Growing up, my father called me a waste of height because the highlight of my high school basketball career was scoring a whole 10 points against an all-Japanese team. Scoring at will wasn’t a stretch. Every time I drove to the hoop, their players ran away from me like frightened movie extras in a Godzilla film. But instead of saying, “Look Godzilla, they’d say, “Look, Hugh Grant on stilts.”
I wish Lavar Ball was my substitute coach dad growing up because he’d ensure I lost my virginity before my younger brother did. Then, I’d strut down the court with more big pimping Jay Z ease. And my substitute coach dad LaVar Ball wouldn’t have to worry about me shaming the baller brand name for prancing down the basketball court on my tippy toes, looking like I was sporting high heels, instead of high tops while yelling, “We’re trying to sell Baller-Wear son, not Jimmy Choo’s.”
Lavar Ball wouldn’t let my younger brother lose his virginity before me. Lavar Ball would get Rihanna to pop my cherry 1st by offering her future participation profit points in Baller Wear, so I’d feel like a big baller on the rise inside. But 1st, Lavar Ball would throw me house parties and only invite stuck-up Jenny from the block. 2 seconds in the party LaVar Ball yells, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle doesn’t spin itself, bitch.”
LaVar Ball as my substitute coach dad wouldn’t actively depreciate my star player potential on draft day to snag higher caliber players and say, “Let’s be honest folks, my son is soft. I’m not talking regular soft, he’s more like Snuggles, 3000 thread count type soft. My son is a perpetual nervous wreck. He jams his fingers while struggling with the can opener. His only go-to move is a stationary, hurried, half formed hook shot that puts less fear into opposing defenders than an all-Japanese team who think the pic and roll means their choice of fish.”
But at least I can question my dad’s predictive prowess and talent assessment ability within the right, told you so authority today after I told him to invest in Google, bet him Trumpy Poo would win and that I’d write for TV one day, which I did. Does questioning my father’s talent assessment abilities count as disrespecting thy father, just because he already fears my 1st born son being a superior athlete compared to his defective offspring in comparison? Granted, I was shipped off to an all-Jewish sleepaway camp for 7 years and was the 2nd worst athlete after the Shieks son from Great Neck. Plus, my younger brother makes Hunter Biden come off a slacker underachiever in comparison. Still, it would’ve been nice to hear pops make a favorite forecast prediction on the behalf off his grandson after I talked about his 1st basketball practice. Instead, all I heard was, “You’ll learn soon enough if he’s an “average talent” or not. I said, “Your boy Biden’s talent was never under question pops because he never had any to begin with. And if Obama’s such as baller, then why did he ride the bench at all Asian private school in Hawaii.”
I’ll just follow Jimmy Valvano’s advice when he said, “My father gave me the greatest gift in the world, he believed in me.” Oh yeah, I also told my dad these booster shots are less secure than Joy Behar retaining the job as the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.
RIP Bob Saget. Dirty Work was pure hilarity from start to finish. Wish I could’ve opened for you instead of B.J Novak. I’ve met Lobotomy’s with more sparkly personalities remaining. Say hello to Greg Giraldo for me and tell him that the roasts suck without him. Although in comedy heaven, I’m sure Giraldo already busted your balls and said, “Of course I die in a hotel in New Jersey while you died in a Ritz Carlton in Orlando. Look on the bright side, at least you got to die in style Bob.”