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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stakes have just been raised.

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

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

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

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

frenchslamIf I could dunk on anyone it would be Germany.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dunking-dreams-other-head2If I could dunk on anyone, it would be the ridiculously happy white Obama supporters I’m surrounded by in New York City.

I would put a hoop right above the door to a yoga studio. Then I would wait. At the first whiff of fair trade coffee, at the slightest wail of world music, the mere sight of a guy in dance pants, it’s Boom Shaka-laka! But these are special folk and that’s why they get special dunks. I’m going to dunk on them dressed as Obama, in half-black face, while screaming “Race War!” It’ll be like Soul Man 2: The Reckoning.

C. Thomas Howell warned you about the dangers of half-black face and you didn’t listen. After my dunk you’ll never ignore the work of C. Thomas Howell again.

That’s right you soy cheese balls, it was all a setup, now that Obama is in-charge, the race war is going to begin. It’ll be their worst nightmare. Yes, worse than someone thinking they’re racist.

They’ll say, “Why are you doing this? We celebrate Multiculturalism in our home.” And that’s when they get some serious Mandingo dick to the dome. “Yes We Can…Get Dunked On.” There will be no hope, just inescapable, repeating Tomahawk dunks.

The more tolerant they act, the worse the dunks get. If after the first vicious dunk they say, “Yeah I guess I deserved it after all my people did to yours.” That’s when my friends come out, because one man a race war does not make. They’re all in half-black face, each dressed as a different guilt easing hero: Tiger Woods, Will Smith, every member of the Black Eyed Peas.

“Did I just hear thunder?” Nope. That’s just the sound of non-threatening black sacs slapping some Free Tibet face. We’re going to be dunking without pants on. This NPR donor is going to see more black balls than a Jew trying to join an Elks lodge.

It’s going to be a mocha colored melée, and Bryant Gumble is going to narrate. “Mos Def is wide open, but Tiger drives to the lane. The honky in skinny jeans just seems to be standing there. It’s like he’s waiting for an autograph? Tiger drops his shoulder…and the vegan hits the floor hard. A MoveOn.org button goes flying. Woods pulls up, and…It’s an Alley Oop for Obama. Oh! The President Of All Blacks, P.O.A.B., has shattered the backboard. And whats this, Rihanna is taking a shit on a Prius for good measure.  This race war is a blowout.”

No longer will they associate that light brown color with their precious lattes, and actors who they are glad won the Oscar, it will be the color of fear. Long live the Suede Terror. All Hail the Kahlua-minatti!

We will travel the country dunking on white people, you know, like the Harlem Globetrotters…but if they raped the Washington Generals.

I promise where ever there are tolerant whites there will be racially hateful dunks. We will windmill dunk on them at Vintage Clothing stores. We will reverse jam on them at Coldplay concerts. I, personally, will take off from the foul line and throw down right on top of two lesbians and their adopted Asian baby. We will do iDunks, dunks that just destroy Apple products.  Paninis will go half eaten, Capoiera will go unpracticed, Eco-Tours of Costa Rica will turn into horrible dunk massacres.

We will keep dunking in black face until America does an about-face. We will dunk until liberals stop looking down on the people just because they’re from the South. We will dunk until people stop laughing at Cedric the Entertainer. We will dunk until everyone stops thinking just because a guy looks different the whole system will change. And I myself will dunk till my taint bleeds from all the uppity white noses it’s been dragged along. Dunked on at last! Thank God all mighty, they will be dunked on at last!

Dan Goodman is a standup comic living in Brooklyn.

dunk-on-alberta-hardcastle-ultimateIf I could dunk on anything, I would dunk on the province of Alberta, Canada.

On game day in Edmonton it’s a circus atmosphere with fans running across four lanes of traffic to get to the stadium, dodging  monster pick-up trucks and wading through the litter on the sidewalks in their cowboy boots.  All public transportation has been diverted to British Columbia to help rid the province of poor, ethnics and/or environmentalists.

