Intelligensia Coffee by: Rose Corr

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on Intelligentsia coffee.  The dunk would be epic and I would use my godlike strength to pull myself up on the hoop, shattering the glass into millions of treacherous shards for all nearby to dodge.

Here’s why.

Intelligentsia coffee, you’re just too damn cool, aren’t you? Being told you were one of the finest coffee shops in all of LA, I had to try you, I needed to try you.  I wanted to love you. But I found myself waiting for twenty minutes in a line down the block, only to pay four United States dollars American for a small cup of coffee! The entire plantation that grows the beans probably got THREE dollars from your head office.

But the price is only a small fraction of the many problems.  While waiting in this line, I had to listen to the waif-like female in front of me discuss trivial, gossipy industry babble on a Sunday morning. Now, being in “the industry”, I usually have a high tolerance for this type of bullshit. But Sunday mornings are sacred. As far as I’m concerned there are two things you can’t do on a Sunday morning: 1) Loudly talk on your cell phone in a public place, 2) Shoot the crown off an old lady going to church—even if you’re trying to cap Omar.  In fact, I would make sure that this girl would be the one trying to defend me as I went in for my dunk.  As she tried to defend me I would just do a quick cross over and break her ankles.  No, literally, due to a lack of food she suffers from a calcium deficiency which makes her bones very brittle.

Once past her, I would face my next enemy, the uniform mob of hipsters who spent hours dressing to look like they just rolled out of bed, then sit and sip macchiatos as they undoubtedly judge you. They would try to stop my progress to the hoop, not by using rock solid defense, but rather their judgemental eyes.  But Ha! Too late! I have judged you first.  Ahh, the irony.

I’d dribble by these patrons faster than they can wipe the foam from their lip.  Actually, the game would probably resemble something more of a Passion Pit concert than anything else—oh you haven’t heard of them?  Well you will now because I’m dunking on them too!

You know what? Screw the rules  I would even take three steps up to the dunk, because nobody would stop me.  They’re too busy tweeting or some shit.  Or their arms are too weak to stop my badass force. Or they are too scared to say something to my face.

I’d dunk all over the mustached, artistically tattooed barista, because he refuses to pay any attention to me until the person in front of me has paid and received their doted-on drink.  Now, nobody needs to get their panties in a knot over the next thing I’m about to say, but, Starbucks does a few things right.  Coffee may not be one of them, but the whole, pay-first-then-go-wait-over-there really works out for everyone. It’s efficient and it gets people moving. It might even double their business, since people would be more likely to purchase coffee because there’s no absurd line.

Oh, and when I want coffee, I want coffee. Like, sixteen ounces of it, not a sip or two. I have an addiction, alright? Intelligentsia, you of all businesses should understand this, what with slinging such a fine product and all—a product that is apparently worth four dollars for eight ounces. I would buy a cup just to spill it all over the court I’m dunking you on, just to up the ante a bit. Yeah, I play dirty like that.

The only way I thought I could come out on top was to purchase a pound of your coffee to take home, that way I could enjoy it without the insurmountable arrogance. But to my disdain, the coffee must have been roasted poorly, because after about four or five days of keeping it in the freezer, the tannins have become overwhelming.  Making it a sour, un-enjoyable cup of joe. This, Intelligentsia, is what really burns me. Actually, I’d rather cover the basketball court in grounds than liquid; it’d be slipperier that way…like sawdust in the wood shop at high school. Hipsters would be breaking themselves left and right.

So there, Intelligentsia. Take your holier than thou attitude and pretentious name and shove it. I’m gonna slam dunk all over your ass.

Rose Corr works in the movie industry in Los Angeles, California.  She likes her coffee to be big.

Superman By: Terry Adams

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on Superman. Now, I’m not some comic book nerd who thinks that Superman sucks because some other superhero is cooler because he wears black and has emotional problems is better. I’m just a teacher at Robeson High School in Chicago who wants to show Superman that he’s a jerk.

The dunk would obviously take place at the Gym in Robeson High School, which was recently rated one of the worst public schools in America. If it were take place on a playground outside Superman could just fly away if he didn’t like how things were going. And while I suppose he could just bust through the roof, I would welcome that as we can send him an inflated bill for the repair that we could use for much needed school supplies.

I would arrive for the dunk via Public Transportation (by taking the Red Line down to 69th St. and Normal and then taking the 67 Bus.) This would make everyone see me as an everyman, someone you can relate to. Superman, of course, would arrive by flying. Since no one can fly, they would hate him like a wrestler who shows up to his matches in a limousine. Jerks.

As soon as he landed everyone would boo him and a bunch of kids would hold up signs that say funny things like “Dwight Howard is the real Superman” and “Is Nietschke your real Dad?” I would immediately know that the latter sign was not from our school and is probably being held up by some pretentious ass from the nearby University of Chicago. The giveaway is not the literary reference but rather the fact that the sign only has writing on one side. Most of the signs the kids are holding up are made from old boxes, street signs, and that paper you sit on when you are at the doctors office.

There’s no way I’m letting this college boy watch my dunk. Back to Hyde Park brainiac, this dunk isn’t for nerds.

By this point, Superman is totally confused as to why everyone hates him and he would be like “what’s the problem here? Has a villain taking away all of your things and destroyed your neighborhood?” and some sassy kid would be like “Yes Superman, that villain is called ’society.’”

Everyone would be impressed except Superman, who wouldn’t get the super smart political reference. That kid would get an automatic A in Social Studies. Good work Jamal.

