Casual Friday

hahaha... suck it.

In which I write everything on my mind in the time allotted.

I had no idea Heat-Celtics was for the Larry O’Brien Trophy – that sign of champion LeBron metaphorically waved over his head after dispatching his broken second-round opponent. I bet you Derrick Rose is thinking the same thing. So my question is: when the Bulls drop the Heat in six, will the Angel of Stern honor both teams’ East title? Is Chicago just playing for consolation at this point? How does this work?

I’ll say this for LeBron – if I had zero college education, I’d probably still act like a high school senior as well, and a less dapperly dressed one at that.

On a related note, I fucking put Don Draper to shame this morning. Calvin Klein ultra slim fit FTMFW.

still a little groggy

Speaking of confusing acronyms and their biggest proponents, please read “50 Things You Should Know About Washington State” by internet sensation Kyle Rancourt… and try to ignore the fact that a good two-thirds of them mention the word “rain”. Seriously, though, have you been to Seattle? It has a everything a man like me could ever want and/or need: fresh seafood, grungy hipsters, affordable boutique coffee, a f*ckload of excellent record stores, great beer, and Pearl Jam. On the down side, approximately 1 out of every 3 people hang themselves from a ceiling fan before the age of 22.

As I write, my father is watching a replay of Sharks-Wings. Much like a fair weather soccer fan, he becomes a semi-crazed octopus-waver come every meaningful game 7. Have a heart and don’t tell him what happens.

Last night, my friends went to the ATL without me. Did I die a little inside as I drifted to sleep pre-11 p.m.? Sure. But am I glad they’re still having fun in The GV without me? No, not really.

Moving on, after much deliberation, I’ve concluded that the three best conquer-the-day songs to blast in your car while hauling ass down US1 are, in order, “Hummer” by the Smashing Pumpkins, “The Old Showstoppers” by the New Pornographers, and “Born To Run” by The Boss. The worst is anything by Procol Harum.

And finally, I’m carrying a to-be-delivered large sum of money in my back pocket. I’ve been directed by a higher authority to relay said sum to a prominent banker across the street. The check is for Hurricanes season tickets, but I still feel like a crack dealer: addicted to that which will eventually destroy my heart and shatter my dreams. At least dealers don’t have to trek to fucking Broward to watch a football game.

I love you all. Please donate to my Internet slush fund so I can quit my job and offer consistently excellent, consistently intelligent, deliriously witty SC commentary on the reg. Until then, go ‘Canes.

Robert J. Hilson, Esq. III