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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