Then there would be an awkward silence and Superman would ask for a ball. A nearby student would toss a basketball to him that immediately deflated upon his touch because it’s so old. Superman would ask “what do you use for balls around here?” and I would hold up a cabbage. Superman would be confused for a second then I would pull out a real ball that I brought from home.

The students would go nuts when they saw that ball. Then I would toss the cabbage into the crowd and people would scatter like a live grenade because this is a public school and they had never seen a fresh vegetable on school property.

Once the cabbage has been appropriately disposed of, Superman surveys the situation and starts saying stuff like “you know I could paint this place in five minutes and possible repair most of the structural problems within a few hours.” Yeah right, and then we lose our government funding because the city decides that we’re now some sort of Charter School. Chartered by Superman? Hell no.

I start dribbling and Superman knows what’s up, he recognizes the skill. He grew up in Kansas, he knows his way around the hardcourt. As I draw closer I notice that he’s down in a defensive stance but he’s floating a few inches off the ground. What a show off!

As I get closer and closer, he starts dropping closer and closer to the ground. He can’t figure out why until he looks down at my bright green shoes. Yup, kryptonite soles. Sure they are heavy as hell and I’m pretty sure they are giving me cancer, but I put in some sweet gel insoles so it sort of balances.

Superman’s shoes look like wrestling boots, there’s no way he’s getting proper ankle support. But rather than exploit his inability to move laterally, I choose to allow my kryptonite do it’s thing. So I decide I’m gonna back him down.

After a few steps towards the basket the kryponite has taken full effect and Superman is tugging on his shorts like he’s Oliver Miller in the second quarter.

Big mistake.

I take one step back and then jump right onto his back and head towards the rim. By now Superman is so weak, he’s lying on the ground and I see of my students run over to him to check for a wallet.

“Mark! Jerry! Get away from that man, leave him be.”

Yes, I’m that good of a teacher, I can keep order MID-DUNK without the use of violence.

“He’s got no pockets!” Jerry would yell back.

Anyways, I think about dunking hard but I see that our rim is made up entirely out of old wire hangers. So I switch to a Michael Jordan style double clutch to honor the hometown hero and return to the ground.

Then I would say “Teachers are the Real Superheroes.”

Terry Adams received his degree in Education from the University of Illinois-Chicago.  He is a teacher in the Chicago Public School system and a registered Democrat.

Everyone in this bread line by: an Old Soviet Peasant Woman

U.S.S.R. (1982) – If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on all of these people ahead of me in this bread line.  I know we’re all supposed to be comrades or whatever, but I don’t care, I’m hungry and I want my bread, Cuban sugar, potato and Bulgarian onion.

Often times when I’m waiting in line I let my mind wander and I imagine what it would be like to dunk on this stupid line up of people.  I mean technically we’re taught in Russian High School to do layups, but I don’t care, I’m dunking it.  Screw this place.

In my dream world, I’m waiting in line (again!) for food and stuff and I’m totally bored.  Then we hear this big rumbling and a look over and see a truck carrying Beets and Leeks.  Needless to say, people are losing their shit.  They cheering and go nuts because they think they are going to have some sort of awesome stew later on.  Oh, and I bet you want a second TV channel too?  Morons.

While they are all distracted, they fail to notice that the US and Soviet Governments are setting up a rematch of the 1972 Munich Olympics Basketball final right at the head of the line.  So once the truck has pulled into the Food Depository, people see this game being set up and they go even crazier!  The atmosphere is electric as we all realize that today could be the day that we get a Soviet Basketball Victory AND a tomato.

The game starts with Soviet Hero Aleksandr Belov getting the tip off and peeling off a beautiful 18 foot jumper.  At this moment, I can’t explain it, but I start stretching.  Olga Egorov, that bitch, is waiting in front of me and asks “why is it you are stretching, we must wait for another forty five minutes before we can acquire our foods.  Sit back and enjoy this wonderful game.”  Rather than sass her about her the time I found her grandson listening to a Bruce Springsteen tape, I just stay quiet and keep stretching.

The game keeps moving back and forth with the American team keeping it close.  Sort of like the Space Race but this contest isn’t going to end on a sound stage in Burbank.  Well, maybe, depending on who buys the rights to my story.

By now, we’re entering the forth quarter and the bread line hasn’t moved an inch because all of these government officials are totally cutting in while everyone is distracted by the game.  I can totally see the Marxist metaphor here but that whore Olga just accepts things at face value, she’s an idiot.

So anyways, I’m seething with anger while everyone else is cheering on Ivan Vasil’evich Dvorny and the boys who are  playing the best games of their lives.

But the Americans are tough and within only 30 seconds left to go, they sink a basket to go up 50-49.  Their coach quickly calls a timeout.

We’ve been in this situation before and there is an almost unbearable tension throughout the crowd.  No one says a thing as everyone just reflects upon the 1972 Munich Games.  The silence seems to go on forever until Olga calls Doug Collins a “fag.” I don’t even know where she learned the English word for it, but Doug Collins doesn’t care, he blows his top and rushes into the breadline trying to get to Olga.  I may hate her, but I respect her ability to say what’s on her mind.

In the ensuing confusion the ball somehow rolls to a stop at my feet.  I look up and due to poor Soviet manufacturing (Thanks  Ukraine), the game clock has started running down.  If I don’t put this ball through the hoop, the Americans win and the ensuing riot will almost certainly prevent me from acquiring my precious tomato.

But I’m not the only one who has noticed the clock is running.  The Americans don’t even question why the clock has restartedt, they know that this sort of shit happens in the USSR and they better start hustling.  They scramble back to the basket, and in the wild chaos the entire breadline becomes disorganized as everyone scrambles on to the court fearful that the nearby Soviet guards will start shooting.  My tomato seems lost forever.

