On May seventh I received a reader submission from New York City. It was scratched onto aged parchment with what I believe to be bile. It was signed by someone identifying as "Ron's nephew." The signature was displayed in angular, aggressively tinged bubble letters. I present the letter with the respect it deserves:

Honor those who maintain this page by honoring the men who carry their memory. These rockets resemble a hard elbow to throat stick-to-itiveness that was only possessed by their competitors. Kobe doesn’t know Artest (auto-spell automatically changes it to ‘arrest’). Kobe is still under the belief that the borough president can be nudged, inciting an ejection. That was Artest.  He’s Mason tipping to Oakley. He’s a flat footed jumper without a second thought. He's matured and he's mastered the aesthetic (with the help of Boogie, in every possible aspect). He's a return to hard defense of the mid 90s to the point where he excites those around him. 

Attached was a clipping of a grunge era Anthony Mason complete with the words "one hand" shaved into his 'do. Connecting the authors flippant tone to the strong armed and intimidating subject matter, Mason's hair , as per usual, serves to unify a mildly sarcastic blog post.