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The Adventures of Steve Nash -- A NY Tale

Just something fun to fill the downtime. Yes, it’s 100% fiction, as if that needed to be said. If you dislike poo poo jokes, it’d be wise not to read any further. Unless you feel like bashing me in the comments section and would like some hard evidence to support your bashing, then by all means…

The Adventures of Steve Nash -- A NY Tale

The following movie is rated R for strong language, drug use and an Eddy Curry reference.

Part One: Lavor Postell Lives

Steven Nash just finished taking a dump and looked in his bathroom mirror.

He didn't wash his hands.

What he saw was a man of 38. Grey streaks in his hair, the declining ability to drive an automobile above the speed limit and a penis that was only a mere decade or two away from no longer being able to maintain a woody. He had an internal sense about him that was able to tell when a storm was about to surface. He took two sniffs. Sniff. And here's the second sniff: sniff. He felt a hurricane. And he smelled poo since he didn't flush the toilet.

"Eff to the Phoenix," said Nash aloud. Except he didn't pronounce Phoenix the traditional way. No. He said it like one would say the word 'phone' or 'phony' or 'phonics.'

"Eff to the Phoenix, I want a chizzip," Nash now called to the tune of Jay-Z's "H to the Izzo."

He yanked off his home Suns Rodney Rogers jersey circa 1999, stared at his bod in the mirror and pounded his chest: "Not wealthy, ya'll got to pay me!" Nash exclaimed at the top of his lungs. He wiped his ass with the jersey.

He left the bathroom, shirt still off -- shirtless for the lay person -- and with his grey chest hair blowing in the cool breeze from his air conditioner, Nash turned on his Playstation 3. And for those of you keeping track at home, Nash still hasn't washed his hands. And for those of you keeping track at friend’s house or the public library, the same rings true: Nash still hasn’t washed his hands. So now the power button on his game console was stinky. But then again, it already was.

"PS3 is the way to be," Nash said to himself. He lit a bowl of the marijuana he bought from Jared Dudley and took a deep inhale. "Drug free isn't the way to be," Nash said.

He was high. As high as Wilson Chandler behind the wheel of his black tinted Pontiac at night without the headlights on. As high as Eddy Curry's blood pressure after a Baconator. As high as James Dolan's desire to only make money and not win a championship. No. As impossible as it sounds, Nash was higher. He now knew what Jim Morrison meant in "Light My Fire"...Stevie girl we couldn't get much higher.

Steven popped in his NBA 2K9 disc and sat back with a smile on his face. Shirt still off, mind you. He took another rip from his bowl. Suddenly, he felt the satisfaction of the dump which he recently took. It must have been six minutes ago by now, Nash thought. But man, that was a great dump. Indeed it was. It was one of those dumps in which you don't even need to wipe it comes so clean out your backside. But Nash wiped earlier just to spite that purple and yellow (and now brown from the dookie) Rodney Rogers jersey. He was done with those cactus eaters. "I am done with those cactus eaters," he said.

Nash pressed the start button on his PS3 controller. Damnit, I don't have a memory pack, he thought. I am Nashty nonetheless. He clicked "Play Now." He clicked the R2 button four times. One. Raptors. Two. Raptors. Three. Raptors. Four. Raptors. Man, Raptors four times in a row on random, Nash thought. He looked down at his controller. He realized he was hitting the L2 button, causing nothing to happen. Man that's random, he thought. No pun had been intended. Fuck Chris Bosh. Less puns had been intended.

Steven regathered himself after another hit from his bowl -- which he named Smokey McChokey Fee Figh Mo Mokey -- he found the R2 button after approximately 22 minutes had elapsed.

"Bingo!" Steven cried.

He pressed R2. Knicks.

"Hmm who do they GOT?!?" Nash said to himself emphasizing 'got' like he was exaggerating the fact that he was white.

Lavor Postell? Nash thought to himself. Derek Harper? Clarence Weatherspoon? Howard Eisley? Mos Eisley? Mos Def? Definitely not! Nash sparked up Smokey McChokey Fee Figh Mo Mokey (which will now be shortened to SMFFMM if it's ever used again).

"Eff to the uck it," he said. Again, he sang it like the part owner of the Nets not named that Russian guy. "I'm down with Postell. I'm down with St. Jimmy John's. Jimmy John's? I'm hungry."

14 more minutes elapsed until Nash selected an opponent. It was on the Orlando Magic by default. Abracadabra, Nash thought. He moved the joystick down seven times before it landed on the Suns.

"BAHHHHHHH," Nash screamed at the bottom and middle of his cannabis filled lungs. "BRING DAT SHIT."

He pressed start.