So I’m building up a full head of steam and I can hear American Coach John Wooden say “holy crap that old Russian lady can really haul ass.”  Then I look over and Olga is making a grab for my ankles trying to trip me!  I knew that bitch wanted my tomato.  But I break off a spin move (which is technically illegal in the USSR)  and escape her clutches.

I’m approaching from an angle, and for this game we’re using one of those weird keys that looks like a thermometer and I take off from just inside the free throw line.  From out of nowhere, Bill Walton (who pussied out of the 1972 Games because of Vietnam) jumps to try to block me.

“Listen lady, I’m really sorry to do this do, but it’s for America,” he says to as we’re both zooming towards the hoop.  But I pretend I don’t speak English.

Then I rock the hardest one handed dunk that FIBA has ever seen.  But what am I doing with my free hand?  Punching Bill Walton super hard right in the nuts.  The punch is not only hard, but it is magic as it is able to destroy the sperm that will one day create Luke Walton, and all the attached disappointed for alumni of the University of Arizona.

But Bill’s not thinking that far ahead, right now, he just crumples to the ground in pain while I hold onto the rim.

I reach up with my other hand and pull the rim clean off the backboard and come back down the ground.  I throw the hoop to a small family from Belarus who will boil it to make soup for the winter.  They thank me profusely.

With mouths agape, I just waltz right into the food dispensary and grab a full sack of potatoes, onions, leeks, beets, and the brighest red tomato you’ve ever seen.  Then I walk right onto the American players bus and steal their blue jeans, which I will sell for a fortune on the black market.

Ionovna Kovalevskaya, is an Old Soviet Peasant Woman.  She is 102 years old and lives just outside of Moscow, she credits her long life to smoking and a youth spent in Stalin’s work camps.

The Scientists who failed to make a flying car: by Hubert White

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk all of the scientists who failed to deliver me what is rightfully mine in the year 2009: a flying car.

Scientist you Fail! You are worst than the airlines, banks and automakers put together. Can’t even get your world ending black hole making particle collider up in time, Cute! Actually I’m sort of glad you don’t know what you are doing. Continue to provide society with your consistent failings; we might be better off without your help.

I have a sneaking suspension that a few weeks after the model T was created someone converted one to work on water and then a week later: farts. I’m certain that a scientist said “Cavemen used wheels.  They are played out.”  And shortly after that they made a flying car. However once Goodyear, JP Morgan, and Henry Ford caught wind of the flying fart powered machine, they put a quick end to that idea.  Well just like that MY FLYING CAR is more of a fairy tale than the lost city of Atlantis or unicorns.

For the longest time I kept thinking that by the time we reached 2000, we were going to look at the 1980s like some sort of Neolithic era of stones, caves, and primitive wheels.  Shit was going to be crazy after 2000. We’re talking Jet packs, astronaut ice cream, the end of poverty and hunger, underwater cities, space colonies and FLYING CARS.  There were no visions of the future that didn’t have flying cars, it just seemed inconceivable that we would be rolling around on these stupid rubber wheels which really haven’t changed all THAT much since medieval times.

So 2000 came and went, no flying car.  Ok I thought, maybe next year.

Well it’s 2009 and WHERE THE FRAK IS MY FLYING CAR?

Do I not have it because we don’t’ have the technology?  No!  These scientists created Diet Pepsi, cloning, put a man on the moon, and invented the Internet.  They are responsible and so now it’s time to pay.

I would roll up to a science lab somewhere in Northern California and demand to see a group of scientists.  They would be all “we just make computers here,” and I would say “not my problem, where’s my flying car?”

They would then direct me to some PR person who of course would have in hand a Moller Sky Car brochure. I would gracefully accept the brochure wipe my butt with it, hand it back to him and ask what does your “Sky Car” and this brochure now have in common? They both stink! Now take me to your leader, I want to speak with the grownups.  As I suspected he would be wearing those Kareem Abdul-Jabbar goggles because some fortune teller had prophesied that this day would come.  And sure enough, here it is.

He’d say “ok, so we tried to make a flying car once but it didn’t work.” Then I would demand that he get some other scientists to bring it into the wind tunnel, because it was time to settle this.

Once we got in the wind tunnel I would make all of the scientists get into their stupid non-working car. Now as for me I showed up fresh, I wouldn’t need to change since I was already wearing an all black suit like LL Cool J in the “I’m That Type of Guy” video, and I would totally be wearing a toque too.  I would yell “PASS THE ROCK!” and the robot from Short Circuit would throw me the ball. The mechanics of pneumatic arms and hydraulic pistons would rearrange the room like a Japanese anime, Steamboy, Akari, whateva. A Kevlar reinforced backboard and hoop would descent from the ceiling (they had it installed to test wind resistance on Michael Jordan once).  Then I would say “I want a challenge! TURN ON THE FANS!” All the scientists would be freaking out!  “The fans will blow you back, you’ll never reach the rim, even Michael Jordan couldn’t do it.” One female scientist wouldn’t be able to control herself and would take off her lab coat to reveal her bathing suit underneath. I’d tell her “Get a hold of yourself, I’m married. Go sit on the hood!”

They would turn it on and I would run into the wind, but my toque would stay on, then I would do a pretty simple one handed slam into the hoop.

The lady scientists would look at me like an airplane flying over her and be impressed.

I would then land on the flying car and all the windows would blow out and that lead scientists goggles would shatter.  Later on he would lie and say he started crying because some glass got in his eyes, but we know, those are humiliation tears.

