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."