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If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on the owners of Castle Fun Park in Abbotsford, BC.  This is a no brainer.

They are most deserving of the dunk because of their particular brand of evil towards children.  You see, these demons are in possession of a 12″ television from 1989 and have the audacity to charge 15,000 tickets for the right to take it home.

In my time at Castle Fun Park, I’ve found that your dollar to ticket ratio is almost always 1:1.  The absolute best player that I’ve ever seen could perhaps maybe coax three tickets for every dollar spent on the various games of skill in the Castle Fun Park Arcade.  Roughly speaking that means that the greatest skeeball player on earth would still have to spend $5,000 to win a 12″ box TV.

Often times, I will drive to the top of a mountain, sit on the hood of my car and think about all the children who wished that they could have their OWN tv in their own room.  But Castle Fun Park operated just like their claw machine by giving a child hope and then snatching it away, leaving the child to walk away with nothing but pain and empty pockets.

To make matters worse, the TV was never turned on so there is still a good chance that it’s black and white!

In my fantasy, I would show up at Castle Fun Land with a skeeball made out of pure gold.  The greedy owners would think “oh if only the ball return were broken!  I could have the gold all to myself.”

I would roll the ball down the lane and it would land in the 500 points column, but then due to some magic properties that are too complicated to explain it would start bouncing up and down in mid air!  My score would be tremendous!

As the owner looked on in horror, he would see the vast pile of tickets accumulating at my feet faster than he could count.  When I reached 15,000, my gold ball would return to me and I would hand it off to some smokin’ hot girl with a fancy case for the ball.

I would then hand over my tickets for the television.  As soon as the owner handed it to me, it would turn on.  Everyone at the arcade would be so shocked because it’s not even plugged in!  It would be tuned to French CBC.  This is to prevent the crowd from getting distracted.

After snapping my fingers, the basketball freethrow game would transform into a full sized net.  I would point at the manager and say “this ends now.”

He would walk out onto the court and be all nervous.  At this point all the kids are going crazy and looting the prizes!  They are taking plastic spiders, cheap rings, and those airplanes made out of styrofoam.  But they know to leave the best stuff for me.

I would raise one fist to silence my crew.  Then, I would make my way to the net, yeah, I’m travelling but you can’t dribble a TV.

Then I would take off and throw down the most vicious reverse tomahawk dunk EVER on the managers head.  Shawn Kemp would totally be there and as I’m finishing the dunk I could see him lean over to some attractive mother and say “that’s a pretty good dunk.”

As I finished the dunk I would release the TV and it would land on the head of the manager.  It wouldn’t kill him but it would leave him with a scar that looked like a “K” so he could never forget.

Just to be safe, a local photographer would get a picture of this dunk and it would be front page of the Abbotsford Mission Times and some cereal guy would see it and create a new cereal called Kenny Flakes and would use this image.  And it would be the most popular cereal in BC history.

Then the manager would be like “oh please Kenny, don’t dunk on me again,” and he would totally give me a lifetime pass so that I never had to pay the batting cages or air hockey ever again.

Kenny Muir was an All Star Guard at W.J. Mouat H.S. in Abbotsford B.C. He averaged 19 points and 7 assists per game. Kenny currently watches television on a 30 inch HD which retails at $899

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If I could dunk on anyone, it would be Jaime Kennedy.

Let’s set the scene:
For the n+5th time, Mr. Kennedy is starring as a fish out of water wannabe down with the brothas white guy who thinks he’s “gangsta” and “ghetto” and doesn’t appreciate “bustas” “frontin” “on his stee-los.”

*shudder*

THIS time, through some confluence of impossible and hi-larious circumstances his character – let’s call him Reginald (or R-G-O to his boys) – has gone from suburban playground legend in his own mind to NBA rookie! Jamie and I come face to face on a red carpet half court assembled under spotlights in front of the Mann Chinese for the movie’s big premiere.

“Hey loser,” I shout past Elmo and two Cpt. Jack Sparrows. I interrupt him drunk sexy-talking two slightly below-average girls with slightly above-average bodies he picked up at Baja Fresh 20 minutes ago. “Hey
loser.”

He looks up.

“Why you hatin’ homey???”

He gets all up in my face. He’s breathing heavy from drink and because he must be at least 41. He edges closer to me like he he wants me to take a swing but doesn’t have the guts. I stare daggers and don’t budge. He’s doesn’t know what to do.

Then, inspiration strikes: an idea well-worn since before Scream 2.

