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Stephen Curry All 221 Three-Pointers Full Highlights (2017-18 Season Three-ilation Part I)
As soon as Stephen's fingertip grazed the vibrant green surface of the portal, everything changed. The warning voice of Steve Kerr disappeared from his hearing, and the subterranean cavern disappeared from his sight. He was being pulled through a void of absolute black, and even his own physical being seemed to have vanished out of existence. Either that, or it had been left behind in the previous dimension. When he looked down, the only thing he could see was the magicked Three-Point Shooting Amulet on its chain. It pulsated like it was alive. Stephen knew what was happening. He was going to the realm of the Other Gods. The gods that existed above and beyond the feeble gods of the Earthly religions. The gods to whom the attributions of "omnipresent" and "omniscient" were laughably inadequate. The gods who were outside of time. The gods who were time itself. The gods who would grant him, Stephen, absolute mastery over the amulet. An amulet which he had the skill to create, but not the power to control. For some reason, Stephen's disembodied thoughts turned to his teammate, Klay Thompson. Klay coveted the power of the amulet, but was too simple to fathom its true nature. How pathetic he was, even when judged against the lowly whole of the human race. Stephen knew that he was about to shed his repugnant humanity forever, leaving behind not only Klay, but all of mankind. The black void resolved itself in his eyeless sight. Colors returned, as did his body, which looked the same as its earthly counterpart. He found himself standing on a wide plain that, aside from some distorted rocky outcroppings, was devoid of landmarks. However, he was unsure if the world he was on was real, or just a creation of the Gods, provided to his mind in order to ease his transition to their dimension. The "Magickal Objects…" volume which had provided so much vital information to him had stopped short of any description of the realm of the "Othre Gods", only alluding to its unknowable and sanity-obliterating nature in fearful tones. Perhaps what he was looking at was a mere veneer over a dimension of utter chaos and malignity. Up ahead was a tall mountain crowned by a grand city or palace marked by towering spires and wide arches. Again, it could have been a sort of visual metaphor for the power of the Gods, but that didn't matter much. Stephen had no way to empirically evaluate the realness of his surroundings. He had achieved knowledge greater than all but a scant few humans over the millennia, but there was still so much to learn. And he felt that the city on the mountain was where he would learn it. — The journey to the mountain took a long time, but it also took no time at all. For all of the trappings of the human experience that Stephen still retained, the sensation of the passing of time was not one of them. There was no sun in this world, nullifying humanity's main visual indicator that time was indeed elapsing, and Stephen felt neither fatigue, nor hunger, nor thirst, which was another such indicator. In fact, the only sensation that Stephen could say he "felt" was the amulet dangling against his naked chest. At the base of the mountain, the whole thing seemed much taller, but those gleaming spires were still visible at the top of the steeply-angled rock faces. At first, Stephen looked for some pathway up it, but when he didn't find one, he realized that he probably didn't need one. Boldly placing a foot on the nearly-vertical rock face, he found the footing inexplicably solid. In that way he proceeded upwards at an impossible angle as if it were a stroll upon flat ground. As he got closer, the amulet seemed to sense that it was getting closer to its true origins, and it jittered. Now Stephen stood at the mountain's peak and was faced directly with some of the mysterious architecture of the city. Gargantuan stone blocks, decorated with impossibly fine and detailed inscriptions, comprised the larger walls. The inscriptions aroused a faint flicker of memory in Stephen, and he realized that he had seen them before in his dreams. Among these writings were the instructions that he had used to conduct the ritual that had opened the portal in the first place. If only he could decipher them, he was sure that here also were the instructions needed to gain true mastery over the amulet. But he knew it was no use to dwell at this spot. The Other Gods were not just going to offer those secrets freely. He was still just an interloper in their realm, and they had not forgotten how the amulet had originally been created: with the influences of mankind's foul, false theologies. Even know, Stephen suspected that the effectuation of his demise was being plotted. To his side was a doorway which led into the complex, which could have been one or multiple structures. It opened with just a small push, revealing a lit chamber beyond. Stephen placed one foot inside. Immediately, a slimy black tentacle grabbed him and pulled him in.