I would immediately demand a list of people on the waiting list for the first flying car.  I would then tear it up and hand them a list of one.

“Hubert White.”

And before you idiots make HAL or Cylons make me my flying car.

Mark Zuckerberg by: Stacy Traub

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on Mark Zuckerberg the inventor of Facebook.  I have chosen to target Zuckerberg because he created the thing that has caused me to waste what probably adds up to an entire year of my life.   I would also like to dunk on him because he’s filthy rich and super wealthy people deserve to have some demeaning and embarrassing shit happen to them once in a while.

To initiate my showdown with the king of social networking I would track him down in Palo Alto California where he would most likely be found lounging in a bathtub the size of an Olympic pool.  The tub would be filled with organic bubbles and salts that cost more than what an average American earns in a year.  No scratch that.  What the above average American earns in two years.

I drive up in my bright yellow Hummer (the regular size not the mini pussy sized H2), wearing a fur jacket, smoking cigarettes and throwing my empty water bottles out the window just to show those granola loving freaks in Northern California that I mean business. I confront Zuckerberg just as he is getting out of the tub and his three butlers are wrapping him gently in Egyptian cotton towels that are so luxurious they are like a million grams per square meter (Restoration Hardware’s are 802 grams just to compare.)  These are some fluffy ass towels.

“Mr. Zuckerberg,” I say.  “Prepare to be dunked on.”  Zuckerberg is shocked.
“Why, me?”  He queries.  (For the record, poor people question, rich people query.)
“Because you created Facebook and since I can’t dunk on an internet site and a bunch of applications, I have to dunk on you.”
At this point, I turn away because the butlers are now drying Zuckerberg’s balls, and while my goal is to kick his ass in basketball I do not want to come off as rude.  Having a free minute I grab my phone and go to my profile page and type: “Stacy is.”  Which I realize is the lamest status update ever but is the only one I can think of in the moment.

Finally, his balls dry and powdered, Zuckerberg taps me on my turned shoulder and asks “Why do you hate Facebook so much?”
“Because it consumes me.”   I reply.  “It is a time suck, and it taught me how to be a stalker, and made me friend people I don’t like or care about.  Plus, I’m so addicted to updating my status that I think of every moment of my life in the third person, and it’s driving me goddamn crazy!”

I suggest the dunking take place somewhere nearby, as I am starting to get hungry and want to get this done before lunch so I can go to the Oasis Beer Garden to grab a burger.  Zuckerberg suggests his private basketball court and arranges for the all the local Palo Alto celebrities (of which there are none) to be present.

I remove my fur coat, which by now has been covered in blood by passing PETA activists, and slip into my dunking uniform.  (I decide to wear a cute little jumpsuit because apparently they are on trend for spring and this seems like as good an opportunity as any to try one out.)   At the same time, Zuckerberg’s butlers get him dressed in Larry Bird’s Indiana State uniform, which they explain is the very uniform that Bird wore in the 1979 NCAA finals.  I tell them sports statistics are lame and I don’t give a shit.

On my way to the court I notice on my Iphone that I have a new friend request on Facebook.  I check it, and see that this dude I went to summer camp with has tracked me down.  I accept the request even though the only thing I remember about this guy is that we shared a sleeping bag once and his hand “accidentally” remained on my ass the entire night.  Again, I don’t want to seem rude.

The butler throws me a basketball made of gold (but not as heavy as gold) and I start to dribble down the court towards Zuckerberg.   Suddenly I realize that the fact that I am about to dunk on the creator of Facebook could be the greatest status update ever so I grab my phone to make sure that my two hundred and eighty-six friends know exactly what I am doing at this moment in time.  Because I’m distracted Zuckerberg gets the ball and performs a lay up on me.  Hard.  I shake it off, put down the phone and tell myself to focus.   But just as I am about to grab the ball, I notice that my ex-coworker has just gotten back from Jamaica, and I am dying to see her new album “Ya Mon 09.”   I tell myself I’m just going to scroll through a few pics, but before I know it, Zuckerberg has the ball again and now he’s beating me like 12 to nothing.

Suddenly, I get nudged by my cousin whom I never speak to because he wants me to take my turn in Scrabble Beta.  I realize that if I don’t log out of Facebook right now I am never going to be able to do the thing I came here to do: to show Zuckerberg what it really means to dry someone’s balls.  I steel myself, and throw my phone to one of the butlers.  “No matter what I say, no matter how hard I beg, do not under any circumstances give me that phone.”  I assert.
“What if you offer to blow me?”  He asks.
“Why the hell would I offer that?” I reply.
He shrugs, slightly embarrassed, and shoves the phone in his butler vest.

I jog on over to Zuckerberg then stop a few inches from him.  I pretend that my shoelace is undone, knowing that when I bend over my shorts (did I mention the jumpsuit was the shorts kind?) will ride up just enough that he’ll be distracted and I can get the ball from him.  He may be rich, but he’s still a dude.

My plan works, and within moments I’ve got the ball and I’m heading down the fairway.  It’s the third period, no one is on base and I am going to nail that golden ball into the end zone.  I take a running leap and dunk the ball so hard that the scoreboard breaks and makes it look like I have two hundred and eighty six points.  I’ve won.  I jump around the court like those people on the internet who have just discovered that they can lower their mortgage rate by half a point.  Zuckerberg, shamed and tired from too much activity retires to his regulation sized movie theatre to watch Untamed Heart, the guilty pleasure movie he likes to screen when he’s sad.

As I look up at the score-board, the number two hundred and eighty-six reminds me of all my amazing Facebook friends.  I approach the butler, punch him in the balls, grab my phone out of his vest and log on to see what they are all up to.

