Why Gangsters Shouldn't Play Basketball

It is currently midnight, and after my initial decision not to write a blog today I have received several increasingly demanding e-mails from readers regarding my writing and posting of a new blog. So here it is you fuckers. I was planning on watching a movie, probably ‘Adaptation’ with CaptainRoommate, but now he’ll have to read his Accounting textbook and cry… I hope you’re proud of yourselves.

In front of me is a list of topics for possible blog ideas, which I recently updated with a new good idea or two that a friend of mine reminded me of, thus proving that she was not, as I had previously assumed, useless. (I just got another message demanding an entry, I’M WRITING IT YOU BLOODSUCKERS, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!) Of all my entry ideas I have chosen the one which I think will be the fastest to write, so ladies and gentlemen, I present to you…

Why Gangsters Shouldn’t Play Basketball.

The community center that I live near used to hold a pickup basketball game that I attended almost every Saturday. People of all shapes, sizes, and color used to attend. From the asian kids who dribbled endlessly for no reason, to the angry Persians who are there only to wear tight pants and yell inappropriate comments at every female within ear (and gun) shot. I apologize if anything I say in this entry comes off as racist or inappropriate, I do not mean it that way, and one of my best friends is of Middle Eastern descent so I really do not have anything against the race in question. I do however have a feeling of contempt for the individuals in question, and have been surrounded by characters only supporting their stereotypes for the past 4 years. I love all man equally (plutonically) and anything bad I say here is purely incidental. Please don’t kill me.

My school had a large population of jews and had developed a reputation as ‘Jappy’ and soft. To counterbalance this they recruited predominantly Persian individuals, most of which with Gangster mannerisms, heavily influenced by Tony Montana and Charles Manson. They smoked, they ‘pimped’ their (generally decrepit) rides, and every now and then they stabbed a white kid, just for good measure. I am NOT saying that all Persian people are like this, simply majority of the ones in my school. DO…NOT…SUE…ME.

Anyways, from time to time these same hardcore thugs would attend the same basketball games that I played at. Most of them played in wife-beaters, and I’m pretty sure they oiled themselves up before hand to really accentuate their muscles. One individual in particular was especially ‘hardcore.’ He played this game like we were playing football. He held the ball and ran through anybody in his way, usually missing the layup in the process. There was one play that he CLEARLY traveled on so everybody there decided to call him out on it, and my team demanded the ball. He refuted this call. Angrily. He yelled and argued that he did not break any rules, that we are all just jealous of his ‘mad game,’ and made sure to point out that he could ‘end us’ if he felt the need. Somewhere in this mess the ball ended up in my hands, and I, having lost all patience with his stupid argument, proclaimed ‘lets just play man’ and checked him the ball. Yeah, I know… I’m a badass. The following few moments were somewhat confusing to say the least. He reacted, like any sane person would, by entirely forgetting about his argument and locking eyes with me. I could literally see tiny explosions in the centers of his eyes, as he came charging at me. Grabbing me by the neck in what could only be described as ‘attempted manslaughter’ I simply stood there, defenseless. I guess you could say I froze up, not out of fear, but out of sheer confusion. My mental soundtrack was playing the song from ‘The Twilight Zone’ as my mind raced a mile a minute.

Is this actually happening. Who is this guy. That is some grip he’s got on my esophagus… sure hope it doesn’t kill me.

It wasn’t until the crowd formed around us that he started to make another move.

Hey everyone, don’t worry I’m comfortable, you just enjoy the show. I wouldn’t want you to step out of this perfect circle to HELP ME.

His clenched hand tightened slightly and he began turning his fist. It was at this point that I returned from my bout with confusion, just in time for his grip to loosen slightly as my necklace snapped in half, falling to pieces.

Awww, man. I really liked that necklace. Dang it.

