Even as an ash cloud erupts from the volcano beneath Iceland's Eyjafjallajokull glacier, so do the simmering passions of my mates prepare to burst forth against the Phoenix Suns in the playoffs. The opposing team is comprised, almost to a man, of true gentlemen and hidalgos. Nonetheless, let the following serve as a manifesto, or perhaps a mission statement, to these selfsame Suns, and in particular, their exasperating centerpiece, Amar’e Stoudemire:
We will come, you tattooed basilisk of the desert, to test the issue of who is more battle-hardened. You contemplate others from your heights like a pitiless Nero, riding roughshod in your arrogance over fine fellows like Dante Cunningham. This will not do!
Not to overstate the case, but the courtside cruelties we will inflict upon you will cause your balky retinas to spout blood. Swaggering, you will enter the match, staggering, you will depart. In the end, we will gloat over your vanquished barbarity and truly annoying mannerisms, treating you like a luckless corpse... albeit one that happens to have an impressive vertical leap.
And perhaps we can win a match in Phoenix in the processing!
What follows are my further thoughts on the matter (my further disdain for Stoudemire is expressed here):