thelesterlee
This week, the NBA awarded Joel Embiid with the 2022-23 MVP.
All season, there was a debate between back-to-back winner, Nikola Jokic, and his runner-up every year, Embiid.
Well, Joel finally won the trophy and a local Colorado newspaper columnist used this as an opportunity to share some of his weird-ass Jokic fan fiction.
Mark Kiszla of the Denver Post saw Joel Embiid win the MVP and rushed to his laptop to tell the world that he has a huge crush on Jokic.
I wait so long in Denver’s locker room for Jokic to shower, dress and share his self-deprecating pearls of wisdom after a game, I should probably pay rent. But while cooling my jets, I have learned a thing or two. For example: Your Nuggets center has a wicked funny taste in boxers. Underneath the fine and stylish European attire he wears into the arena, Jokic sports wacky underwear that on any given night colorfully celebrates Budweiser the King of Beers, or might be adorned with the face of SpongeBob SquarePants.
After silencing Kevin Durant, Devin Booker and the grousing Suns, who seem to have a beef with a ref after every whistle, Jokic slipped into silly boxers that proclaimed “That’s what she said” across his booty.
Sometimes I feel bad for these old-school journalists whose entire livelihoods have been engulfed by social media platforms and venture capitalists dismantling the newspaper industry and flattening all of the clout these writers built as thought leaders in their local communities.
Guys like Mark Kiszla used to make six figures a year calling Latin baseball players lazy and suggesting every black quarterback coming out of college switch to wide receiver because NFL playbooks are too complicated for their inferior hip-hop brains. The good ol days.
Now, Mark Kiszla is fully mask-off letting everyone know how excited he is to see Nikola Jokic in his underwear in the locker room after games.
Kiszla makes it seem like he doesn’t even watch the games. He waits hours for Jokic to go shower. He spends so much time waiting he should “pay rent”. Freaky ass frog.
Personally, I’ve never wanted to spend time with a naked dude this badly but it’s 2023 and we don’t kink shame here at Deadseriousness.
Sometimes I feel bad for these dweebs. But then sometimes I read their strange work and get pissed. Mark Kiszla wrote this column to declare Jokic as the real MVP this season while claiming the only reason he didn’t get the trophy was ESPN’s racebaiting—even though Embiid led the entire NBA in scoring and is a far superior defender.
It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.
But he then tries to make the argument that Jokic never wanted the MVP and he’s more interested in hugging his daughter which is such an odd feeling to ascribe to another man like, there’s absolutely no way to know how humble or egotistical Jokic is but it would be easy to imagine Jokic as some modest boy from the farms who enjoys a days work and doesn’t care about money or accolades if you were, ya know, writing Tumblr style fan fiction about your NBA crush.
We all know Jokic is the real MVP of Bud-drinking, SpongeBob-loving everyday peeps like you and me.
This is the type of person who is tasked with understanding the pulse of our society.
A guy who thinks the Every Man loves Budweiser and Spongebob.
I am [redacted] years old and do not know anyone whose go-to drink is Budweiser and I certainly don’t know any adult man who thinks about Spongebob more than like, 2-3 times a year.
We have things to do.
We can’t spend hours wondering if Jokic is going to wear his Spongebob boxers when he eventually gets out of the shower.
Mark Kiszla has health insurance and I don’t because these dying brands are shitting off money so he can write about Nikola Jokic’s bussy for an audience of their geriatric parents and their geriatric parent’s geriatric friends whose only exercise is walking down to the end of the driveway to pick up the same newspaper they’ve been subscribed to since the 70s.
But damn, sometimes I feel bad for these obsolete psychopaths because my brain is incapable of looking at a blank page and forcing my fingers to fill that blank page with glowing, borderline homoerotic praise of an NBA player’s underwear.
I am jealous of Mark.
My goal is to reach his level of cringe.
You write about great athletes for decades and at a certain point, the only way to distinguish them in your head is to differentiate which ones you want to kiss on the mouth.
And then have the Denver Post send a direct deposit every Friday for it. Goals.
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