Like our shark, Mr. Redick, I’ve been afflicted by heightened expectations (or lack of Internet access and moving) and have not recovered my shooting touch (or ability to sit down long enough to pen an analysis) as I run around defending ray allen (carrying fucking boxes left and right). So, like the basketball offseason, I’ll take the weekend, wait with bated breath as Verizon guy comes tuesday, and waste your time with nonlinear poetic analysis.
For now, here’s something better than a shark, a fucking white tiger swimming (by the by, White Tiger, great novel):
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