My mates and I directed many of these wounding groserías at the Atlanta Hawks (and between ourselves!) in a frustrating defeat last evening. In fact, assuming that there are a finite number of groserías in the universe, their number is now vastly diminished.
Yet the Hawks seemed oblivious to our epithets, and ran the score up unchecked. How is it that our oaths missed their marks as frequently as my three-point attempts? Do we need to shop for new groserías? (Oh, my back.)
The answer, for now, remains hidden beneath ZaZa Pachulia’s enigmatic teflon-chic.
Rudy foto from the Oregonian.