For the sake of time we will not fully elaborate on all the events which took place before this pixilated video game actually took place. To summarize, Nash took 37 minutes debating which uniforms to select, then got up and made himself a sandwich (marshmallow fluff and peanut butter in between two strawberry Pop Tarts) which took another 4 minutes, and spent 8 minutes searching for a chocolate flavored Dunkaroos in his cupboard. Consuming the food took approximately 13 seconds but then Nash had to take another dump. He fell asleep while on the toilet, which still contained the poo from his last bowl movement, until morning. The next day he remembered he had to play soccer at his very own charity event, Showdown in Chinatown, when Jared Dudley called him up to remind him of this mild nuisance. Nash thought Dudley was going to give him some free weed or else he would have never answered the phone. There were many friends on the field in Chinatown: Nate Robinson, Tony Parker, Marc Berman, Raja Bell, Claudio Reyna, Chris Tucker, Ice Cube, Ice T, Vanilla Ice, Iceman from X-Men, CM Punk, Debbie Gibson, Mel Gibson, and other related individuals. Nash received a Red Card for slide tackling Debbie Gibson from behind. This led to an ironically coincidental chain of events. Tony Parker became flustered because he had a crush on Debbie Gibson (and one on Steve Nash but that is for another day), causing him to lie face down on the bleachers, only to get a cup of beer thrown at him which scratched his cornea. Witnesses say the man who threw the cup hollered “Eva’s a skank. Neener neener.” although this cannot be confirmed. Witnesses also say the man looked like Chris Brown (thus Shannon Brown), but this is unknown as well. What is known, however, is that the ensuing events that took place are now being referred to as The Malice at the Chinese Version of Buckingham Palace. Nash had a grand time, though. He got some tasty chicken from a fellow named Tso afterwards. This nice man insisted he was a General, but Nash didn’t believe it.

Part Two: Lavor Postell Dies

Three days later.

It was nearing July 1st, the first day of NBA free agency. Nash was taking a dump, minding his business, and ripping SMFFMM (which will now be shortened to Papa Smurf if it’s ever used again). SHIT!!!! Nash thought to himself fairly loudly. No pun was intended. Nash jumped off the toilet with his pants still down, toilet still brown and hands still…actually his hands were clean since he didn’t wipe. He ran into the room which contained his PS3. He grabbed the controller.

“Legoooooooooo Knicks,” he screamed with trough still dropped.

He jumped up out of his couch and gave a high-five to the Jonas Brothers poster hanging on his wall. Yes, his couch now had skidmarks. But then again, it already did.

Steven pressed start. He went into “Coaching Options” and switched timeouts and substitutions from auto to manual. Then he selected “Team Management” and observed his rotation.

Jamal Crawford startin at the 2??” Nash said. “Who da heck DAT??? Where mah boy Postell at???” he sounded like Jamie Kennedy in Malibu’s Most Wanted. “I am Nashty nonetheless.”

Steven ripped Papa Smurf. He went into “Gameplay Options” and switched quarter minutes from 5 to 12. Well I hope it’s a long ceremony, cause it’s gonna be a short honeymoon, Nash thought. To this day we still do not know why he uttered an obscure Spaceballs quote. Perhaps the answer will be clearer next week after he gets back the results of his Tourette’s syndrome exam. Nash selected “Difficulty,” but he went about it the long way; “Difficulty” was only one notch up from the quarter minutes, however, Mr. Nash decided to go all the way down until it reached the top again. He applied this same technique to select the level of difficulty at which he wanted to play…or so he thought.

The difficulty was on “Pro” by default. It was the second easiest and fourth hardest. It was one to the right of “All-Pussy” and two to the left of “All-Clyde.” Nash re-packed Papa Smurf and took a hit. I am invincible, he thought. True. I am Mark Wahlberg. False.

He moved the joystick two notches to the left and looked down to rip Papa Smurf. Steven, being the Santa Clara graduate that he was, calculated that he should be highlighted on “All-Clyde” at this moment. This would be true except the “Difficulty” bar did not adhere to the same rules as the “Gameplay Options” menu. He could have moved eight billion notches to the left and it would not go around to the other side. It was fixed on “All-Pussy.”

Nash pressed the circle button on his PS3 controller, went up to “Resume Game” and pressed X.

“All-Clyde, baby!” Nash said. “Swishin’ and toastin’!”

Nash and the Knicks defeated the Suns 209-33. Al Harrington scored 93 to pace New York. For Phoenix, Amar’e Stoudemire led the way with 16 and Steve Nash finished with 10.

“Scrubs!” Nash said. He hit Papa Smurf. “All-Clyde ain’t got nothin’ on me. HO HO!”

He jumped off the couch and slapped his Jonas Brothers poster. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Thunder clapped the room. A bright white light pierced his vision. A shadowy figure emerged in between Nash and the TV.

“Hey, outta the way!” Nash cried. “I can’t see the stats!”

“Do you know who I am?” the figure spoke in a deep monotonous tone.

“Do you know who I am?” Nash called back.

