Here's a solution..Dame to Philly, Harden to the Clippers, Paul George to the Blazers ....let teams get back to building rosters instead of being held hostage by the drama
McCollum's antics reached unparalleled levels of absurdity, leaving his teammates questioning the limits of human decorum. Firstly, lotion theft became McCollum's modus operandi, as he surreptitiously swiped bottles of moisturizers from unsuspecting teammates. Their skin remained dry, while McCollum reveled in the sweet scent of success. But his pranks didn't stop there. With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he transformed farting into a competitive sport, targeting teammates with relentless flatulence, much to their chagrin. Wiping his posterior with towels instead of toilet paper became an inexplicable preference, and McCollum casually tossed the soiled linens aside, expecting the equipment staff to magically eradicate the evidence. And oh, the haunting melody of "I Would Walk 500 Miles" bellowing from his vocal cords at a deafening volume. The song, once beloved, became a cacophony of annoyance as McCollum's daily anthem echoed through the hallowed halls. As the locker room became a surreal theater of the absurd, CJ McCollum stood as its ringleader. A unique brand of eccentricity, indeed, forever etched into the lore of poor locker room etiquette. For his teammates, it was a trial of patience and a testament to the human capacity for endurance.
That'll come about a half-hour after the "People tell ya they luv ya and just switch up on ya for no reason" tweet.
Standing at the urinal within the iconic Coles, the French Dip sandwich shop nestled in downtown Los Angeles near the edges of Skid Row, a profound sensation envelops the senses. A symphony of emotions intertwines as one considers the significance of this hallowed ground. The steady flow of urine becomes a metaphorical river, connecting past and present, literature and life. It's more than a bodily function; it's a rite of passage, a testament to the human condition. In this space, once occupied by the legendary Charles Bukowski, the air crackles with a reverence that transcends time and place. The echoes of his unapologetic prose and his unyielding spirit seem to linger, whispering tales of gritty reality and unfiltered truth. The act of pissing becomes an act of communion, a silent conversation with a literary icon. As the liquid hits the porcelain, one can almost envision Bukowski's raw, unadulterated presence, sitting at the nearby bar, nursing a drink and basking in the vibrancy of the city he called home. The walls of Coles become an invisible tapestry, interwoven with the threads of Bukowski's legacy and the struggles of those who inhabit the surrounding streets.
Instead hes doing the worst thing possible: Sending cryptic tweets that dont answer anything, dont refute anything, and in general just leads to more confusion. And confusion at this juncture is just more anger.
