best of times, when he was launching numerous airball & brick 3s in the dying days of a Jazz sweep vs the Shaq & kobe Lakers in the playoffs.
I'll never forget Anthony Keidis' tears, as they gently cascaded of his forlorn frown, and puddled onto the cold, unforgiving Delta Center concrete, as he mumbled something about spending time under a bridge or something to that effect.
Ahh yes, the glorious days of the man they called the Pasty Gangster and his muscle bound sidekick, the Postmaster General. It seems as if though it were another lifetime, perhaps before I claimed the current soul & vessel I now occupy. Maybe I was a sorcerers apprentice, or a hunchbacked shoe shine boy, working the busy backstreets of Constantinoples main bazaar. Idk, but man, it sure seems a heckuva long time since the Jazz didnt suck, doesn't it?