James Harden All 265 Three-Pointers Full Highlights (2017-18 Season Three-ilation Part II)
Vikal Tawakal had no idea where he was, or even who he was. In an instant, his simple life in Indonesia had been replaced with something entirely different. His plain bedroom was now an impossibly luxurious chamber fit for royalty, but, more importantly, his mind now inhabited the body of a tall black man. There weren't any black people in Indonesia, but Vikal had seen them in the movies. It was exceedingly strange to actually be one. His body felt strong and powerful, unlike the underfed ten-year-old frame of his previous body. The only thing he didn't like about it was his chin - it itched uncontrollably. He experimentally squeezed his beard with his hands, wondering why anybody would want to have such an unwieldy mass of hair on their face. Vikal only realized there was a woman in his bed when she purred "Come on James, you seemed so insistent earlier..." Oddly, Vikal could understand her words perfectly, even though, again, his only exposure to the English language was through movies. His rumination on the nature of language was short-lived, however, when he noticed what the woman was wearing, or, more accurately, what she wasn't wearing. Vikal had never seen a naked woman before now, and all he could do was stare. Luckily, the woman was very aware of her own beauty, and seemed to relish in the awestruck admiration that she was getting from "James" (whoever he was). At some point, Vikal realized that he should probably be naked too. That was about as far as his understanding of sex went: both people had to be naked. He struggled to peel his t-shirt off over his unexpectedly large biceps, then, when removing his pants and undershorts, found that another part of his anatomy was unexpectedly large as well. For her part, the woman seemed just as impressed with his body as he was of hers. Unsure of what to do next, he clambered onto the oversized bed and lay down on his back. "Oh, you want me to do all the work?" the woman asked in a sultry voice. "I can do that." That sounded good to Vikal, who had no idea what that "work" actually entailed. All he knew is that it would be a lot better than the work he had to do back home. --- After an eternity which had really only been three hours, James was afforded a break. Nearly sprinting out the door of the sweatshop to escape the glue fumes, he breathed deep of the fresh air. He had no idea how his lungs were going to tolerate another full afternoon of that torment. Seeing street vendors selling cold drinks, James hopefully checked the pockets of his pants for money, but found none. What was he supposed to drink then? Was he just going to die of thirst in that sweltering, oppressive place? "No money again? Here." His friend had shown up at his side and was handing him a plastic water bottle. James nodded gratefully and, resisting the urge to down the whole thing, took a hearty swig. His friend took the bottle back and went inside again, but James had to milk his break for all it was worth. He escaped to an alley on the side of the building where there was a little more shade and sat down on the dirt. "Not much fun, is it, James?" Looking up, James saw an old man leaning out of a window above him. "No, not much fun," he replied sullenly. It took him a moment to realize how odd it was to be called by his former name; he had already begun viewing himself as Vikal, the ten-year-old southeast-Asian sweatshop laborer. "Hey, how do you know who I am?" "Let's just say that the swapping of a basketball player and a basketball-shoe maker was not a coincidence," replied the man, flashing a grin that was missing several teeth. "Can you get me back to Houston? I promise that when I get home, I'll do something about the sweatshops. I'll talk to the Adidas guys. I'll put a disclaimer in my Foot Locker commercials. I'll advocate for the abolition of child labor in second-world countries. I'll send an autographed basketball to this Vikal kid." "I can see into your heart, James, and I see that your remorse is genuine. In some sense, you are exploited by shoe executives just like these poverty-stricken children." James was annoyed by this. "Then why not send an Adidas executive instead of me, if my two-hundred-million dollar shoe deal just makes a victim of a twisted global economy?" "I didn't make that decision. That was decided by somebody above me," the old man answered, pointing vaguely up to the sky. "Although sending an Indonesian child into a board meeting would probably have some hilarious side-effects. Anyway, I have a feeling you'll be going home soon." "Really?" James said hopefully. However, there was no time for a response, because, at that moment, everything went black. --- "You didn't last very long," the woman, whose name James couldn't even recall anymore, said with disappointment as she climbed off him. "Yeah, well, at least we don't have to work in illegal sweatshops to line the pockets of millionaires," James replied. "So it's all good."
