I’m a few days late but the party’s still cooking, like Carnival come late or San Fermin come early; more casket-side jazz than Chano Pozo’s funeral: that douche bag Jeff Foster is finally out of the NBA.
Jeff Foster is, was, and maybe always will be my least favorite basketball player. As of Wednesday, he’s gone. Gone; regrettably not forgotten. I hate this idiot, and not just because he’s been driving a sports car since his sophomore year of High School, and not just because he was President of his High School’s Future Business Leaders of America club, and not just because he was the bad guy in countless sub-par 80′s teen comedies (smug fucking smile with the goddamn sweater tied around his whole milk country club shoulders), and not just because his nickname is ‘Money Bags’, and not just because this is how he plays defense (and offense), and not just because he’s exactly like Reggie Evans but no one ever makes the comparison because one is white and one is black and we’re only allowed to compare athletes of the same race, and not just because he spent 13 years in the NBA and I haven’t spent 1 (yet), and not just because he was teammates with Big Smooth himself, Sam Perkins, and not just because he is, without fail, the most annoying opposing basketball player that God has ever deigned to submit into the NBA.
Actually that is why.