru his dreams.

The Somber thinks thru the schedule,

While the Hater thinks thru his nightmares.

Championships are won on the court, not in our dreams!

Meloscal's wager:

..."Melo is for real, or He is not." But to which side shall we incline? Reason can decide nothing here. There is an infinite chaos which separated us. This game is being played at the extremity of this infinite distance where homerism or Somberism will turn up. What will you wager? According to Nalod, you can do neither the one thing nor the other; according to reason, you can defend neither of the propositions.

Do not, then, reprove for error those who have made a choice; for you know nothing about it. "No, but I blame them for having made, not this choice, but a choice; for again both he who chooses homerism and he who chooses somberism are equally at fault, they are both in the wrong. The true course is not to wager at all, but to say in thine heart, 'I will watch and observe and wait for the outcome.'"

Yes; but you must wager. It is not optional. You are embarked. Which will you choose then? Let us see. Since you must choose, let us see which interests you least. You have two things to lose, the truth and the chip; and two things to stake, your reason and your will, your knowledge and your happiness; and your nature has two things to shun, error and misery. Your reason is no more shocked in choosing one rather than the other, since you must of necessity choose. This is one point settled. But your happiness? Let us weigh the gain and the loss in wagering that Melo is for real. Let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all; if you lose, you lose nothing.

Wager, then, without hesitation that Melo is for real.