James Harden All 265 Three-Pointers Full Highlights (2017-18 Season Three-ilation Part I)
James Harden awoke to unfamiliar sounds outside his bedroom. For some reason, he could hear car horns blaring, engines running, the normal background noise of urban life…but he didn't live an urban life. His home in Houston was tucked far back into an exclusive suburban community where the slightest hint of loudness would attract a dozen noise complaints filed with the local police. When he opened his eyes, he found he had a bigger problem than just the unexpected sounds; his richly-furnished bedroom had been replaced with a concrete-walled, uncarpeted, undecorated hovel. His bed, normally appointed with a multitude of pillows and many layers of blankets, now had one simple white sheet atop a lumpy mattress. Just as he was beginning to try to make sense of this situation, he noticed something even more alarming: His beard was missing. The mass of hair that tickled his chin and constantly appeared in the periphery of his vision, conspicuously absent. Now starting to become anxious that he had been kidnapped and forcibly shaved by a terrorist organization of some kind, he went to check for his phone in case it had somehow been left with him. However, when he glimpsed his arm, he let out a gasp of surprise; it was no longer black, but a light brown color. Throwing off the sheets, he saw that the skin color of his arm was not an anomaly, for his entire body was the same shade. "Vikal, come get your breakfast!" yelled a female voice from another room. When James didn't immediately respond to the call, still being extremely confused about the present goings-on, the face of a woman appeared in the doorway. "Stop being lazy and get out of bed! And put on a shirt before coming to the table!" James was aware of a strange dichotomy; the words coming from the woman's mouth were clearly in a different language, but he had no problem understanding them. A hypothesis had formed in his mind, although it didn't offer a satisfactory explanation for his predicament: somehow, his consciousness had been transferred to the body of a young boy somewhere in southeast asia. He wasn't sure if he would be able to speak the language as seamlessly as he could understand it, however, so he obeyed the woman's (his mother's?) command silently, pulling on a loose pair of pants that was on the floor and opening a drawer (the one piece of furniture aside from the bed) to find a small selection of shirts from which to choose. Apparently Vikal had a bad habit of walking around the house only partially-clothed, so James pulled one on and followed the smell of food into the kitchen. The scolding did not stop when James sat down at the table. "Don't you remember how mad the manager was last time you were late? Do I need to remind you that we need that income to buy diapers for your sister?" This statement pierced through James' thoughts, which were all focused on what he might have done to cause this swapping of awarenesses and how he could reverse it. He nodded blankly at his mother, shocked that a boy as young as himself would be made to work a job. To keep up appearances (and to hide his surprise), he sampled the porridge in front of him, trying not to grimace at the unfamiliar flavor. His mom shooed him out the door when he was only half done with his food. James stood in the street, which was packed with foot traffic and the occasional worn-down car honking its way through the throng, unsure which direction he had to go. He thought about just running away somewhere to wait out this weirdness, but guilt over a sister he barely knew prevented him from doing that. "Vikal! Late too? Come on!" shouted a boy about his own age from across the street, somehow spotting Vikal through the mass of people. The boy started running down the street, so James made his way over to him so he could follow. After a few minutes of nimbly dodging between walkers to keep up, they got to a building which looked almost as run down as his house was. A rancid smell was wafting out of the open windows, making his eyes sting. Just inside the open door, James could see a dozen kids his age huddled around workbenches, applying glue and stitching to shoes. So this was his job. Working in a sweatshop to make shoes. On closer inspection, James could see the Adidas logo on some of the finished ones: the same company that he was signed to in his real life. Was that a coincidence? Had he tumbled into a cosmic karma experiment by virtue of using his basketball fame to sell shoes that were made by child labor? Sitting down at an empty seat and covertly watching his coworkers to get some idea of what he was supposed to be doing, James began to work on the shoes. As he smeared glue with his fingers on the precut soles, he suddenly remembered what he had been doing before this had all happened: he had been in his bedroom with an Instagram model whom he had successfully wooed. James wondered how Vikal was dealing with that situation.