Stacy Traub is a writer/producer living in Los Angeles.  She both cares and does not care about your Status Update.

All forms of Birth Control by Shawn Kemp

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on birth control.

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of pregnancy,  I have anywhere between 7-19 kids with anywhere between 7-18 different women.  That number could be way higher if it weren’t for my mortal enemy – birth control.

I don’t want to rip off an epic Shawn Kemp special jam against just condoms or birth control pills, nope, I want to put down this monster slam against all forms of birth control.  That’s right, condoms, pills, sponges, that dumb Nuva ring, and the IUD are the starting five who will, and have, tried to stop me in my many adventures.  If you were wondering, the team is coached by “pulling out” who I dislike strongly, but respect.  Sort of like George Karl.

The dunk would take place where some of my greatest dunks have gone down: Key Arena.  But instead of being filled with pasty white guys and asian dudes who love hip hop, today it’s only filled with beautiful, fertile women from the Pacific Northwest.  That weird Sasquatch mascot is at the game too, but I think that it might be a woman.  If my theory holds then you better believe that I will try to get it pregnant.  Can you imagine the hops on a kid who was half bigfoot/half Kemp?  He would be like Teen Wolf, except he could post up.

Oh, I would also want all of my kids to be there so that the ladies in attendance would be aware of what could be theirs if they play their cards right.

While the arena fills to capacity, I wait in the dressing room and I can hear the excited buzz of the ladies who are already picking out baby names and themes for the nursery that I will never see.  Then all of a sudden the lights go off and there is total silence.  Then a spotlight illuminates each of my opponents, who are all comically oversized to provide me with a real challenge.

Then Quad City DJs “Ride the Train” comes over the speakers and the announcer says “From Trinity Valley Community College, at Power Forward, #40 SHAWN KEMP.”  I emerge from the locker room and literally fifteen women feint just from looking at me, five get pregnant from the air kisses that I blow to them.  I’m that potent.

But I look a little different than you might expect.  Instead of wearing a Sonics throwback jersey, I’m wearing a custom jersey sponsored by Maury Povich, EPT, and Pampers.  I learned from my time with Premiata Montegranaro that you can make some good money with ads on your jersey, and you know Shawn Kemp isn’t gonna turn down that easy cheddar.  I got child support to pay.

When the music stops, Team Birth Control Ds up into a seemingly unbreakable 2-3 zone.  I go over to the ball rack to get a ball, but for tonight’s special occasion I have a white basketball with a little tail on the end.  Yup, that’s right, it looks like a sperm and we all know what the rim looks like.  Not only will I dazzle with my dunk, but I will inform.

I start my dribble towards the net, and of course, birth control pill tries to take out my knees Bruce Bowen-style.  This is because birth control pills are sneaky and you aren’t sure about their presence, just like Bruce Bowen.  But I bust a legendary spin move, then bounce the ball so hard off of pill’s back that it crumbles.  Now it’s 1 on 4.

Next up, the Nuva ring tries to get up in my face and play me tight.  But I got this one solved.  I bounce the ball RIGHT THROUGH THE MIDDLE of it, and catch it on the other side.  If only my sperm could do the same, then I might have enough kids to field a full football team where no one has to play ironman.

I’m feeling good with these street-ball moves, then like they have done in the past, the sponge and the condom decide to work as a team and double up.  I can’t go left, I can’t go right, then the sponge gets a hand on the ball and it looks like it’s gonna be a jump ball.  But out of nowhere Gary Payton shows up and I dish him the ball.  The condom quickly moves to cover GP while the sponge is just staring and BOOM! I run right over him.  I step on him and I can hear a squish.  Gross.  He’s not getting up again.

GP pump fakes and the condom bites.  As if The Glove is gonna bust a three at my event, Gary doesn’t roll like that.  Instead he steps inside the 3pt line and executes a perfect bounce pass into the lane.

Right now the only thing standing between me and my goal is an IUD.  Needless to say, I’ve been in this situation before.  These things look so weird like a flux capacitor, which leads me to believe that it operates like some sort of reproductive time machine.  Seriously, how does this thing work?

But I don’t have time to think about it.  All I know is that it’s staring me down like Diekembe Mutombo when my #1 seeded Sonics team lost to his #8 Nuggets team in the 1994 Playoffs.  Man, that sucked.  Well, I don’t want it to happen again and I can tell that this IUD wants to make a legendary block in a victory for non-pregnant women everywhere.  I can’t let this happen, and I won’t.

I take off from just inside the free throw line and I’m flying towards the hoop.  The IUD gets a hand on the ball and it seems like I’m going to get blocked.  A bunch of feminists have snuck into the game and they are all happy, but little do they know that I’ve been going to the gym so I’m pretty strong.  Finally, I make it to the hoop and I do that sick dunk I did back in the early 90s where I hold onto the rim and I swing around it in a circle.  You know the one, it was in NBA Jam.

The crowd is in a frenzy, and some super hot Japanese girl comes up to me for an autograph, she wants me to sign the ball I dunked with, but it’s nowhere to be found.  Then someone says “oh my good, look at the basket, it’s growing.”  The base of the net has started to expand…it’s pregnant.  A few seconds later, mini basketballs are shooting out every direction and each one is pre-autographed so none of these ladies will bother me with such trivial matters.

Out of respect, I won’t get into the details about what happened over the next 15 hours.  But 9 months later 17,098 children are born in the greater Seattle area.  (Note: 17,098 is the exact capacity of the Key Arena)

Shawn Kemp is a former NBA All-Star who now plays professionally in Italy where is likely to get many European women pregnant.

