Rub dem peepholes boy, you read right: its Oak here, with mo’ shit you needsta know. I’m droppin’ science on yo’ ass today straight from Charlotte, where Oak just got hisself a brand new job. But I gotta come correct, it’s the same damn job I’ve been clockin’ fo’ the last ten years: protectin’ MJ’s ashy ass. See, in faggity-ass times like these, the ability to properly whup a man into damn near flesh-and-tooth sauce is one valuable-ass commodity—which makes The Oakman bigger than US-fuckin’-Steel. Oh, so you think you can throw down? You probably thought you could mash a warm vanilla poonshake too, until Oak had to learn you the fine art of crackerjackin’! Shit. Well since a few of you more respectful young brothers gave props to Oak fo’ that last lesson, I got another one fo’ you. This time, on killing.
1. Small Bitches
The first lesson you needsta jam between yo’ earflaps is to figure out exactly who you fuckin’ with. Sound simple? Try dead-simple, shithouse—you don’t learn this, and any punk with half-a-nut fulla gorilla milk will wear yo' ass like his goddamn Timberland. So let’s start with the easy ones first: small bitches. Now if some skinny rope of a bitch like McGinnis starts yappin’ on his mouthpeice, and you need to jerk a knot in his ass, take Oak’s advice: break his nose. See, you can’t give these puny poons one damn second to gain a licka confidence and think they can earn a rep on you. Bust his beak quick-fast-inahurry, and his eyes’ll water up, blood’ll pour out of his head, and he’ll lose his damn nerve. Then you kill him.
2. Big Bitches
The next brand of bitch you gonna run into comes in X-fuckin’-L. Punks like Barkley. Now, when one of these fat flab-stabbers starts flippin’off at the jibs, you gotta dig in and get yo’ ass ready fo’ a dogfight. Let this super-sized bitch do all the swingin’ early, and tire his ass out. You, on the other-fuckin’-hand, do what I call seasoning a brother—wrap yo’ arms around his gut and squeeze like you’re bustin’ a nut all over a pair of fine-ass chesticles. Straightaway, you’ll start hearin’ ribs poppin’ and breathin’ stoppin’. And take it from Oak, you season this bitch right, and the next time he takes a breath or takes a shit, he’ll feel bleedin’ all up through his insides. Fortunately fo’ his over-sized ass, once you unwrap yo’self from his defenseless trunk, you kill him.
3. Crazy Bitches
The last group you might run into is the worst: crazy bitches. Fo' shiggity. These glass-eating clowns come in all shapes and sizes, but if one of ‘em starts givin’ you the grissel, there’s only one thing to do: outcrazy the motherfucker. But this shit is easier said than done, and here’s where you need sumpin’ from Oak’s big bagga tricks. Not that kinda trick you goddamn donut-puncher! I mean mental trick, like breaking every damn bone in that crazy bitch’s hand. See, I learned this one back at Virginia Union: when some glossy-eyed buckethead steps to you, surprise his ass and offer to shake his hand—then squeeze and twist everything below the wrist like you milkin’ a goddamn’ bull’s teet. It’ll only take a few seconds, and that hand—or what’s fuckin’ left of it, anyway—will feel like some ol’ chicken bones wrapped up in seaweed. Release the blooded stump, then kill him.
Alright son, now you got yo’self some ABC’s on how to air some bitch’s ass out. But while we on the topic, Oak’s got one more piece of advice: You ever think ‘bout steppin’ up on me, I’ll work you over like a Caddy at my carwash—I’ll polish that grill, wax that body nice, and dent your fuckin’ hood by leaving my own damn custom detailing: O-A-K.
Proving the Ewing Theory actually increases proportionately with the Canadian exchange rate, the Raptors made a miraculous rally to qualify for the playoffs after Vince Carter was sidelined for the second half of the 2001-2002 season with a knee injury. 
