I WILL FEAST ON BLOOD

by Tracer Bullet, Staff Writer

I'm not much of one for the NBA. It's great that these freakishly tall would-be felons have a place to go instead of lounging around my neighborhood harassing schoolchildren, but really, who gives a crap? The refs are crooked, the fundamentals are abysmal and the whole thing hasn't been any fun since Sir Charles retired.

As such, I don't care at all about the (interminable) Finals. Normally I root for whichever team wins Game 1 because that's the only way I'll get a sweep and basketball will be over. At least until the next season starts in three months.

But (and you knew there was a "but" coming) not this year. Now that the Lakers have dragged their pitiful selves off the mat, I want blood.

I want the Lakers to crush them, to drive the Celtics before them, to hear the lamentations of their women.

Why? You ask? Because f*ck Boston. That's why.

Sure, KG deserves a ring after so many years in the wilderness and Ray Allen seems a decent chap. This isn't about them. This is about Boston. I hate Boston. I hate the Patriots. I hate the Red Sox. I hate the Celtics. If I cared, I'd even hate the Bruins.

I hate the beans. I hate the brown bread. I hate the Brahmins.

The only thing I don't hate about Boston is Bill Russell and he really hated Boston.

This fetid hole that imagines itself the Hub of the Universe and the grubby pig-men who populate its pestilence-ridden streets has had an undeserved run of athletic success lately. Three (stolen, shh) Super Bowls and two World Series this decade to go along with one of the most successful franchises in all of sports.

These subhumans call this the rubber match. They won a World Series and lost a Super Bowl (hee-hee) in the past 12 months, so the NBA is the tiebreaker. And I want it to break their hearts.

Oh, the poetic justice of a Boston team choking away a 3-1 lead. The streets will run as rivers with tears of unfathomable sadness. It can happen, Lakers. You must believe.

It's not enough that the Celtics lose. I want them to lose this series on the most ridiculous, insane, impossible-to-duplicate play known to man.

I want Bryant to get open on a no-call so egregious, so blatantly unfair that Red Auerbach slithers from the Neverending Pit of Despair where wraiths tear away chunks of his flesh and stabs David Stern in his eyes. I don't want Jordon on Ehlo, I want Bryant to put a Brazilian jiu-jujitsu move on Allen that leaves the Celtics guard in a twitching heap.

I want Washington vs. Tomjanovich up in this bitch.

I want Kobe Bryant to hit the most bizarre, 45-foot, falling away desperation heave to win Game 7. I want to hear nothing but the soft "twhip" of leather clearing nylon, followed by the unbearable anguish of millions.

This is my solemn vow: Kobe, if you make this happen, my wife's asshole is all yours.