Justin Timberlake by: Hunter Covington

If I could dunk on anyone, it would be Justin Timberlake.

This is a bold move by me, but I don’t really want to call out my Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Baker.  Although ratting me out to my father for daydreaming seems like a bit of a bitch move on your part.  I was 5!  So sorry I couldn’t focus on what color was what and what number came after 36.  (37 by the way.)

Back to JT.  Mr. “Rock Your Body.”  Mr. The Artist Formerly Known as Mr. Britney Spears.  Mr. 6 Handicap.  I’m coming for you.  And you’re not safe court side at the Lakers game.

Since I’ve done my research (Wikipedia), I know JT was born Justin Randall Timberlake, January 31, 1981 in Memphis, Tennessee. Why is this important?  I’ll tell you why.  Because I want my dunk to take place when the Lakers host the Grizzlies at the Staples Center.  I’m doing this so JT will feel especially humiliated in front of his hometown team even though they didn’t relocate there until 2001.

So JT is there court side.  He probably got the tickets from his agency (which I’m not taking the time to look up).  Or Kobe was all like “I need JT there so I can drop 82 and Jessica Biel will drool for me.”  Did I mention Jessica Biel was there too?  Yes, just now.  That’s when I mentioned it.  Or maybe Jordan Farmar hooked them up with tix.  Man, that dude is worthless, except when it comes to getting tickets.

Anyway, it’s during a fourth quarter timeout and JT is all mackin’ on JB and being all “I’m with her and you’re not, plus we got hot dogs like we’re real people.”  Then their grills get popped up on the jumbo-tron like “here are some celebrities, bitches.”  The crowd goes nuts, but JT and JB half-wave like “we’re cool, but we’re not assholes.”  The crowd goes even more nuts because this means they’re even more down-to-earth than anyone previously thought.

Whatever.  I’m not buying it.  I kick down the door to the PA announcer and grab the mic and say real deep like that guy from Boyz II Men who wasn’t Wanya: “JT… prepare to make my Dunked on Dream come true.”

The crowd gets all quiet.  So quiet you can hear the echoes of Tim Duncan whining about getting fouled in game 5 of the 2004 Conference Semifinals.  JT stands up.  Mainly because there’s a spotlight on him.  JB says to him: “No baby, it’s not worth it.  I know this dude.  He’s a baller.  He drives to the rim harder than an Algebra II final. He also drives a Volkswagen.”  And she’s right.  I do.

To no one’s surprise, JT doesn’t care.  And takes his shirt off.  A gold chain hangs from his neck with a cross pendant, but it’s not iced-out because we’re in a recession and he respects the workingman. He immediately drops to perfect, Wojo-style defensive stance.  He even slaps the ground and says: “Bring it.”  He then shuffles over to right under the basket.  The crowd oohs and ahhs because no one really plays defense like this in the NBA.

Then a spotlight hits me, I’m now court side.  I drop the mic, like a battle rapper who just defeated his foe.  This means there’s a lot of feedback which reverberates through the cavernous Staples Center, letting all 3 levels of luxury boxes know it’s on.  I grab the basketball from Steve Javy, aka the best ref in the NBA, and dribble to the 3-point line.

JT isn’t shook.  He knows he has the heart of a lion.  After all, he survived the Mickey Mouse Club, N*Sync, Britney, Jenna Dewan, Alyssa Milano, Cameron Diaz, Scarlett Johannson, Andy Samberg and T.I.  There wasn’t a lot that I could throw at him that he hadn’t already seen.  But one thing had him a little off-kilter and that’s why?  Why would I pick him?

And so he asks, audibly, while the crowd is waiting for my move: “Why?”

And I stare at him.

And he stares back, eyes asking: “What is it?  What have I done to you?”

I look at him.  And all I say is: “You’re the most awesome dude.”

Then I rip off my shirt to reveal the Rockets #1 1/2 jersey JT wore in the 2003 NBA All-Star Celebrity game.  He’s all like: “How did you…”

At this point, I drive and dunk on him 500 times.  But it’s so fast no one can even react.  Every dunk is like that video game/Shawn Bradley dunk where you barely leave your feet and the dunk is already over.  With every dunk, a ticker on the jumbo-tron counts: 1, 2, 3… all the way up to 500.  But it’s blazing fast because my dunks are so fluid and continuous.  The whole thing only takes about 15 seconds.

The crowd wants to go nuts, but they also want to know how JT feels about all this before they go nuts.  And most of them left 3/4 of the way through my dunks because that’s how LA crowds roll.

But JT just stands there, unable to comprehend how I complimented him, then dunked on him 500 times AND wore his own jersey.  The crowd then starts the greatest slow clap ever.  One that doesn’t build too fast, but doesn’t drag on and lose momentum either.  It’s awesome.

JT looks at me, stunned: “Why did you do that?”

I just say: “Because I love you.”

The crowd goes crazier than Black Friday at a Wal-Mart.

As I’m leaving, I cruise over and high-five Jack Nicholson and that guy who looks like Donald Sutherland, but isn’t.  I tell Jack he’s still the best Joker ever and tell the guy who isn’t Donald Sutherland that Keifer is a real treat to watch on 24.  Then I bust out the Arsenio Hall circular fist pump as the crowd woofs like it’s 1992.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Arsenio himself is sitting up in section 334 and I can hear him laughing, giving me props.

And all this is great, but as JB tries to console JT, Jordan Farmar runs out with a WNBA basketball and rams it on both JT and JB mid-hug!  Farmar drops off the rim and does a “suck it!” crotch-chop to the beautiful couple.

