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I’d Trade Kevin Love For A Busch Light

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kevin love

I’d Trade Kevin Love for a Busch Light.

You heard me. Not even a fucking Budweiser. The five cent return has more value than this stone-footed twat.

Last night, in an actual do or die moment for the Cavaliers, the supposed “superstar” showed the grit and hard-nosed attitude of his Beach Boy uncle’s music profile. While floundering his way to two, yes, TWO, points in nearly 38 minutes of playing time, the player formerly known as the “Only hope for the Timberwolves” withered away faster than my career would if my employer ever read these “articles.”

It’s truly amazing what a human being not named Kevin Love can accomplish in 38 minutes. Two of his teammates, LeBron James and Kyrie Irving, for instance, can score 41 points a piece; keeping Cleveland’s hopes of ending the city’s half-century title drought, alive.

Butch O’Hare downed five Japanese bombers; Alex Ovechkin scored a hat trick; Team USA outscored Turkey 77-9, a supposed “amateur” can work her way through a 12-man glory hole; a 747 can fly almost 400 miles per hour. But Kevin Love can score two points.

I can’t decide if it’s what might have been, or what the fuck has happened, that bothers me the most. There was a time Kevin Love was the stat-stuffing machine fantasy players had wet dreams about. The guy averaged a double-double every season since being drafted, showcasing “elite” scoring ability to the tune of nearly thirty a game in 2013.

So, where the fuck did that go? Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence a Love-led T’Wolves team never made the post season, posted a bottom-five point differential every year of his career, and perpetually “pulled a Philly” before it was fashionable to do so.

The Cavs, like so many of us Tinder veterans, shaved their balls and cleaned their apartment expecting a solid 8.5 to practice gymnastics on multiple home surfaces. Instead, they got a probable fast food employee with a free-dangling clit that makes you wonder if sometimes God isn’t too sure, either.

But what hurts even more here, is the fact the Cavs had already “matched” with a 7.5 and the potential for improvement, already on her way over when the Cavs swung for the fences on Mr. Love. I’m of course talking about Andrew Wiggins.

Wiggins, essentially the exact wing defender the Cavs desperately need, with the offensive catastrophe that is the cartoon caricature of 2016 Iman Shumpert, has blossomed into a solid young starter with a decent handle, streaky jumper, and elite athleticism. The Cavaliers, having traded both of their in between LeBron eras #1 overall picks in exchange for their supposed “Chris Bosh” big 3 component, had four years of Wiggins for the price of one with Love, under the NBA’s rookie salary slotting.

While I love living in the past days of glory, it is simply time to move on. Love looks more tentative under the bright lights than an amateur’s first DP scene, producing at a clip making Steve “yes I’m still in the league” Blake look like Magic Johnson.

It’s over. Let Kevin go back to a shit hole he can feel more comfortable in, alleviating the rest of us the lemon in eyes level pain of watching the ongoing catastrophe. While I’m sure someone “aggressive” (read: desperate) in the wake of the upcoming cap explosion will offer slightly (read: A LOT) more than my proposal, if I’m Cavs owner Dan Gilbert I’d let Love walk for a dip out of the luxury tax and the preferred refreshment of low-income 19-year-olds everywhere: Busch Light.

From “superstar” to traded for a singular beer. Haven’t seen a fall this precipitous since, well, me.

Image via YouTube

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