“Oh so you wanna battle???”

I should mention that he’s wearing a navy blue Adidas tracksuit. Yes, to his own premiere. And he hasn’t shaved in 2.5 days. It’s like he’s cultivating a bloated, I just woke up at 1 pm hungover look. He thinks he’s cool. He thinks he’s keeping it real. He’s wrong.

He drops down into that stupid breakdance move that white guys with headbands always do, when they plant their hands and bend their elbows then put their legs up in the air and hold them in place for 2-3
seconds and hope people high-five each other in celebration. It of course sucks.

I take two steps forward, put my shoe to his forehead, and push hard.

His right elbow gives out and his legs flop over, twisting his neck. Shocked and embarrassed, he jumps up immediately.

“Dude what the fuck?!” He pushes me, pulling back halfway through because in spite of his posturing he doesn’t really want to get into it.

Too late.

My step-brother Chris throws me the rock. JK is backed up almost under the hoop and doesn’t realize the seriousness of his predicament until in unison the crowd breathlessly exclaims “awwwwwwww no!” They know it’s on. And now so does Jamie Kennedy.

I throw-spin the ball forward so it hits hardwood and flips back towards me. I bear down and advance full tilt. No crossovers. No fakes. No going lefty. None of that’s necessary now. I’m possessed of all the fire and rage any man would be given the opportunity to humiliate Jamie Kennedy..

He shifts his weight left-right-left. He’s trapped. Nowhere to go. His only desire is to be anywhere but here, but here is the only where he is.

I start my skywalk.

Left foot plant. Right foot raise.

I step hard on his bony, shitty knee and inner thigh, digging my cross trainer in like cleats.

Left foot up. Right shoe tip plants in his sternum – chip it raw – brace, and push off. And then …

And then his face. I fucking put my size 10.5 right on his stupid face. I jam the rubber of my heel into his bottom row of teeth and lower gums. For an instant, I’ve cracked his neck back 60 degrees
and am standing on his ugly mug.

Time slows down. Flash bulbs pop. Stu Stone covers his eyes. One of those Baja girls throws up in her mouth. I grind-twist my shoe and pop gristle.

Back to full speed, I launch myself up and towards the rim. I clear that bitch by almost two feet and throw down a punishing two-handed dunk that strips iron from wood and drives the rim directly into Jamie’s huge honking skull.

My feet hit the ground. Jamie’s head follows suit a half second later.

Is he dead? Will I be prosecuted? Does it matter?

Maybe. Probably. No.

I let drop the metal ring and it rattles harmlessly on the ground. The stunned crowd stares in silence. Rob Schneider is beside himself. I pick up the ball up and toss it to my bro.

I walk off the court and off Hollywood Boulevard. I call my girl and tell her I love her. It’s over. It’s done.  I did it.

Brian Alexander lives in Los Angeles, CA and runs CatsandBeer. He has a writing credit on Hannah Montana

James Harvey “Jamie” Kennedy (born May 25, 1970) is an American comedian and actor.

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on Mike Iuzzolino.

Mike Iuzzolino played for the Dallas Mavericks from 1991-1993, but is most hated by me because he was one of the two guys chosen for the Mavericks in NBA Jam.  And since the Mavericks were the first team you played, sometimes he would kick my ass even if I picked the Orlando Magic with Scott Skiles and Shaq.  Let me say that again: SHAQUILLE O’NEAL!

In my dreams, I would see Mike at an Italian Restaurant (he is Italian) and he would totally think I was some guy who just wanted an autograph.

I would roll up to him and say “Hey Mike, Mike Iuzzolino.” And he would try to ignore me, so I would get louder.  “Mike ‘Dallas Mavericks’ Iuzzolino! Look over here” and he would still try to ignore me.  So I would take some of my bread roll it into a ball and make a perfect shot from my table to his wine glass.

The bread would make a splash and it would get all over his new white shirt.  “What the fuck?” he would say, and then he would get mad.  Italians have short tempers.

He turns around and says “who the hell threw a piece of bread into my Chianti?”

Then I would stand up and say “the guy who threw that perfect swish was me.  What are you gonna do about it?”

Mike would then get up and walk towards me, and by now tons of people are taking photos, there is even a guy with a videocamera recording the whole thing.

He gets right up in my face and says “well you listen to me, little man, I don’t think it’s very polite to throw bread into people’s wine.”  And I would be all “you left your glass wide open, just like you used to do in the NBA.”  And then everyone in the restaurant would be all “ooooooohhhhh,” like an episode of Family Matters. Which is especially appropriate since Reginald Veljohnson is at the resaurant eating a whole tray of Lasagna and giving me the thumbs up.

