If I could dunk on anyone it would be none other than John Rambo.

John Rambo’s lost it all. He’s lost his mind, his honor, his Vietnamese girlfriend, and his necklace, but he’s lost his pride. At least not in the paint, and my plan is to end that by dunking all over him!

This is my plan. “The basketball court is a warzone out there”.

First things first. I need to convince John Rambo into thinking there is a war on the court. He has to be really pumped about this otherwise the dunk is pointless. I might as well dunk on my grandma. We know that Rambo has pretty solid ties to Buddhism so he doesn’t get mad for nothing. It has to be for a war.

Second thing. Probably should have been the first thing. Metal Detect John Rambo. More then likely John Rambo is going to have a hunting knife, a compound bow, explosive tipped arrows, a crab cracker, grenades, napalm, a compass, a can of sardines, multiple gauge ammunition, and a plethora of fire-arms. I know people say that in war there are no rules, but this is just self preservation.

When I arrive at the arena, I realize that dunking on Rambo is gonna be tough because more than likely he’s booby trapped everywhere inside the 3 pointer line. So here is the third thing that needs to happen.

I get a super official looking guy to tell Rambo that there is a call from the American Embassy. When John Rambo reaches for the red phone it’s my chance to dunk on this heavily roided American schizophrenic super-soldier.

While he is on the phone hearing the heart breaking tale of how some villagers in some country are being treated like crap by Russians or I guess Al Qaeda now, I make my move. Rambo sees me making a break for that basket so he pulls out his bow and arrow but since he went through the metal detector he has nothing but suction tipped arrows. One sticks to me, but I keep it on because I like the comedic effect.

I easily finish a nice clean one handed windmill dunk and hang onto to the rim just long enough to grab my nuts and tell Rambo that he has failed.

I finish the dunk and it is so epic and so legendary that Rambo is filled with total and complete post-traumatic stress disorder. I want to do something so epic that every time he see’s a person walking towards him he will think that they are attempting to go OVER THE TOP* with a dunk. His last lonely days will be miserable.

Then to show that I’m a dunk SPECIALIST* I will take a leak on the following Rambo medals: 1 medal of honor, 2 silver stars, 4 bronze stars for valor, 4 purple hearts, and 1 distinguished service crosses.

Because to be honest he simply hasn’t been through enough yet.

*Sick Reference!

Lear Bunda is a writer/director/editor based out of Atlanta.

If I could dunk on anything it would be the crunchy tube-snake that scarfed up my main bro Codhi.  Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t meant as a slam on Gaia.  I know that Mother Earth works in mysterious ways, and while I may not understand it, I can accept that it was Codhi’s time to dork a ride out through her heaven-hole.  I also know that the yarfy shred-wall that slurped up my besty is just as much a part of Gaia as you or me, which means I can’t blame that wave without pointing the finger at Gaia.  And Mother Gaia hates getting fingered.

But I, like that wave, am only human.  While I spend my days shredding waves, I feel like I want to literally shred that one specific wave, like the way you would shred cheese to sprinkle over some spicy guac.  And my heart is like the avocado in that same scenario, because it’s been hacked to pieces, and is now suffocating under the blanket of shredded wave-cheese that got sprinkled over my spicy-guac soul earlier in this metaphor.

The tides taunt me. I put a seashell to my ear and hear the ocean whisper, “suck my dick, Tane”. It’s torture. I inked off a raggy tribal tat to cheer myself up, but it only reminded me of that buff back-piece Code got of a wolf howling at the moon only if you looked closely the moon was the earth because the wolf was actually standing on the moon.

And now I am that wolf, ready to unleash a gnarled-up dunk on Mother Gaia’s wave-child. Apologies to Gaia, but it has to be done. An eye for an eye. I and I.

The stage is set as the rainforest canopy descends around me, the court rising up from the soil. I’m more juiced than the time I shoved four peyote buttons up my starfish and listened to The Gandharvas for 16 hours.

I summon Gaia’s fury by calling a hummingbird fat, and she trots out her starting five:

Guard: Ants

Shooting Guard: Some rocks

Small Forward: An apple

Power Forward: Mist

Center: THE WAVE

Game on, mon. The apple steps out to guard me in the corner as the wave prowls the low block, frothing and roiling, goading me into the lane. I can smell Codhi’s tanning oil still churning within it, mixed in with the foul dredgings of a century’s worth of oceanic cruelty. My anger runs thick like the gummy sap of a Jacaranda tree.

Can an apple guard a wolf? Absolutely not. I blow by it and drive hard up the baseline, the moist forest air filling my snarling nostrils. Five feet from the hole I elevate both literally (through jumping) and figuratively (heightened consciousness through tantric meditation) and prepare to right the wrong perpetrated on Codhi’s bong-print thong.

I draw the ball back, fully extended, and stare up at the towering wave cresting above me. For a moment I’m transfixed by its shimmering majesty, its soft curves and staggering height. Whoever said size doesn’t matter never tried dunking on a wave in the form of a wolf, I promise you that.

But it’s too late to turn back. I close my minds-eye and bring the ball thundering down towards the rim, my paw penetrating the foaming mass with the force of a thousand thrusting swordfish. I hammer the rock through the rim, teeth bared, nipple rings glistening. A piercing, pierced silhouette in the late afternoon sun.