“This is not a game of who the fuck are you. I am the ghost of Lavor Postell. ”

Nash sniffed his Papa to see if it had been laced with anything. It wouldn’t be the first time that prankster Jared Dudley pulled a stunt like this. He remembered Cinco de Mayo ’07. Oh crap, Nash thought to himself. “Are you a God?” he asked.

The ghost of Lavor Postell hesitated. “No. I am here to…”

“Then…DIE!!!!” Nash took the lighter with which he had been ripping Papa Smurf and got an evil look in his eye. He had the eye of the Canuck. Which for a Canadian is extremely evil, but for an American it’s pretty much just an average person. He found his home Suns Rodney Rogers jersey circa 1999 on the floor and lit it on fire. He turned to the Jonas Brothers poster, ripped it off the wall and crumbled it up into a little ball.

“Batter up,” Nash yelled.

“No! I suck at baseball,” the ghost of Lavor Postell exclaimed. “I’m like Michael Jordan if he sucked at basketball.”

Nash grabbed the Febreeze can which he used rid the smell of weed and poo in his apartment. He lit the Jonas Brothers poster ball on fire.

“Wait,” Nash said. “Before I do this, would you like some of the marijuanas?”

The ghost of Lavor Postell smiled. Then he slapped himself in the face. “Hell no…that’s what got me out of the league in the first place.”

Ah, lemon scented, Nash thought as he kissed the can. He sprayed the Febreeze at the flaming ball of the poster of those three flaming brothers. It acted as a flamethrower and basically Nash’s whole home was on fire. The ghost of Lavor Postell was dead…again.

Nash hopped out the fire escape and jumped four feet to the street. “Ahhhh!” he screamed like a little girl.

Still butt naked, he stared at his burning apartment from across the street and shrugged his shoulders. “Eff it,” Nash said. “I gotta get a new place anyway. It was startin to smell like shit.”

Nash’s pants began to vibrate around his ankles. They spoke and played guitar. “I’m hot. You’re cold. And you go around, like you know.” Nash started to Dougie and lip sync the words. “Who I am. But you don’t. You’ve got me on my toes. I’m slippin into the lava…” Nash looked down to inspect his sudden erection. He noticed his pants rumbling.

“Ah that’s right!” Steven cried. “My camo cargo shorts can’t sing. Joe Jonas can sing. Burnin Up for you babay.”

Nash yanked the ringing phone out of his pocket. He screened the call.

“Not now, Mr. Obama, I’m busy,” Nash uttered to himself.

With phone – Verizon LG Chocolate 3 – now in hand, Steven decided to call up his agent and discuss free agency. He tried to poke his agent’s number with his erection, but it started to grow limp before he could press send. If I had a nickel every time Joe Jonas blue balled me, Nash thought.

Pants still down, he used his fingers to hit up his agent. Calling…

A man answered on the other end. He was curt. He didn’t even say hello. “Steve, stop dodging us, you need to publicly apologize for slide tackling Debbie Gibson or your image will be ruined.”

“I want to sign with the Knicks,” Nash replied.

“Steven, we went over this,” the agent said.

“If the Knicks can win by 176 on All-Clyde, then they can win me chizzip.”

“Huh?”

“Get it done or you’re fired,” Nash warned. “I got connects. I can get Scotty Boras.”

“Boras doesn’t represent basketball players,” his agent said.

“Oh good cause I’m a hockey player.” We assume Nash uttered this remark due to the fact that he is Canadian, but it’s entirely possible that he was merely quoting Happy Gilmore.

The agent sighed. “Fuckin’ Jared Dudley,” he said. “I’ll try to get you the mid-level, but with the league appealing the Bird rights…”

Beep beep. Beep beep. Nash was getting another call. It was the President again.

“Hold on, breh, I got B callin.” Nash hung up on his agent and answered Mr. Obama’s call this time.

“Whaaaaazaaaaahhhppppppp?” Nash did his best to sound like those old school Budweiser commercials.

“So, Stevie, how’s Papa Smurf treatin you?” Obama asked.

Nash ripped Papa Smurf and blew smoke into the phone.

Barack Hussein laughed heartily. “Oh that’s rich, that’s rich. So, Stevie, you joining the Bulls next year?” Obama asked. “You know that Omer Asik…”

“Fuck the Bulls and fuck you. I’m voting Ron Paul.” Nash said. “And I’m joining the Knicks!”

Nash turned to the nearest homeless man and gave him a hug and his Verizon Chocolate LG 3. Nash ran into the streets to Dougie naked and sang “Burnin Up” by the Jonas Brothers. He ripped Papa Smurf then grabbed his nuts. “Big Apples!”

“Well, Ron Paul and the Knicks have one thing in common,” President Obama said to a deaf homeless guy. “Neither is winning shit this year.”

Obama lit a massive blunt in the Oval Office -- bud which he bought from Jared Dudley -- and continued to do what every U.S. President since 1963 had done…absolutely nothing.

THE END?

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