the basketball version of nachos...

as has been well established here, i am a huge san antonio spurs fan. for those of you who are less informed of the goings on of the NBA playoffs, a quick update: in one of the most bizarre series of basketball i have ever witnessed, the spurs and the new orleans hornets are tied at three games apiece in the western conference semifinals. the home teams have won each game in this series by an average of 18(!) points. the spurs are hoping to change that as the series moves back to new orleans for game seven on monday, winner take all.

as per standard operating procedure round these parts, when my teams are in the headlines, i engage in freakish amounts of article reading on the internets. in my research yesterday, the link trail brought me to the blog of jason friedman, who covers the rockets for the houston press. his blog post, trapped in the closet no more, led me to the most bizarre and thoroughly entertaining piece of comment-ary i have ever read in my whole life.

(ignore the part about shane battier.) (oh, and if you're sensitive to language, beware)

First and foremost, let me say Shane Battier is a total homo.

Second, the Spurs rock the shit. Always have, always will. If God gave birth to another son, but instead of a son it was a basketball team, it would be the Spurs.

One time I had some cancer on my leg and my dad took a dirty wash cloth with Sean Elliot's picture on it and rubbed it on the cancer, and the cancer went away; but only after the dirty wash cloth hit a tip-toed three point over Rasheed Wallace en route to the Spurs first ever title.

You know how delicious and fantastic nachos are? The Spurs are like the basketball version of nachos, except they win a shit load of championships.

Manu Ginobili once fought a tornado.

Tony Parker is smokin' hot and can fly.

Tim Duncan carries around a flask on his hip that's filled with lightning bolts.

Coach Popovich sleeps standing up. With his eyes open. Watching game film.

My cousin got hit by car and died for a brief moment. When the EMT brought him back to life he said Jesus was wearing a David Robinson jersey.

Fabricio Oberto's last name translates literally to "of the cockstrong, greasy-hairred kind." Plus, he has a Pirate-Of-The-Carribean-style gold tooth which is incredible and of itself.

Bruce Bowen doesn't have any kids because he won't even let his wife score.

Not liking the Spurs is the equivalent to campaigning for slavery to make a return.

And when you're a Spurs fan, -a true Spurs fan- each night before you go to sleep, a unicorn flys down from heaven and gives you a tender kiss on the forehead. No shit.