Man, I hate that guy.

Hunter Covington is a writer living in Los Angeles.  He does not like Jordan Farmar and believes that his presence on the Lakers is proof that Hunter could play in the NBA.

Fixed Gear Bikes By: Alex Blagg

If I could dunk on anybody or anything, I would dunk on Fixed Gear Bikes with my Big Red Beach Cruiser.

You see, these cycles are not content with being merely a vehicle for leisurely human-powered transportation, but instead insist upon representing yet another ridiculous lifestyle symbol for the overly self-important hipster whose actual personality is so devoid of meaning and/or substance that it can only be expressed through their choices of material possessions and brands.

Despite having only a single gear and no hand-brakes, the fixie is faithfully worshipped by it’s sheep-like admirers. The time for it to be savagely dunked upon is nigh.

Here’s how I see it going down.

The dunking would take place on the Muscle Beach basketball courts in Venice. I would arrive triumphantly, greeted as a heroic liberator by all those who for too long have felt belittled by the oppressive bicycling attitude of the fixie and the snobs who ride them.

I would come cruising down the beachside bike path, just chilling from a relaxing day at the beach.  I would be popping a full wheelie on my big red beach cruiser with flames on the side, powerfully waving to my many admirers. The fixie would be kick-standing on the court, oblivious, getting worked on by its compulsive owner, who clearly just gets off on feeling mildly mechanical because he can play around on his bike with an allen wrench.

Screeching to a halt on the other side of the basketball court, I would powerfully call out my challenge to the fixed gear bike.

“Fixie, prepare thyself! For by the power of Pee-Wee Herman, you are about to be violently dunked upon!”

I would then begin my ascent, peddling furiously, switching higher and higher through all seven of my gears as I picked up speed. As I approached the fixie beneath the basket, it’s sallow, cowardly hipster owner would drop to the ground in a gesture of equal parts fear, deferment and awe, and my big red beach cruiser would use him as ramp, finally taking glorious gliding flight over his expensive yet simple bicycle.

Oh how I would glide through the air, ever so comfortable and chilled out on the fat custom leather seat of my big beach-cruising hog. My glide would be so beautiful and strong, streamers flowing freely and proudly from my handlebars, the cool ocean wind deferring to my determined face and Oakley razor shades.  In the back ground, a pretty hot chick would be playing “Santeria” by Sublime on her iPod enabled boombox.

My glide could only be described as what would happen if Clyde “The Glide” Drexler and Michael Jordan had a threesome with Evel Knievel at the 1989 Slam Dunk Contest.  The result of that menage a trois would be the birth of a winged baby on a beach cruiser with a badass tan and some sweet tribal tats.  For the record, Drexler would actually birth the bike since Evel and Jordan are way too busy and awesome to be pregnant for 18 months (yes, it’s a long gestation, but the bike is just that sweet).

Finally reaching the basket, and aggressively stuffing the rock deep down inside of it, I would hold on for a victory hang-and-swing, spinning the beach cruiser round and round in my powerful clenched legs, hypnotizing onlookers with my effortless athletic prowess. I would finally release the rim and fall from the basket, my full weight and my big fat cruiser coming down right on top of the weak little fixie, and the weak little bike messenging hipster wuss who rides, both bike and rider crumpling like cheap aluminum foil beneath my weight and power.

After five minutes of still, stunned silence from the crowd of thousands who have gathered to witness this disgracing of an entire lifestyle brand of bicycling, I would mount trusty steed, pop a wheelie and a wave goodbye, then finally ride off into the Venice Boardwalk sunset in search of some tasty waves and a cool buzz, brah.

Alex Blagg lives and works in Los Angeles.  He does not own a bicycle, but does pw3n Wonderwall.

The January 22nd, 2009 St. Louis Billikens By: Angelo Figorello

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on the January 22nd, 2009 St. Louis Billikens.

These clowns decided that they would lose to Temple by 15 points instead of 12.5 points and thus, failed to cover the spread and cost me $500.

In my dream world, the entire team would be getting ready to walk off the court after losing to Temple when I would step out from behind some guys and say “Hey, losers.  you cost me $500, I want justice right now.”

Leading scorer Kevin Lisch would try to ignore my and go back to the dressing room, but 2nd leading scorer Tommie Lidell III would not be able to resist.  He would tell me to piss off because the pain of losing was more than enough punishment.

I would then bust him with a sweet comeback about how someone with the number 3 in their name could go 0-3 from beyond the arc.  He would be frozen after such an epic insult.

This of course would force forward Brian Conklin to get up in my face and threaten to fight me, but before any punches could be thrown a referee would break it up and say we should settle it on the court.  But upon closer inspection, the referee is Michael Jordan!  A hero to both gamblers and basketball players.  Thus ensuring that his allegiances are equally divided and that he’ll come up with a fair way to solve this.

The decision he hands down is that I am given one chance to score on the five starters for St. Louis and to make it worth my while, Michael will give me $500 if I pull it off so that I can finish the night at even money.  But right then my weird bookie Salvadore comes out of the stands and says he’ll offer me double or nothing on the match!  The Jordan says he wants in on the action!  So if I pull this off, I’m grabbing $1000 from Sal and $1000 from Michael!  But if I lose, I’m out $1000 to Sal and $1000 to Michael Jordan who looks like he means business when it comes to collecting.

I agree to this challenge, and St. Louis guard Kwamain Mitchell starts laughing.  But under my breath I say “laugh it up Kwamain, you have a pretty good sense of humor for a guy who had three turnovers tonight.”

