Last weekend, in a Manhattan nightclub, in one of the blackest
moments in basketball history—and I’m using “blackest” as a
positive adjective—Shaquille O’Neal ripped into his former
teammate Kobe Bryant, whose Lakers squad was crushed by the Boston
Celtics in the NBA Finals.
“You know how I be,” Shaq rapped. “Last week, Kobe couldn’t do
without me.”
As Lakers teammates, Shaq and Kobe won three NBA titles, but were
also constant and public rivals. And now, after years of relatively
polite trash-talking at each other, Shaq has exponentially intensified
the dialogue.
“Kobe,” he rapped. “Tell me how my ass tastes.”
Isn’t that beautifully insane and obscene? I cannot wait for the
next time Shaq and Kobe play against each other. The airwaves will be
filled with the censored cell video of Shaq’s rap.
To all the racial prisses out there, including the white
sportswriters who are condemning Shaq, I must quote from a Mark Twain
literary gangsta rap: “Jane Austen’s books, too, are absent from this
library. Just that one omission alone would make a fairly good library
out of a library that hadn’t a book in it.”