There is total awkward silence and Mike is getting super angry when I raise one finger in the air and yell “digitize.”  Instantly everyone in the restaurant is inserted into the NBA Jam video game.  Reginald’s Lasagna is even digital!

Mike looks around and smiles.  “Oh you just made a big mistake punk.  You just made me into my most successful form.”

Then I say, “oh no, not today.”  We don’t have teammates, it’s just one on one.  He has his Mavericks Jersey but I’m wearing a generic jersey because I don’t want to claim affiliation or let him try to spit some baloney about how the programmers gave my team special powers.

The ref is about to throw the jump ball, but then our heads get all big and on my side it says “POWER UP DUNKS.”  Everyone hears Mike say “oh no.”  And he’s right, it’s about to be big time trouble.

I get the ball and instantly my shoes turn red, which means only one thing: turbo.  I approach that hoop and I can see that Mike is totally scared.  I take on step before the free throw line and the announcer goes “oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” And then I start doing a helicopter and I leave the screen for a second because I’m so high.  Then I come back down and dunk so hard that Iuozzolino is thrown to the floor and the backboard breaks and shatters right down onto him.

“BOOM SHAKALAKA”

Instantly we are returned to the Italian restuarant but we’re still in our sweet basketball uniforms and Mike is covered in glass.

Then I take my bill and drop it on his unconscious body and say “thanks for dinner, no need to thank me for the dunk.  It’s on the house.”

Louis Poppadopolis hopes that one day Kobe Bryant will play for Olympiakos

If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on my grade 11 math teacher, Mr. Robinson.  The most important things to understand before going any further are that I’m half chinese, living in Chilliwack at the time of these events.

I used to be an A student in math until I hit grade 11. Basically, the teacher told my dad he couldn’t help me because people of “my background” aren’t good in math. That’s right, he thought I was Native (Indian).  What a racist ass mother fucker! Little did he know I was really good at math AND piano.

For this dunk, I would set up one of those backyard hoops that you fill the base up with water. But, instead of a backyard, I would set it up right in his classroom. He was bald with a comb-over and a stupid mustache. He always wore Chaps button up shirts with khakis, and so that is what he would be playing in.

I would wear a throwback FILA Allen Iverson jersey and some swim trunks w/ the mesh built-in underwear. I would also be wearing boxer shorts under those, because that’s how I roll.

The classroom would be full and we would be doing some shit that prepped you for Math 12, some quadratics and transformations or whatever you call it.

I would ask for help, he blows me off. Right then and there I light up a joint in class, crazy right? He is shocked and commands me to the principals office. I refuse. He steps up to my desk; I blow smoke right in his mustachioed face. Then I stand up and rip off my tearaway jeans and t-shirt (custom made) to reveal my dunk gear.

By this point, the other students are in a state of awe, excitement, and nervousness. They can’t believe what I am doing. A couple of brave students hoot and holler, cheering me on. Others have smiles on their face. I butt out my joint, and put it into a DuMaurier smoke pack for later.

Mr. Robinson is scared, he knows he’s lost control. Out of nowhere, someone bounce passes me a ball. I don’t do any fancy shit; I just stare at him while slowly dribbling. Using fear as a tactic, I back him into the corner with the hoop. With my left hand, I play Beethoven’s Concerto no. 5 on a conveniently placed piano, still dribbling.

I tell him I am Chinese.  No response, only a shocked face.

I shout, “Fuck you for condemning me to post-secondary liberal arts!”

No response.

Mr. Robinson is now sweating.  I take a few steps back from him and make my move to the hole.  I take off and execute a massive Tomahawk dunk to be ironic. The ball flies through the hoop, hitting him in the face and slamming him to the ground. The white board marker rolls out of his hand as his limp body slowly loses life.

Silence.

I turn around, not looking at anybody. I stop in the doorway, back turned. I light the rest of my joint and leave the classroom. When I’m at the end of hall, cheers erupt. I see Emergency Response Teams outside, but it’s too late. I murdered him with a dunk.

People flood the halls, hoisting me on their shoulders. I party hard that night with Asians and First Nations and we talk shit about white people all night. Also I get a wicked blowjob from a hot white girl.

Sean currently has a decent paying government job in Victoria, BC. Often he wishes that he was an accountant for KPMG

If I could dunk on anyone it would be every single American Indian in these United States.  They have been a thorn in my side for years now and I believe this dunk to be the best course of action.

