Aim Lower Next Time
By: Chicago center Eddy Curry


I found the act of both the players and the fans on Friday night at the Palace of Auburn Hills to be disgusting! However, I do have a few choice words for both parties. When a ruckus breaks out, the first thing you need to do is put together a game plan. What should I do? Will this get me in very much trouble? Do my teammates need me?

And how can I punch this guy in the balls?

All in all, I have to say that I’m pretty disappointed that everybody came out of that brawl with testicles that were neither swollen nor discolored. The whole event was pretty surreal and I’m still in awe of what took place. But seriously, why not get at least one good punch to the nads in? You know you’re going to be suspended anyway. I mean, you can’t just go running into the stands, right? Might as well go all out!

In all honesty, I think Ron Artest had the right idea. If someone throws beer at me then I can’t help but just punch someone in the nuts. It’s second nature to me. But going after a guy in the stands just seems kind of weird to me and hitting someone in the face seems kind of harsh. I don’t want to fuck a guy’s face up or anything; I just really want to punch him in the balls. Is there anything more satisfying than that? Besides actually asking for a max contract extension with a straight face when you know you’ve been out of shape every single year you’ve participated in the NBA? Jerry West is still trying to trade for me! And I’m still trying to figure out what all those numbers mean on the side of these cereal boxes. Carbohydrates? Does it pack a punch? In the nads?

"Thanks to me you now see the two-handed jumper being cool now as well as full-court brawls!"

Anyway, back to the fight. I keep watching the replay and it’s even more evident to me that these fans are just boneheads. Don’t you guys know that NBA players don’t wear cups? If I have Stephen Jackson running at me the first thing I do is not move my feet and foul him. If I were a fan I would compliment him on his Coolio hair. But if I’m a fan and he’s coming at me? A punch to the balls is the only real solution I can come up with. I mean sure, if Jackson gets his forearm shiver to connect with my gelatinous jaw then I may not have enough oomph in my testicle kick but it has to be enough to stun him. I think the first thing I’d do is point in the opposite direction and say, “Look, Stephen! A max contract offer from the Spurs!” When he turns his head I would then reach for his balls with great anticipation. The kind of anticipation you feel when you give a very special lady your first kiss. The kind of anticipation you feel when you stick your hand down her pants 5 minutes later. The same kind of anticipation when you forget to pull out and you already know a paternity suit is heading your way. And once I have a hold on those mighty testes I will stomp on them as though they contained that magical maximum contract extension :0)

I don’t think anyone knows how great it feels to punch a man square in the nuts. Do you know what it feels like to scratch off some winning numbers on a lottery ticket? Or finding out that you really don’t have herpes? It’s definitely comparable. When I was on the opposite side of the court and saw Antonio Davis take Brendan Haywood down to the floor my eyes just lit up. It felt as though Christmas had finally arrived and I had been deprived for many years. With my eyes on the prize, I raced toward Brendan with sheer delight. As I approached Haywood, a million images flashed before my eyes. Candy. Birthday cake. Italian sausage. World peace. Carmen Electra. Freedom. Those little squares of caramel that you can only find in some little kid’s sack of Halloween candy. Hot fudge. Pork. I could go on and on but I think you’d get bored reading about everything I was thinking about. Either that or awfully hungry!

"High hopes! This article also features future all-stars Kwame Brown, Todd Fuller and Bo Kimble"

As I spread Mr. Haywood’s legs open, much like opening an oyster to get to that wonderful prize known as the pearl, a tear started for form in my eye. For a split second there, everything seemed right in the world. Racial harmony was a reality. Gas prices had dropped. Terrorism was abolished. Fat kids were no longer being ridiculed. Underachieving NBA centers were given the money they sulked about and did not deserve. Just genuine good times. Is this how Martin Luther King felt before giving a speech? How does this not bring a tear to your eye? Isn’t this what America is all about? Seeing a grown man’s legs spread apart and his balls just staring you in the face?

Tempting you.

Stalking you.

Fans, why didn’t you do it? Are you scared of what kind of joy you would attain from doing so? Do you need practice? Don’t be afraid. Grasp it. Feel it. This is my religion and my anti-drug.

Seeing Brendan’s balls taunting me was a religious experience, to say the least. It was a shining moment in my life. To have everything you have ever worked for in your life just displayed right in front of you for the taking is some kind of wonderful. It’s indescribable. Like reaching for some poor defenseless 19-year-old girl’s panties and ripping them off with one swift tug and robbing her of her virginity. But I digress.

As I reached back to plow my fist into the heart of Brendan Haywood’s manhood, I felt as though, within my first, I was carrying the power of thousands of men who, like me, share my joy. The joy of punching another adult male in his genital region. Into the epicenter of freedom, if you will. Punching Brendan in the balls is my expression of freedom. Where else can something this great ever happen?


Ramming my closed-first into Haywood’s groin was utter ecstasy. I really do think that I did release semen into my game shorts. Sheer glee is all I can say. Wow. Is this what achieving really feels like? I can definitely get used to this!

Detroit fans, I want you to take note. Next time Rasheed Wallace comes at you to hold a player like Ron Artest back I just want you to stop and think. Is an opportunity slipping by? Will I ever get a chance to punch Ron Artest in his big crazy 24ppg balls ever again?

And will I ever actually sit and read a 1,161-word article on Brendan Haywood’s testicles again?