Tristan Thompson 15 Points Full Highlights (4/29/2018)
I am certainly not the NBA fan out there who has no idea what is going on with Tristan Thompson and whichever Kardashian he is married(???) to. I don't have enough spare axons to pay attention to celebrity relationships, since so many of them are devoted to holding precious info about NBA scrubs. Scrubs like Tristan Thompson, who has really sucked lately, sucked so bad that he couldn't even get into a couple of the games in this now-completed series. So what better way to win a game seven than to put your DNP-earning scrubby TMZ overpaid cheating Kardashian into the starting lineup? It was a bold move by Lue, and it paid off. Somehow. He can't have known this was going to happen, could he? I think he just got lucky with this rotation decision, but as they say, it's better to be lucky than good. Thompson did what he does in this game: grab rebounds, and finish easy stuff at the rim created by LeBron. That's more than Kevin Love seems to be capable of doing lately, and it's definitely way more than Kendrick Perkins (LMAO) can do. Granted, Thompson hasn't been doing that either, but he did it tonight, and that's all that counts. For now. All clips property of the NBA. No copyright infringement is intended. Check out http://downtobuck.net !
Isaiah Hicks 12 Points Full Highlights (3/17/2018)
Knicks winning percentage when Isaiah Hicks plays 20 or more minutes: 1.000 Knicks winning percentage when Isaiah hicks plays fewer than 20 minutes: does it even matter when the first statistic is so incredible? Just give the man some minutes. God damn. The Hornets didn't have an answer for anything the Knicks did in this game, including the stuff that Hicks was doing. He hit all of his shots, set career-highs across the board (except in blocks), and showed why he is a part of the Knicks' future. Possibly only 10 or so more games of the Knicks' future, but that still counts, doesn't it? Not to rag on him right after he had his best game ever, but he looks a little tubby to me. And tubby players don't often work out in the NBA. He already knows this, I'm sure. But that thumbnail is almost startling. All clips property of the NBA. No copyright infringement is intended. Check out http://downtobuck.net !
Dennis Smith Jr. 25 Points Full Highlights (3/2/2018)
Dennis Smith Jr. can still win ROTY of the year. Don't give up hope, Smithsonians Jr.! I've been doing some research on past winners and what the voters want to see in a candidate, and I've figured out what he needs to do win: - One word: statpadding. I think every prior ROTY winner was a statpadder, except for Malcolm Brogdon and Mike miller. This ties in with a lot of my other points. - More scoring. This goes along with "statpadding", but he needs to go out there and score 20 basically every game from here on out, preferably with a bunch of 30-point efforts and maybe a 60-burger to round things out. A rookie scoring 60 could not be ignored by the award voters. - Tell Mark Cuban to stop blatantly tanking. A few more wins would look great on that ROTY resume. - Kill Ben Simmons. Simmons has the stats advantage, he has the wins advantage, he has the narrative advantage, if there's an advantage to be had, Simmons has it over Smith Jr. To avoid the most serious criminal charges, I would advise he hire a hitman instead of doing the deed himself. - Kill Donovan Mitchell. This one is maybe not as important as the one above, but just to make sure I would incinerate Mitchell with a flamethrower then dump his carbonized body into pre-dug grave somewhere in the middle of rural Texas. - Bribe the voters. The voters like to pretend to have objectivity, but he's a frickin' NBA player with tons of money, you think they won't say no to a couple million smackers apiece? Everything has a price, but he might have to take out some serious loans to fund this operation. That's okay. He's an NBA player, he's got tons of future earnings that will make the banks swoon. So there we go. If he follows this 6-step plan, he'll have a nice piece of hardware that will look super slick next to his numerous future championship rings. All clips property of the NBA. No copyright infringement is intended. Check out http://downtobuck.net !
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