These Indians have the audacity to occupy lands that I require for American expansion and profit.  Sure they were here first and have a “right” to it, but that doesn’t mean that it’s cool that I can’t just have Florida and Georgia.

Sure I could round them up and force them to move to West on death marches that will kill most of them, but dunking would be so much cooler.

In my dreams, I would set up a court right in the Everglades, hopefully right on top of a sacred burial ground.  I would then have local artisans construct a hoop from the bones of dead Indians.  As for a ball? I would use the head of the great tyrant Alexander Hamilton.

Everyone would be invited: Congress, the Senate, my family, every royal family of Europe (except those English pricks), and my main man Martin Van B.

Of course I would not invite any slaves as I once had a bad experience of getting blocked by a large slave named Derrick when I tried to toss an apple into a garbage pail at the Hermitage.   I can’t risk having any slaves around to remind me of that horrible day.

I would have the bone hoop at the end of about a furlong of dirt.   In order to make this dunk a challenge to me, I would require at least a battalion (500-1000) Indians standing between me and the net.  With all of those fierce savages standing in my way, I could hear the crowd say “there is no way he can perform this dunk over so many warriors.”  But I wouldn’t even be hearing that.

I would also have a big military band playing some of my favorite songs that would get me all pumped up and get the Indians scared about the dunk that’s about to rain down on them.

After the band plays The Star Spangled Banner, everyone would be quiet for a minute as I poured out some Rum for all my homies who died in the War of 1812.  Then I would cast the rum bottle aside and begin my approach to the hoop of death, which would be set on fire at this point.

Each step would be like an earthquake and I moved closer and closer to the hoop.

When I was approximately 35 yards from the hoop I would step upon the back of a crippled Indian that I had crippled earlier and subsequently nicknamed Squatsy and begin my leap!    As I soared through the air I would remove a pistol from my jacket with one hand, while gripping the head of Alexander Hamilton in the other.

I would start shooting every Indian who attempted to block by progress until I ran out of bullets, then I would toss my gun aside and begin punching them.

Once the bony hoop was within reach, I would pull back with the disgusting sphere in my right hand and prepare for the throw down.  At this point I am using the sheer energy and force of my body to bounce back the natives who are trying in vain to stop both my dunk and the end of their civilization.

Then with a mighty motion I would bring the ball through the hoop while simultaneously sending a dozen Indians into the reptile infested waters.  The force of my dunk would be so great that the entire flaming mass of bones would crumble to the ground into a big pile of dust.

The dust would then turn into some sort of magic dust that only spread disease to Indians.  The dust would also have this magic property so that when they die, their bodies quickly decompose and automatically plant tobacco, cotton, and sugar cane.  Some truly fine crops.

Now that the dunk was complete, I would immediately abolish the sport of basketball so that no one in the future could ever dunk upon me or my descendants.

Andrew Jackson was President of the United States from 1829 to 1837. When asked of his five favorite NBA players, Cherokee Parks was not one of them.

If I could dunk on anyone it would be ESPN sideline reporter Stacey Dales.  Every time I see this woman on TV I get angry.  I don’t hate women sports reporters because I have no problems with Erin Andrews, Tracy Wolfson, or Jennifer Hedger but something about Stacey Dales just irks me.

Part of this anger may stem from the fact that Stacey was an All-American basketball player at the University of Oklahoma and an ex WNBA star.  With the exception of Volleyball, Tennis, Figure Skaters, and Cheerleaders, women athletes are so annoying. They try so hard and are so into their “gear”.

Another irritating thing is that she use to go by the name Stacey Dales-Schuman. It’s bad enough that she hyphenated her last name, but putting the bride’s name ahead of the groom’s is just wrong.  Sadly the marriage resulted in a divorce and now she just goes by Stacey Dales.

In my dreams the dunk who take place at a battle of the sexes charity basketball game in Stacey’s hometown of  Brockville, Ontario.  Members of local girls basketball, soccer, rugby, hockey, and softball teams would be invited to see their hero Stacey Dales.  Also in attendance would be the U.S. Women’s soccer team. Hopefully Nike or Adidas would be there trying to fill some commercial about how girls are just as good as boys.

Her  starting five would consists of three other women  basketball stars and Cheryl Miller.  My starting five would have me, three unathletic Scottish guys who have never played basketball in their lives, and my friend Toby who once said that him and three other people who have never played basketball could easily win the WNBA title.

