Here we are, everyone. 2017. The New Age of Rudeness, Crudeness, and Bad Attitudeness. Donald Trump in the White House, a neverending stream of obscenity available on everyone's phone at all times, like the novels of Jane Austen, the finest observations of MANNERS thus far constructed, perverted with nonsensical violent supernatural elements. Humans tried being decent. We tried manners. And we all decided, all at the same time, to just throw it all underneath the bus and live like filthy rats, our paws covered in shit, out faces slashed open by insults, our tails dragging behind us, caked in soot and grease and powdered sugar, acquired in the dumpster behind a donut shoppe.And as if we weren't deep enough in this shithole, as if the idea of even ONE SPACE for COMMON DECENCY was OFFENSIVE to the TENOR OF THE AGES, here comes Nick Young. Things were going pretty well for Nick, up until now. Sure, he has spent most of his career insulting the very idea of basketball, jerking up his dumb-ass shots, peddling his nicknames—his filthy, absurd, unforgivably self-given nicknames. But this year, he was a changed man. He played some defense. He coiled off some screens. He was an unlikely mentor, a small motor of light helping a young Los Angeles Lakers team take a step into their future.But ALL OF THAT IS DONE NOW, because of this, the single most disgusting nonsense I've ever seen in my life. Drilling a three-pointer and making several little crotch thrusts, in view of collected children and the decent, churchgoing people of Los Angeles, as well as Jesus Christ himself, shaking his head sadly and disapprovingly; and Zeus, cleaning his thunderbolts and preparing to throw them at whoever might oppose Hector or whoever; and the Buddha's spirit, flowing through all who practice the dharma, now feeling itself yanked back to the earth through the world's collective aversion to this nightmare. No one deserves to see Young's nonsense, least of all just because they were watching a basketball game.It will shock you to hear that, I, Corbin Smith—a decent person who is just trying to watch some basketball with a sweater on—was staying in, sipping a cup of hot coco and cleaning my nicest monocle, just trying to enjoy a Memphis Grizzlies game, take in some subtle flip shots and delightfully unexpected and light and airy and sweet three pointers from my all-time favorite player, Marc Gasol, when all of a sudden, I look up from my hands and their polishing work and …… I yelp in terror and madness, every hair on my body standing on end, my screams so strained and terrified that my throat can only make the faintest of yelps. I lose control of every part of my body. I drop my monocle in my coco. I urinate slightly. Blood rushes into my face, my whole body subsumed by embarrassment and disgust, and when it leaves I pass out, right there on my yoga ball.My dreams are terrifying. I am walking on a train track. Chugga. Chugga. Chugga. Chugga. I look left. Nothing. I look right. Nothing. I try to step off the track, but I cannot. The chuggas are getting louder. My sight is plunged into darkness. I close my eyes. CHUGGA. CHUGGA. CHUGGA. It's there, right in front of me. I can hear it. I open my eyes. It's there, speeding towards me at a million miles an hour:I feel Nick Young's Butt, the size of a car, hovering in front of my face. It moves. Up. Down. I swear I feel nylon shorts graze my nose. I scream. I start awake, my arms flail, knocking my coco and my monocle across the room. I am sweating through my clothes, soaked and cold and afraid of that butt, the butt that haunts me and all decent people who were watching NBA TV at, like, 8:00 Western on a Tuesday night.Why did you do this to me, Nick Young? Why did you do this to us, to society? Will we ever have decency again? Is Jane Austen's dream of a polite world TRULY dead, now?At the very least, it's time for Adam Silver and Congress to slap a parental advisory sticker on Nick Young's butt. It's the only decent thing to do.
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