Instead of the normal links today (there's really nothing new out there), I have to share with everybody something that happened to me last night/early this morning.
I returned home late last night, done with class for the week until Monday. I made a dramatic entrance into my apartment as if I was Bob Saget in Full House, simultaneously calling for my fiance. I was a bit miffed to see all the lights off and no fiance waiting for our Wednesday night business time. I reached for the light switch and flipped it on. What I saw before me, sitting cross-legged in my living room, nearly made me scream like Schrader in the movie 'Accepted.'
It was Cole Aldrich and he was wearing a Pistons jersey.
He was just sitting there, staring back and forth between a blank canvas the size of my big screen TV and a 16x20 of this picture. He acted as if he didn't know I was there. I tip-toed around the corner to get a knife from my kitchen, but as I was about to enter, I caught a glimpse of Joe Dumars spoon feeding a middle-aged man what looked like some Calcium Gummy Vitamins, but the only open jar on the counter read, "Grit and Toughness." I recognized the man, it was Keith Langlois.
They looked so loving and peaceful, I didn't want to disturb them, so I turned back to face the gumpy intruder in my living room. When I took one step toward Aldrich, his head snapped toward me, causing me to jump back. He gave me a shit-eating, toothless grin and stared without blinking for the longest five seconds of my life. And then he softly whispered:
"You will draft me with the seventh pick."
Scared out of my senses, I started to urinate myself.
The empty canvas turned out to actually be my TV because all of a sudden Stuart Scott, with his stink-eye, appeared out of nowhere. He started talking about the cool side of a pillow and other stuff in ebonics. He spoke for a few seconds before the screen suddenly turned to white noise.
An orange ring came into focus. It looked like a basketball rim, but I couldn't be sure. Meanwhile, Cole Aldrich kept repeating, "everyone will suffer," creepier each time. The ring on TV faded to black.
Once I completely finished pissing myself, I realized what this all meant. It was like that movie, The Ring, but not exactly. I thought my life was about to flash before my eyes, but instead, it was Joe Dumars' career as GM. I reached the grand conclusion: the 7th pick is going to kill us...
Next thing I know, I sprung up from my pillow in a nervous sweat, stripped of all hope and clothes. I gathered my bearings and let out a relieved, "phew!" It was just a
Ekpe Udoh nightmare.
I got out of bed and put on my teal Pistons shorts. I searched for my new, lucky, draft day Jonas Jerebko t-shirt, but settled for a Walter Sharpe cut-off. I cautiously crept into the other room where I thought I saw Joe Dumars, Keith Langlois, and Cole Aldrich the night before. The room was empty.
I walked over to my computer area where my fiance usually leaves me a note when she leaves for work while I'm still asleep. There was a note, but it wasn't from my fiance. Strangely enough, it was from Bill Simmons and I knew this because there was a little picture of his stupid face next to his sportsguy33 screen name.
When I read the note, I ignored burning questions like "WTF was Bill Simmons doing in my apartment and why is he leaving me a note?" and began to feel my body fill up with a positive attitude:.
I let out a half smile, kissed the tips of my forefinger and middle finger, and gently touched the note. I then went to the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of Cookie Crisp.
It's Draft Day, DBB. May Jod have mercy on our souls and make this, or something else totally awesome, happen today. Otherwise, Mike Payne will make us all cry.