When the true Albertans arrive they are furious, thinking that they were attending a hockey game or indoor motocross rally. Instead its a Nation wide Provincial Basketball Tournament, organized by the federal government as part of the Meech Lake Accord, deciding once and for all which province is the best.

The team’s plan is pretty much to keep the ball in the hands of the their true Albertan players, the guys from Rocky Mountain House or Red Deer who like to giv’er and show up for practice on a four wheeler, and those old boys who would rather bomb it from half-court than run a play with their other teammates.

There’s a Native guy on the team who never gets passed the ball and is treated like crap, so he doesn’t really give a shit about playing the game at all. He joined by a left-wing hippie who’s got a bunch of good ideas but he’s just sort of shoved into the corner of the court at the beginning of every game and if he comes out and tries to get involved they just throw bottles at him and kick his ass until he gives up and goes back to his little niche. There’s a dude from Newfoundland who works his ass off and once in a while gets the ball, even though the Albertan guys don’t like his accent and would rather pass to each other. And then there’s the big Albertan centre, who throws bows and travels and hangs around in the key as long as he wants and never gets called, and he’s having a great old time and doesn’t want anyone to mess around with it because he’s pretty sure Alberta’s got the tourney in the bag no matter how much he screws around and cocks up the game.

I’m just a dude from Ontario that got stuck playing for team Alberta against my will because I was lured out there for work, and I don’t feel much like a player anyway ’cause they stick me on the bench and I every time I try to get in the game they just look at me like I’m crazy because they know I lived in Toronto at some point.

The first two games are a joke as we cruise past PEI and BC thanks to some generous calls.   But then the lights go low and there is a lot of grumbling and growling in the crowd as Team Ontario comes out onto the court for the final game.

The Albertan players are so riled up that they start running by the Ontario bench and flashing their paystub’s at the opposing players. Then they start showing them pictures of their trucks and houses and their I.D.’s that show an average age of 23. They even trot out their hot, pregnant high-school sweethearts who wink at the Ontario players, especially the Black and Hispanic players the likes of which they have only heard of and have never seen before in person.

It’s a back and forth game that comes down to the wire, a one point game with a minute to go and then suddenly as the big Albertan centre brings the ball up the court the Native dude pops up off the ground and steals the ball from him and wheels away, the whole crowd is stunned silent as the Native guys throws down a wicked crossover move and tosses me the ball. I take the rock and then do a sweet spin move and turn the hell around and start bombing it down the court in the opposite direction. The crowd is in an uproar and Team’s Alberta’s centre comes after me and tries to guard the home bucket but the left-wing hipster comes flying out of nowhere and throws a vicious pick on him and as I dribble to the hole I tear off my jersey to reveal the Raptor’s jersey underneath and then I go airborne and throw down a thunderous dunk that shakes the rafters of the arena.

It’s pandemonium in the stands and the ice is melting from the flood of Albertan tears and I get out of the arena with a convoy of Ontario fans and jack a pick-up truck and start phase two of the Dunk On Alberta plan. I haul-ass right up to the oilsands and get my Cree homeboys on the Fort Chipewyan reserve to clear the lane of giant dump trucks and diggers and seal the government and the big corporations out of the key while I catch a sweet alley-oop from a disgruntled flock on oil-covered geese and dunk on the wells and the pipelines so hard that the province shakes itself loose from the rest of the country and somehow founders and disintegrates while a new great lake fills up the now empty space between B.C. and Saskatchewan. I laugh while the province’s premier cries oily tears and supreme Albertan hero Stephen Harper puts on a blue sweater and tries to trick the rest of the country into thinking he’s not wasn’t  trying to expand the ideals of the whole doomed Team Alberta franchise to the rest of the country. I sneak out of the province through the Northwest Territories and make my way across to Ontario, game ball in tow, and present it to Team Ontario and they affix it to the top of the CN tower and a nation rejoices.

When Kevin is not self destructing in the Edmonton Alberta, he finds time to write stories with deep meaning.

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

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.