That was the last straw, I totally lost it and really let him have it. My face scrunching into that Clint Eastwood ‘You feel lucky punk’ grimace, I threw his hand off of mine, and… wait, no… that’s all I did. I then stood, waiting for his move. Checkmate, punk. Intimidated by my newly inferred sense of testosterone, and instilled with pure, unadulterated fear, he slowly backed away from me. Or maybe it was all the people pushing him away, either way I was alive. I still don’t know why he attacked me. Maybe he smelled weakness and was challenging my role of alpha male. Maybe he just decided it was time to break the necklace of an overweight white kid. Either way, mission accomplished Mr. Doodie Pants.

About 10 minutes later he returned with about a dozen of his friends, one of which had an unprecedented desire to talk to me. Alone. In the parking lot. Much to his dismay I refused, and later sneaked out the back door, with the support of the staff of the community center, and drove him, quickly.

Several weeks later, I returned to school (it was a break of some sort) to pick something up with my friend Xzibit. While leaving a car stops across the parking lot from me, and in the passengers seat is my ol’ buddy. The driver, who mind you is significantly larger than either me, my attacker, or Andre the Giant, rolls down his window.

BigGangsta: Hey, you!! Come here a second.
Ving: No thanks, I’m cool.
BigGangsta: Seriously, come here, I just wanna speak with you.

Now I’ve seen enough episodes of ’Cops’ and ’Be Alert Be Safe’ with those two little cartoon rabbits telling you how to live sensibly (Rule #1: Take life deciding advice from talking animated animals) to know that approaching the car would probably be a bad decision. I was also dissuaded by the fact that a friend of mine had been beaten within an inch of his life by friends of my future convicts. Looking for an excuse to buy time and not go to the car, I mentioned that I’ll come right after the car driving past passes. On cue with this, the passing car stops, and the car with my basketball buddy pulls to the other side of me. I'm cornered. The doors swing open and Persian after Persian, man after man, thug after thug pile out. There must have been two dozen people in these two low riding, big rimmed, pintos, and they just kept on coming. It was like one of those clown cars where they keep unloading, only instead of makeup and big red noses, they had dried blood and the intoxicating aroma of too much cologne. I believe it was at this point that I wet my pants.

Immediately one of them attacks me, grabbing onto my shirt, and pulling his other fist back, when out of the crowd I hear, “wait. Stop.” You know how in those gangster movies, the kingpin or the boss always makes an entrance, and all the smaller gangsters move out of his way, or the way that the ocean parts for Moses. It was like that. So Moses, approaches me, passing these nut jobs, these scum of society, and stops in front of me. His head towers above mine, and his arms, well let’s just say that if I hadn’t pissed my pants earlier… I had now. He looks down at me, staring into my eyes and informs me.

Moses: That kid that you picked a fight with a while ago. That one. (He points to the guy from the gym, sitting silently still in the car.) Well, that kid is my brother

This is the point of the story that I crap my pants.

I tip my hat to Moses though. For a psychopathic killer he was a really nice guy. We talked, and I explained the whole situation to him, and he seemed to understand completely. I apologized for any misunderstanding and we parted ways. Of course the second he was gone, I turned to Xzibit and started talking shit about ‘those pussy-ass motherfuckers.’ What really pissed me off was that the kid that started this whole thing never even got out of the car. I mean come on, if you’re gonna go out and get your brother and all his friends to come kick my ass, the least you can do is stand outside with them. Seriously, if you’re gonna take the chicken shit way out and come at me with older bigger guys, instead of confronting me face to face, then at least have the common courtesy to show yourself. You didn’t throw a punch in the gym, and then you fucking let me go with an apology. You fucking pussy. And for the record, it wasn’t a misunderstanding, I didn’t check the ball that day, I fucking threw it at you as hard as I could. So I guess I had the last laugh you dumb angry piece of shit.

God I hope he doesn’t read this.



Authors Note: On a completely unrelated topic, I’m really interested in giving blood. I think it’s a good enough ‘cause, and I encourage all of you to do the same. Besides, it might make a funny blog entry. If you know when and where I can do give, it would be much appreciated