How I Made Nic Batum a Man!

De aquí.
Amid the great excitements of last glorious match against the Spurs of San Antonio, a near-miracle happened.

Before viewing evidence of this below, let me first state this: 

I deserve —and seize— all credits for Nic Batum’s coolnesses under pressurization!

And now, the explainings: Acting on my invitation, Batum visited my home isle of Mallorca this past summer.

After a pleasant day spent on beaches and fishing crafts, I sensed that Batum was slightly unimpressed with the sights. Upon my inquiry, Batum responded, “Mallorca is great! But I weesh for something more . . . wild and colorful.”

Nodding, I later made arrangements for the two of us to dine at a tavern where Mallorca’s scarred and sea-toughened fishermen gather. While tapas were being served at our rough oaken table, I winked at the waiter. He silently laid a gigantic, razor-sharp dagger beside Nic’s plate and departed.

The Frenchman’s eyes widened. “What does this mean?” he asked, testing the blade of the dagger gingerly.

Observe,” I replied. “These fishermen have been drinking, as is their wont. But now they quarrel over the matter of who is the finer author: Miguel de Cervantes or Alexandre Dumas. I can only pray they will not attempt to settle their dispute here.”

But of course, it is Dumas—” Batum began.

Silence!” I hissed, pointing. “And look!

Seeing my cue, a swarthy seaman leapt to his feet. Wielding a medieval-looking mace, he cried, “Whoever says that Don Quixote written by Cervantes is not superior in every respect to the tripe written by Alexandre Dumas —e.g., The Three Musketeers— is a liar and a thief!

You should have cast eyes upon Batum’s face! Seizing the moment, I thrust the dagger into his hand and whispered, “Prepare to defend yourself!” 

And with that, I slunk from the astounded Batum and exited the tavern before my restrained laughter suffocated me!

And THAT, mi amigos, is how the prodigiously lanky Nic Batum was properly shriven and became a man. (Those who are still chary of my contributions, please view this taping at the 1:50 point!)

Gracias, animart1!


Hell = A Spaniard with a Basketball

In the cut-and-thrust of a match, basketball players conduct themselves in varied fashions. Some mutter oaths, complaints, and blasphemies; others mumble prayers, kiss medallions, or make the sign of the cross.

But some wax loquacious!

Por ejemplo, the always truculent Tyson Chandler. In last night’s match, the Dallas Maverick proved himself a faulty theoretician and a trippingly fast speaker.

You see, time was nearly elapsed at the ending of el primer período! 

I hoisted the basketball with care even as Chandler cried, out, “You’ll miss! For a ball must move either in the place where it is or in the place where it is not. Now, a ball cannot be in motion in the place where it is stationary, and cannot be in motion in the place where it is not. Therefore, you have not shot the ball at all!

Perhaps,” I responded, even as I coaxed the ball toward the hoop with elegant bodily linguistics. “But watch! Even as the basketball soars away, it will magically land in your diabolical visage. I say this knowing full well that the spheroid cannot be in a place in which it is not, and yet—”

¡PUM! The basket was made, the goal was counted, and the masses surged in their ecstasies!
—and yet it is now most assuredly in your face!” I shouted at Chandler’s departing form. Ah, how his shoulders slumped, mi amigos!

And as he departed, Chandler cried out, “All it takes to create Hell on the court is a Spaniard and a basketball.”

Even now, I do not know if my opponent viewed my philosophical point with clear eyes. If not, he might choose to don three-goggles. As the Wall Street Journal, I am their procreator! (After Nate McMillan said, "they must be bifocals, because guys are blowing past us" perhaps I should not be so proud!)

In any event, I cannot prescribe tres puntos gafas for Tyson Chandler. Peering down myopically, his eyes fogged with pride and fear, the three-point goggles are beyond his range.
Fotos from the Oregonian,
bottom fotografía from the WSJ.