I’m given the option to change into basketball clothes but I’m not feeling it.  I gamble in street clothes, always have, so I don’t see any reason to change now.  Jordan passes me the ball, but I pass it right to him and ask him to sign it.  Which he does, but little does he know that if I don’t make this dunk I’m going to auction the ball on ebay to recover some of my losses.  This is called hedging bets.

I start dribbling towards the Billikens who have d’ed up into a 2-3 Zone to try to stop me.  I look over to their bench, but Coach Rick Majerus is just chillin and eating McNuggets.  He looks up from his 10 piece to say “sorry about not covering the spread, I tried.”  And I give him a thumbs up to let him know that this has nothing to do with him and that I still respect him as a man.

As I cross mid court, I pretend to trip on my New Balance laces and Kwamain makes a break for the ball but it was just a fake trip and I bust an epic spin move.  Nice try Kwamain.

Then I dribble the ball between my legs and start moving towards that basket.  I decide that I can’t go straight to the hoop, it’s just impossible, so I fake like I’m going to drive the lane and I run it all the way to the corner and dribble slow.  Yup, I’m going baseline.

I charge in towards the net and begin my ascent, going right over forward Willie Reed who now has a New Balance logo imprinted right in his forehead.  I take one EPIC pump and bring it towards the net, but as I’m about to get there I hear a beep from my phone.  So I start a spin move while checking my phone.  It’s a text message from a super hot chick who says she wants to bone me, but she needs to go out for a dinner and a UFC fight that will cost exactly $1000.

The stakes have just been raised.

While I’m reading this text message, Tommie Lidell III has come in for the block and his hand is right in the path of my dunk.  So I look over at Jordan and he gives me a knowing nod.  So I bust out a double clutch layup!

It drops in softly.  I then land on the ground and say “no wonder Temple beat the spread, you guys suck.”  Salvadore looks amazingly pissed but Jordan looks pretty calm.  It turns out Jordan bet on me!  So Salvadore has to pay me $1000 and Jordan $2000.  Sucks to be him.

Then I would go on that date and the girl would look exactly like Marissa Miller and the UFC event would be all knockouts and I would pick all the bouts right and pocket some bank along the way.

Angelo Figorello is a degenerate gambler who lives with his parents in Woodbridge, ON.  He is an associate sales representative at Telus in the Vaughn Mills Mall in Vaughn, ON.

Germany By: France

If I could dunk on anyone it would be Germany.

Sure you might think I want to dunk on England what with all of their victories over us in literally dozens of wars.  Or perhaps America because of our historical rivalry, but that’s more like good natured ribbing than a real deal feud.  Nope, there is no doubt that I would totally slam it down on Germany.

France, of course, is no stranger to getting dunked on.  Vince Carter, The Seven Years War, Haiti, the list literally goes on forever. But the worst dunking ever was when Hitler and Germany dunked all over us during World War II.

Now, normally getting dunked on sucks if you are trying to defend the hoop.  But in World War II we were like Nancy Reagan when Spud Webb dunked over her at the 1986 All-Star game-we weren’t trying to stop them, we were just sort of in the way.  But unlike Nancy Reagan, we didn’t want to get dunked on.

The shame has never gone away, and the only way to get rid of it is to peel off a dunk of epic proportions.  And if you know anything about France, you know there is only one location for a proper slam: Alsace-Lorraine.

We would trick Germany into coming by telling them that our Army was on vacation for the month of August (which is true) and that they could invade and get access to the sweet potassium reserves in the region.

Then they would roll up and, uh oh, we’re already there wearing sweet basketball uniforms made out of French Flags.  That’s how you know we mean business.  If we were wearing striped sweaters, you would know that we mean pleasure.

Upon seeing our uniforms, Germany would immediately try to turn around but would find combined American and British forces waiting by the border with their arms crossed.  No way are you backing out of this one.

Then out of nowhere Belgium would do a sweet behind the back pass to us and we would start dribbling slowly.  Germany would be saying stuff like “we don’t have the right shoes, this doesn’t count” and “Dirk Nowitizki isn’t here, we can’t play.”  But we wouldn’t be hearing it because first they would say it in German, then in English and guess what? We don’t speak either.  Today we only speak one language: sick hops.  We’re talking jumping, not the crop, though truth be told, the Alsace region does grow some of the best hops on earth.  It is but one of the natural resources that makes the region such a prize.

As soon as Germany realizes that the dunk is going to happen, they drop the peaceful facade and prepare for conflict.  That is to say, they put on those pointy helmets from World War One.  We are forced to adjust our plans and make sure that our dunk clears their head by a good ten inches, or else our delicate French testicles could be in serious trouble.

Just to be safe we decide it’s probably best to alley oop this one, so we pass the ball off to Luxembourg.  Sensing weakness, Germany goes straight for Luxembourg thinking that they can get a cheap steal.  Big Mistake.

As soon as they make a break for the ball, Luxembourg throws up a perfect alley oop pass.  Germany quickly tries to get back into position but it’s too late, we have already cleared their pointy helmet and are headed straight for the net with both hands on the ball.

But we can’t celebrate yet.  The dunk is not complete yet and Germany didn’t fight two world wars so they could allow easy buckets.  Once they’ve realized that there is no chance for a blocked shot they go for the hard foul.  But then, out of nowhere they are rocked with a SUPER hard pick from the Czech Republic.

We finish the dunk, but don’t dunk too hard since the backboard is made out of stained glass that took 3 years to make and cost our government almost a billion dollars.

France is a country whose metropolitan territory is located in Western Europe and that also comprises various overseas islands and territories located in other continents.