Walter Robert Szczerbiak, my friend, let me tell you something:
You are no Chris Webber.
Besides the fact that he’s bigger, stronger, faster, richer, blacker, better, more coordinated, more endowed and more famous than you — he’s also much, much, much better at calling a timeout that his team doesn’t have.
When Webber did it, the world took notice. The stakes were maxed out. A national title hung in the balance. A worldwide audience watched in disbelief. Dean Smith and Carolina were the beneficiaries of his brainless gaffe.
When you did it Friday night, it was just another way for your shitty-ass team to lose a game that didn’t matter. You were playing against a shorthanded NBA team in February. More people left U.S. Airways Center discussing Shaq’s impending debut than your idiotic bonehead blunder.
It’s like one of those zen koans or whatever you call it. If Wally Szczerbiak fucks up and costs his worthless team another game and nobody gives a shit, does it really matter? And the answer is no, no, no and no.
If what Kevin Calabro said on the broadcast is true and that dickhead P.J. told the team three times that they were out of timeouts before you left the huddle, the maniacal bastard should choke your dumb ass.
Did your dad teach you nothing? How about Miami of Ohio? What the fuck kind of math did you learn down there? 0 + 0 + 0 = 1 glorious, imaginary, cardinal sin of a number? One technical-inducing timeout? At least Webber had an excuse. He was getting paid to play basketball in college. You were supposed to be learning something you dumb son of a bitch.
Wally you fucker, I didn’t like you when you were the dimpled-little-darling pussy that knocked off UW and the Utes on the way to the Sweet 16 or the surprise sixth overall pick in the NBA draft. And now that your bullshit career has somehow placed you in the Northwest, supposedly as a grizzled veteran on a team full of inexperience, with the belief your knowledge of the game will help mold the young and impressionable minds around you — well Wally I guess I can say this with no trace of remorse: I hate your punk ass.
So don’t take it personal. It’s not the $50 million you’ve stolen from NBA owners or the thousands of hot women you’ve banged that I haven’t that pisses me off. No Wally, what really makes me angry, is quotes like these: “It’s no one’s fault.”
You said this after the game, you dimwitted fuckface.
“I just had no idea, and unfortunately the game had to come down to that. Now I know how Chris Webber felt.”
You’re right Wally. It was “no one’s fault.” Because you are the living, breathing, space-wasting definition of no one.
And you’ll never know how Chris Webber feels. Because he’s a badass. And you, Walter Robert Szczerbiak, You are no Chris Webber.
You are nothing.