The wave explodes, littering the forest floor with its dank contents: Used condoms, a styrofoam cup, the shit of a wayward pelican. But then, rising out of the retchy garbage-rain comes a familiar figure: A hazy purple spirit-cloud wearing a buff thong speedo and riding on a thinner, but similarly coloured surf-board shaped spirit-cloud. The surfer-cloud whispers “Tane, it’s me” before gliding skywards, arms spread to embrace Gaia, exhausted but finally home.

I feel like calling out Codhi’s name, but can’t be super-sure it’s him. If not I hope he says hi to Codhi once he surfs his way to heaven.

I stop by Code’s favourite surf spot, Bobocobo Cove, on my long voyage home. I look out at the water, smooth as glass, cut only by two water snakes writhing around in the throes of intercourse. The cycle continues. Will their snake baby be as magnificent, as life-altering as Codhi? I don’t know, probably. But what I do know is that Codhi has returned to Gaia, and that his painful journey through a condom-filled death-wave has come to a merciful close.

In peace, love, beauty, joy, harmony and peace.

Peace,

Tane

Marty Flanagan is a writer living in Toronto, and a close personal friend of Tane. They are going through a difficult time.

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on that guy who stood in front of me at Tienanmen Square.

This dunk would be about fixing the mistakes of the past so for it, I would need a time machine. Not only would I need this because I want the dunk to take place in 1989, but lets just say that my opponent hasn’t been seen much or at all since 1989. At this point I would like to reassert my loyalty to the Chinese government and say how happy I am with their governing techniques and that I’m sure that my opponent will emerge in public one day when he returns from his self-imposed exile of shame and that he in no was totally murdered after the protests.

The dunk is obviously taking place at Tiananmen Square in 1989, I have chosen this location for a number of reasons. First there was a shit ton of people there and I want them to see this dunk, I mean I could have had it at the 2006 Olympics but then I would have to compete with those dancers and that lip syncing kid. I don’t think so, all eyes on me today.

I would roll up to the square in my tank but it wouldn’t be green like last time, nope this time I’m rolling up in a bright red tank. Why red? Well Chinese people associate the color red with good luck and I’m feeling lucky today. Also it reminds me of Chinese New Year when I would get money because even though I’m Communist, I’m also bout that dough!

So my red and gold, oh did I forget to mention it’s also gold? Yeah, two colors. So much luxury and the interior is all Louis Vuitton, I know we didn’t have Louis Vuitton in China in 1989 but things have changed and I’m not going back to a time when I can’t have knock off luxury goods. Also I would get one of those old No Limit Records necklaces because it features gold, diamonds, and tanks! Three of my favorite things. I also like the idea of me not having limits but my ego keeps me in check because I’m just a normal guy.

As I get closer to the square in my tank the guy steps out in front of me as predicted. I try to go around and he keeps moving in front of me. I can’t shoot my gun at him because it only shoots more money and bootleg DVDs and he strikes me as the kind of guy who would be pretty into watching Avatar. So I get out of my tank and I tell him that we’re going to settle this like men: on a basketball court covered in ads.

When we get to Tienanmen Square it has been transformed into a basketball stadium, the protesters aren’t even upset any more over the death of Hu Yaobang, they are too caught up in basketball frenzy. The court is covered in ads for TV stations, beauty products, computers, fish balls, and cell phone companies. It’s beautiful, and it has those weird European style keys so you know that we’re not in America.

A big ass gong is sounds, we’re about to start. Yao Ming is waiting at center court (did I forget to say that he came back with me in the time machine? He owed me a favor because I voted for him three million times in all star voting) .  He wishes me good luck. The tank guy is of course just standing under the basket because lets face it that’s what he’s best at.

I start dribbling the ball and then I yell at tank guy to look down. He looks down and realizes that he’s standing on a big ad with a phone number and he’s standing on the number four which is totally bad luck for Chinese people and he’s Chinese so he knows he’s screwed!

I don’t bother trying to left or right, I’ve dealt with this guy before he’s not going anywhere. He should be called for a three in the key but whatever. I start getting closer and look over at the Chinese referee who winks at me – I know he’s not going to call me for the charge. I got in HARD and if we were playing a league game I would totally get called for Charging but this isn’t league play this is Tienanmen Square! He totally falls over and I throw the ball towards the hoop. I suppose I could have dunked but I’m only 5’7” and I want this to be within the realm of possibility.

The shot goes in and the ref calls a foul on tank guy! I got to the line for my second shot but he still won’t move. I hate him so much. Then I hit my free throw and the whole crowd goes nuts, they love it so much. No body is complaining about the government anymore people are just asking me for my autograph and making inquiries about all of the companies that purchased ad space on the court.

Then I would write my 1989 self a note saying that I should bet everything I have on Buster Douglas to beat Mike Tyson but place the bet at the Mirage Casino because they were the only Casino giving odds on that fight. Then I would touch my tank so it would come with me when I went back to the present.

The guy who drove the tank at Tienanmen Square lives in China.  Little else is known.

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.

supermanteacherIf 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.

oldladyjamU.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.

who-would-you-dunk-on-final

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.

stacydunkIf 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.

kempjaamIf 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.

hunterjamIf 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.

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