Right before the game, I would hold a press conference and spew out my misogynist manifesto, stating that a group of losers like us would have no problem beating  Stacey’s all star team.

During the game our team would just let Toby do all the work while Stacey would cover me and we all know that she would be trying so hard.  However I would let her light me up, bringing cheers and smiles to the predominantly female crowd.

But then with 10 seconds left on the clock and her team up by two, I would call an iso, taunt the crowd and then start talking shit to Stacey. I would compliment her on her ass and say she had nice eyes (because women athletes hate compliments about their looks).  Then I would blow a kiss and attempt an Iverson killer crossover.

Of course with the dreams of aspiring girl athletes  everywhere on this game, she would be playing such tough D, so I would pass the ball to Toby (who is actually good at basketball).  Stacey would then rush to double team, but then he would toss it back to me for an alley oop dunk. Stacey once again put in so much effort and would try to block me but I would Vince Carter her 2000 Olympic style and a foul would be called.

I would hit the free throw making Toby’s proclamation come to life and destroying the hopes and dreams of girl athletes everywhere.

With an ‘and 1’ dunk from a scrub like me to win the game  the women’s sports movement would be set back by several years. Little girls everywhere would quit organized sports and go back to taking home economics course like they use too. With no more distractions on sports, pregnancy would increase and wars all over the world and the hunger problem would all come to an end

Myles Valentin lives in Vancouver B.C. and has a love / hate relationship with female athletes. He once found Candace Parker attractive until he realized that she looked like her brother Anthony, a guard for the Toronto Raptors.

If I could dunk on anyone it would be my dad.

To set the scene, I would want it to be somewhere important like the halftime of a Bobcats vs. Raptors game at the Air Canada Center.  The announcer would say “don’t go anywhere fans, we have an awesome dunk coming up.”  And everyone would stay in their seats because they wouldn’t want to miss it.

I would be wearing a sweet vintage Bob Sura jersey with matching shorts and Air Jordan’s from 1991.  My dad would have to wear a Vancouver Grizzlies Bryant Reeves jersey, khakis and some penny loafers.  The style mismatch would eventually be overshadowed by the talent mismatch.

Flashbulbs would be going off everywhere.Dad would be standing at mid-court listening to boos from all of his former students and people in my neighborhood. “You are going to get dunked on so hard!” they would say.

Then, I would take the ball and raise it over my head, telling everyone to be quiet, some awesome stuff is about to happen.  Before I started dribbling my dad would look at me and say “Why am I here?  I don’t even like sports, I really don’t care if you dunk on me. How does this matter?”

But I wouldn’t be listening, I’d already be dribbling doing sweet spin moves getting the crowd all riled up.

As I get closer and the crowd gets louder, I could hear him say say “This proves nothing, I’ll get out of the way if you want.  I’m not even really sure what I’m supposed to do. Am I suppose to jump?”

But there would be no point in me giving instructions, because he could never hear them over the deafening sound of the crowd.  Everyone would be going nuts, even black guys.  It would be the most awesome thing anyone has ever seen.

After executing a perfect crossover, I would plant my foot just inside the foul line and make my sick jump.  As I’m airborn flying towards the hoop, my dad would pretend he didn’t care, but then at the last minute his competitive drive would over take him and he’d jump to try to block the shot.

But it would be too late.

I would already be so high that my foot would land right on his face and he would fall back, I would slam the ball through the hoop with both hands and then hang on to the rim for a second.

By now the POLICE have had to be called because the crowd is going so crazy.  A white thug would even shoot off a bb gun that looks like a glock into the air because he was so excited by sweet dunk.

I’d look into the crowd and there would be other guys my dad’s age crying.  I could hear them saying “oh no! our generation! we’re finished.”  And on screen it would have a picture of Woodstock but then it would catch on fire in the middle and burn out and be replaced with a picture of me holding a basketball.

Then, my dad would be crying on the ground, and I’d offer him a hand and say “Sorry Richard, this had to be done.”  He would understand and everything would be cool.

I’d try to return to my seat for the second half of the game but the crowd was still so amped up that they needed to bring in the US ARMY to keep back the smoking hot girls who were trying to get at me.

Once things had calmed down I would autograph the ball I used for the dunk and write an inspirational message that reads: “Follow your dreams.”  Then I would give it to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

Christian Lander lives in Culver City, California and is the author of the New York Times Best Seller “Stuff White People Like”. His dad Richard, was a popular teacher in high school.