I was hit by a car in 8th grade on my way home from school. A mullet rocking piece of trash in a red Firebird threw me into a 3-day coma. I’ve recovered quite nicely from the incident, with all my mental faculties still functioning at a relatively average level. The only lasting reminders of the accident are my touchy left knee where the car hit me and periodic bouts with severe migraine headaches, due to the concrete that high-fived my skull. The migraines are paralyzing – the really bad ones force me underneath my covers safe from all sound and light. But not until I dated Heidi did I realize that I could use my migraines for good.
I was going to her 3-year-old nephew’s birthday party when a slight migraine hit me. I planned on still attending the party, the headache was moderate at best; but when I mentioned it to Heidi she forbade me from going. She felt so bad for me and my headaches that she felt guilty that I was even dressed and ready to go. It was amazing. I stayed home and “rested” while playing FIFA and eating Cheez-Its. Then she came to “check up” on me after the party and even brought me some cake. Heidi had inadvertently given me an impenetrable shield against all her dumb activities.
Wedding – ahhh, migraine!
Shopping – ahhh, migraine!
Talks about where our relationship was headed – ahhh, migraine!
Katherine Heigl movie – ahhh, migraine!
I learned that I could be worthless and remain blameless as long as I had my migraines. My migraine trick worked magnificently on Heidi and all my subsequent GFs. Any decent girlfriend would assume that I was going through such a rough time that even a slight request on their part would appear selfish and heartless. But if I could pull off such a simple ruse without much planning then surely a more cunning and connected individual could pull it off on a larger scale.
What if a migraine-excuse fell into the lap of a person who could use it to escape more than just a mundane birthday party?
Ahem…
The news stories that popped up in the media to explain LeBron’s performance in the NBA finals felt ‘migraine-y” to me. It was reported by Steven A. Smith that LeBron was going through some personal strife, that initial story manifested into a story about LeBron’s baby-mama getting boinked by another NBAer, and that story developed into a detailed account of HGHer Rashard Lewis fucking LeBron’s girlfriend during the Finals, which then sent the King into a tailspin with enough rotation to negatively affect his performance in the finals.
My brothers and I believe that personal turmoil explains a majority of the sub-par athletic performances we’ve witnessed. We’ve all known people, guys and girls, who have gone cold because their minds have been focused on something other than work. So I am inclined to believe these stories. This is why I jumped on the story of Delonte West fucking LeBron’s mom from last year’s playoffs. In case you forgot, once LeBron appeared to quit during the Cavs-Celts series last year, a story popped up about Delonte fucking LeBron’s mom. I, being the LBJ apologist, grasped onto this story with both of my sympathetic hands. It was perfect; it conveniently explained LBJ’s failure and gave me a wonderful comedic tool to wield at will.
“Osama was killed by the U.S. military at a compound in Pakistan” … whelp, looks like Delonte even bangs Arabic moms.
“Pluto is no longer a planet!” … Delonte must have fucked one of its moons.
Hell, my buddy was laid off back in January and the first thing I asked him was if his mom was fucking Delonte. Before I go on long plane rides I sit my mom down and ask her if she’s fucking Delonte. Santa Claus was jealous of how much I believed in this Delonte West-LeBron Mom story.
But then this year happened.
LeBron hugged Delonte after this year’s Boston-Miami series … and a real loving hug, not a “stop fucking my mom’ hug. Then Steven A. Smith dropped the baby-momma infidelity bomb. Steven A. Smith was given the “LBJ to Miami” scoop last year, so he owes the LeBron camp tons of rumor mill fodder. And how fucking convenient, just as LeBron was morphing into Shelden Williams on-court, a story explaining his failure popped up in the media off-court. The story grew so big that Rashard Lewis went on a couple of radio shows to clear his good name – he may be a drug user, but he did not fuck Bron’s boo.
Everything fit together too nicely, so nicely that it couldn’t be true. LeBron planted the baby-mama-drama story to ease the pressure on himself. And his people planted last year’s Delonte-MomBron story to do the same. Whenever Bron needs to release the pressure valve a bit he throws the “moms” in his life under the bus. LeBron’s females are his “migraines.”
But where did he get the idea that a ruse of this nature would work? From 2007.
LeBron and the Cavs were swept by the Spurs in the 2007 NBA finals. In that series LeBron underperformed, by his standards, he did average 22.0 points, but he shot 36 percent from the field and just 20 percent on 3s, and had 23 turnovers to his 27 assists. Before that series started his pregnant girlfriend was rushed to the hospital. She left on a stretcher during game 6 of the Pistons-Cavs series. The reason for her illness was undisclosed but the distraction was used as one of the reasons LeBron underperformed in the finals. It was his first finals and his girlfriend had a medical scare; we were lucky he played at all. This incident taught LeBron’s team that they could use personal trauma as an out for professional failings.
“LeBron quit on the Cavs!” … How dare you, his mom was violated by Delonte.
“LeBron was the worst player on the court during the Heat-Mavs series!” … Rashard Lewis violated his baby-mama, you insensitive bastards.
There are dozens of mothers and literally thousands of baby-mamas out there, why are LeBron’s the only targets. And why are they only violated during the finals, when LeBron underperforms?
Because they aren’t.
It is a bit hard to grasp that a management team would think that these types of stories would not only absolve their cash-cow but endear him. But this is the same team that believed a donation to the Boys & Girls Club gave them carte blanche in carrying out The Decision. How could we fault LeBron for raping Cleveland as Jim Gray narrated when he was so damn charitable? How could we expect so much from LeBron against the Spurs in ’07 when his preggo GF spent a couple nights in the hospital? How dare we accuse him of bailing on the Cavs when Delonte was fucking his mom? How could we fault him for putting the finals in Mario Chalmer’s hands when Rashard Lewis was blacktopping his baby-mama?
The sad part is that my discovery of LeBron’s “migraine” has actually given me a migraine. I’m not mad about LeBron’s lies, more power to him. I manipulated reality to escape responsibility and so has LeBron – he’s just a little better at it than I am. Or worse, I can’t tell.
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