Timberwolves recap: 12/17

18 Dec

Cross-posted on Randball.

It was “LeBron James Night” over at the Target Center this past Wednesday as the 7-foot-tall, 15-year-old phenom came into town with his team (the Cleveland LeBronBrons) to take on the Minnesota Timberwolves. A packed house greeted The Pope, oohing and ahhing during his warmups, which consisted of halfcourt swishes and alley-oops to himself using a medicine ball. Adults and children alike cooed with anticipation of watching The Chosen One destroy the evil hometown team. There was excitement in the air. Passion as well. And more than a little sexual energy.

This was LeBron’s night.

James sat out the entire first half in an effort to prove that his team was able to beat the lowly Wolves all on their own. While relaxing on the bench, James knitted an exquisite winter scarf, painted an exact replica of the Mona Lisa, and impregnated two nearby fans simply by making eye contact (one of whom was a dude).

A few seconds into the third quarter, The Pope stood up, removed his fur coat and cashmere warm-up attire, took a bow and strutted on to the court. The 15,000 attendees began hyperventilating in excitement. The PA system cued “Dream Weaver,” the lights turned off and a lone spotlight shone on James as took the inbounds passed, dribbled for a few beautiful seconds and rose at mid-court, doing four slow-motion somersaults in the air while winking at/impregnating fans, before finally slamming the now-solid-gold basketball through the hoop, shattering the backboard and causing a nearby ballboy to spontaneously combust out of sheer joy, which was the first in what would be nearly a thousand joy-deaths on the evening. This was just the beginning.

As the game progressed, LeBron (who scored 175 points in the third quarter alone, wearing a 12-carat diamond eye patch) wowed his disciples time and again. After a no-look pass, Kevin McHale swallowed his tongue and offered The Pope a “call me” hand motion while sensually licking his lips. Immediately following a beautiful give-and-go, no less than 500 men fainted on the spot. And after his patented blindfolded cartwheel slam-dunk, women of all ages threw their underthings on the court and stormed the floor in the hopes of touching just a hem of The Pope’s garment.

None were successful, however, because at this point in the game LeBron was permanently suspended 15 feet in the air, delighting the crowd with pelvis thrust dances that made the ladies swoon and Mike Miller’s sneakers fill with cement. Bron’s teammate would toss the ball up to him in the air, and James, hailing from Heaven on Earth, Ohio, would lazily float towards the hoop, texting Jay Z to let him know he had decided to steal Beyonce from him while simultaneously updating his Twitter account with the most hilarious one-liners ever conceived, before dropping yet another biscuit into the basket.

As the final horn sounded, The Pope touched down on Earth one last time, packed his entire organization on his back and flew up into the rafters, lifting the Target Center roof with a simple flick of his finely manicured index finger, and the LeBronBrons made their way to Denver for their next game.

The remaining attendees who had not either died of elation or curled into the fetal position wiped hot tears of euphoria from their face as they waved goodbye to LeBron and made their way to the exits, knowing full well their lives had just peaked and everything following the LeBron sighting was forgettable and pointless. But that if this was it, if the high point in a human’s lifetime was to witness a fellow man for one glorious evening, well, that was quite alright with them.

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