An open letter from the Pacers to Indianapolis

Citizens of Indianapolis:

Did you forget about us? Well we're still here and we're ready to be back on the front page of the paper. The last month all we've heard about is the Colts. What a team of great guys. Blah, blah, blah. Peyton Manning is such a perfect role model. Marvin Harrison is such a classy wide receiver. Gary Brackett and Reggie Wayne have overcome such personal adversity. Tony Dungy is the best man who has ever walked the earth. He makes Mother Teresa look like a child molesting meth addict.

Fuck that. We run shit here, and don't you forget it. If Bob Sanders was a real man, he'd be picking fights at strip clubs instead of laying out Cedric Benson on a sterile wet football field with millions of witnesses present.

You've tried to get rid of us. Ron-Ron may be in Sacramento (taking his anger out on his pets, apparently) and Stephen Jackson is now firing warning shots at the Golden Gate Bridge, but we will not be strayed from our goal: to go out each and every day committed to being the most insanely batshit collective of athletes in the state. Admit it, you breathed a sigh a relief after that Golden State trade. "Thank God we're bringing in some upstanding white guys," you silently thought to yourself. Well guess what, you subconsciously racist cracker? We ain't going out like that.

Jamaal Tinsley will not take shit from any West Side bar owners. Fuck that. He may take several minutes off each game night, but if you wanna start shit, that lazy underachiever will bitch slap you time and time again. And why would anyone who has seen Marquis Daniels' assortment of tats ever want to step to him? Just because he hasn't been healthy enough to play in a week doesn't mean he's not healthy enough to beat your ass if you look at him wrong. Even the new "black guy with a white guy's name" is getting in on the act. One team, one goal, motherfuckers.

So go ahead and celebrate your Super Bowl. Listen to everyone say how classy and professional this punkass law-abiding Colts team is, but remember who runs shit here. We kick ass night after night in bars and strip clubs all over this city, and still have enough energy to aim for a .500 record and first-round loss in the playoffs.

Sincerely,
The Indiana Pacers.

Where's My Keys

Today was not a good day.

I had to call a tow truck after stopping at the post office on my way home from work and realizing my car had no intention of restarting. This was overly upsetting considering the amount of work I'd had performed in the past week. It sure as hell better be just a bad distributor cap.

Lucky for me though, the ride with the tow truck operator was a decent one full of good conversation and insight on everything from how this guy is too tall to drive the flatbed to the misadventures of Jamaal Tinsley.

Evidently the Pacers point guard is a frequent customer of this towing service. In fact, earlier the same day, before my car crapped out, Jamaal Tinsley had a flat tire while at Indianapolis's most upscale hotel, The Conrad. My Midwestern intuition got the better part of me and the following abridged conversation tripped between me and the tow truck operator.

RMcL: "You mean Jamaal Tinsley doesn't know how to change a flat tire."

TTO: "It's not like that. He's got a brand new Yukon with 24" rims. He doesn't have a spare."

RMcL: "I guess they don't make 24" doughnuts."

TTO: "Yeah, he's always calling us. He's locked his keys in this car like three times."

RMcL: "So did he ride in the truck like a schmuck...kinda like I'm doing now?"

TTO: "He was long gone. Probably went to practice. The valet had the keys and told me Tinsley would be at Firestone at 5:00 to pick it up."

So if you're ever in downtown Indianapolis and see a brand new Yukon with 24" rims running with the doors locked be sure to look around. Odds are there's a #11 patting his pockets and thumbing a ride.

Sure, he can dish out over 6 assists a game, but he can't remember it's keys first then lock the door.