The playoffs must be tough for Tim Hardaway to enjoy, seeing that one of the competitors could be a homosexual. To Hardaway, any guy that wears a tank-top and shorts is gay, or at least that is what his partner in the pride march told him. So you can see why he gets confused watching NBA basketball. That is why THN invited Liberace back for what will now be a weekend feature, weeding out the homosexual athletes in sports. Even though Liberace is all man, he somehow has an eye for this kind of thing. The only thing he asked for in return was a dressing room with a peep hole next to Conrad Bain.
Again, thanks go out to the Price Above Bip Roberts, who has loaned Liberace to us. (Remember that litigious NBA ball players.)
Hello, friends. I'm back again, and ravishing. It's a Saturday afternoon, one of my favorite cities - San Francisco - finally has a team back in the NBA postseason, and right now, another dynamic little three-horse town of American life, Chicago, is beating Miami, which I always thought tried a little too hard, if you know what I mean.
I'm fascinated by the NBA's second season, and not just because of the cities themselves, which range from ab fab (even Oakland has its high points!) to "don't even reference for fear of being named a social pariah" (ahem, Dallas). I like the boys in shorts and sneaks, too: the players make the game go round. The players are the reason why I love this game.
With apologies to John A. in advance - he'll have a nice bubble bath, drawn with rose petals, waiting when his time with The Maker comes - I have realized that every team in these playoffs has one contender for, well, my side of the fence. Here now, who they are, why I love them, and why I wouldn't mind asking how much that doggy in the window truly is:
Dallas: Avery Johnson himself. A nattily attired, vocal leader - like the best among us - Avery's voice is the dead give-away. He screeches in a way that's at once annoying yet lovable, nails-down-the-blackboard yet sentimental, as if reminding you of a time long ago, when things were so much better. His men take orders from him like no other, first as a point guard, then as an assistant, and now as a coach. Avery is the true metrosexual leader.
Phoenix: Steve Nash. That do! Those slick passing moves! No one could be so agile, yet so fashionable, and not at least think about tickling the Ivories with moi. His floppy hair is more than just a "passing fancy" for many young girls and boys. His wife and twins? Beard. And fakes.
San Antonio: Manu Ginobili. Again, dapper to a fault, European in his graciousness and team mentality, and he does that cute little thing with the corner of his mouth when Cheryl Miller interviews him. I think it might have - at one point - been Tony for this team, but Eva might be one of the few who has the power to turn a man back to the pink team.
Utah: Remember when Andrei's wife said that he could have one transgression a year, on the road? She may have said "with a woman," but she meant: "with either..." Andrei would do it. His goofiness hides a suave interior that oftentimes outwardly projects. AK-47, indeed! Tee hee!
Houston: Mr. Kirk Snyder. I've longed dreamed of having a boy named Kirk - Cameron caught my fancy up here, but many moons ago, in my boyhood days in Wisconsin, a young strapping lad named Kirk lived across the street. Often, at the local park, he'd play kickball with the other lads as I sat doodling in the dirt with a stick, making fine geometric patterns far too advanced for my age. He never said hi to me, but once - a lone occurence where he passed by, and nodded ever so gracefully, adding, almost in passing, "Nice trapezoids." It didn't matter that there were, in fact, NO trapezoids etched in dirt; what mattered was Kirk. Mr. Snyder, you can Clutch the City of my heart any day.
Denver Nuggets: Eduardo Najera, why must you forsake me? Your stately good looks, and fine, sinewy figure - hiding a potent athleticism that few (Kelvin Sampson, maybe a couple others...) actually know. George Karl doesn't know how to get the best of you, but I would...
Los Angeles Lakers: Mr. Luke Walton, if this Brittney Spears is true, I can only hope you're actually a member of my side of the great universal equation, and this is something she feels she needs for her career. Girl couldn't carry a tune in a paper bag anyhoo. You are somewhat striking, the way your bangs hang down over your face; she isn't at all, the way she's bald and drug-addled and a total slut and a bad musician...
Golden State: J-Rich, the way you soar gives me goosebumps. Your majestic flight, like that of an eagle, is truly an art form; your soft skin reflects off the glow of the collected majesty of San Francisco and Oakland - MY cities - and the luminence could fill up 10,000 arenas. While you're up there, could you kiss the heavens for me? Oh, and get me Mateen's number, too.
Detroit Pistons: Richard Hamilton, there's no need to hide behind so many masks. There's one mask you universally wear - hiding your true feelings from the world. Admit it: when Larry Brown made you guys better, you wanted nothing MORE and nothing LESS than to plant a big, fat, wet one right on his lemon-looking old man visage. That's how I often feel about you as you glide, Nash-like yet in your own way even more poignant, down the lane.
Cleveland Cavaliers: Z, with a little fine tuning, you might turn from Frankenstein into the Prince. I realize I just mixed metaphors there, but let's be honest: when discussing a city like Cleveland, there isn't much that should be off-limits. The place is hell on Earth.
Toronto Raptors: Andrea Bargnani, there's a reason you were number one last year. You're also number one in my heart: you see, I like - and appreciate - a man with some wordly nature to him. Only living in one place, doing one thing, existing one way - that gets boring. You've seen things, places, and people that I have as well, but we're two of a kind. Hold my hand, and I'll protect you from the devious glances of Samuel Mitchell.
Miami Heat: Dwyane Wade, do you really think - for a second - that a man can be that cosmopolitan, appear on that many magazine covers, strut that many runways, and sneak by me? NEVER! I'm onto you, Flash. Fall down 7 times, indeed. Stand up 8? Perhaps not with my people around.
Chicago Bulls: Andreas Noicioni, there was an image of you last year, right when the Bulls clinched a playoff berth. It was in slow motion, in Chicago, with the lights behind you, illuminating and highlighting your features. You tossed the ball to the rafters, full of glee and merriment, and I thought to myself: YES! YES! BE FREE! TAKE NOTHING FROM ANY MAN! Your spirit emboldens me, and your city. You are, indeed, one of us.
New Jersey Nets: Mr. Richard Jefferson, please see my comments to Mr. Wade above.
Washington Wizards: Uh, no. No one even vaguely qualifies. OK, maybe Darius Songalia. But I won't touch him with Harvey Firestein's you-know-what.
Orlando Magic: Travis Diener, you don't play enough. You come from a good ol' fashioned basketball family in Wisconsin - like me, without the sports! - and you have that whole floppy-headed, boy-finding-his-way-in-the-world-amongst-men thing going on. It's just so darling; I want to come over and pinch your cheeks, and rub them for good luck and good measure. Stand up to Brian Hill! Tell him you're in the lineup more! Tell him Wisconsin must represent! And as you do so, blow a kiss into the air and leave it there, gently. I'll be waiting.
Past Liberace Articles:
Mike Pizza: Female Dog