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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.

fixiedunk1If 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.