Poor Ron Ron.

My guy is on the trading block once again. I don't get it. He is Queens Bridge reppin, loose ball divin', rock stealin', Ron Artest. He'll never be your #1 option on a team but he doesn't advertise himself as so. Oh, he called himself the best in the player in the world last year? Ignore it. I love him. Always have, always will. I got a soft spot for the bad boys. He has hit a couple girls in his day but he's also hit a bunch of big shots so everything is ok with my book. And you can't tell me you wouldn't flip a shit if you were just laying down, taking a breather and some hooligan throws a beer on you. You would need Zeus and all 50 of his men to hold me back. That's almost as disrespectful as if someone had pulled a chair out on you. You're fucking dead donahue. When I'm finally finished with you you're gonna look like a mix of Rhianna and Lindsay Lohan's girlfriend. Anyway. I hate to see Artest on the move. He's been on his best behavior this year and is still having one of his better defensive seasons. He goes 110% every play and runs the floor with more emotion than Alannis Morrisette after she got canned. If I'm building a team, this guy is on it. What is this team I speak of. It would look something like this: Ron Artest, Sean Avery, Sebastian Telfair (don't ask), Kevin Youkilis, myself and Robert Horry. If that's not the grittiest bunch of bastards since Colonel Custard's last stand then I don't know what is. From the pong tables to the cricket fields, we run the world. This is the type of shit I think about while I'm in class all day.