The Flagrancy

Dubious Raptor Moment #9

May 2001: Vince Carter attends graduation ceremony
Vince Carter's decision to attend his North Carolina commencement on the same day the Raptors played Game 7 in Philadelphia remains arguably the most divisive moment in team history.  Since both sides felt so strongly about Carter’s polarizing choice, we have decided to present both points of view.  Carter himself will first defend his controversial decision, followed by a counter-argument from former teammate, Charles Oakley.

I Am an NBA Role Model
Point by Vince Carter
May 20th, 2001 was one of the proudest days of my life.  Not only was I playing in the NBA playoffs, but I fulfilled an important promise that I made to my mother years ago: to graduate from college.  My decision to attend the ceremony and wear my Carolina blues one last time allowed me to not only celebrate this achievement, but it also allowed me to do something even more special—be a strong role model.  See, it is important for NBA players to ensure that young people understand the value of education, and for the NBA itself to support academic institutions.  And if my decision made just one more child dream about going to college, well…that means more to me than any basketball game.

You Are a Fucking Pussy
Counterpoint by Charles Oakley

Are you fuckin’ with me you ankle-grabbin’ scrote-throater?  And here I thought the 5 years since that game would have wised up your faggity-ass to your mistake.  For one, this is the NBA, not mothafuckin’ Reach For The Top—The League is about makin’ goddamn benjamins, not learnin’ dumb-ass kids.  Take that last rule uppin’ the age of players getting drafted—you actually think that’s to help schools?  Give that crotch-divin’ head of yours a shake!  That’s to keep peckerwood GMs from blowin’ their wads on young bitches who don’t have the grissel to play in a man’s league.  Bitches like you.  But fo shiggity, Oak will give you props for going back south and getting that degree, but struttin’ yo’ jigglywack ass across the stage?  That shit was straight-up Hollywood!  And what kind of role model you think you were that day, son?  What those goddamn silver spoons needed to have rammed through their earholes was to get off their gravy-catchin’ asses and get a mothafuckin’ job.  And you?  You actually had a job, and decided to skip work on the most important day for the company. Nice fuckin’ role model.

That’s why when Oak gave the keynote address at Virginia Union last year, I didn’t just go off flippin’ at the jibs, I served my shit straight: “The world is filled with pussies and liars, and right now, you’re probably one of them.  But you have a choice: you can go through life easily, swayin’ with your weak-ass backbone and values, or, you can look life in straight in the grill, and let it know that it can come at you anytime…and it may even knock you down…but not before it gets its mothafuckin’ ass fanned out first.”

Dubious Raptor Moment #23

October-December 2000:  Charles Oakley picks pre-game fights
- By Charles Oakley

“Pimpin' ain't easy. Pimpin' ain't dead. The ho's are just scared”

Only on a pussy-ass team like the Raptors would whuppin’ two gobler-basters not worth their grissel qualify as a dubious muthafuckin’ moment.  But I should have expected this shit.  When I rolled up into Toronto in ‘98, the only pimp on the team was Jackie Christie, and the ho’s weren’t scared one goddamn bit.  That shit needed to change.

So what did I do?  Whup ass is what.

First there was Jeff McGinnis.  But fo’ real, when word spread that this bitch was trying to move in on this fine Blaxican trick I was hittin’ at the time, I had no goddamn choice. You try to flab-stab another man’s chickenhead, you deserve to get your ass fanned out.  That said, I didn’t plan on beatin’ in his ass during the pre-game, I planned on beatin’ his ass the first fuckin’ time I saw it. 

Then there was Tyrone Hill.  Now the only thing this cootchie-ripper could do worse than shoot free throws was shoot dice.  I barely took off my fur coat at his stank-ass crib in Phillie and I was already up $54,000.  But fitty-k plus no-pay equals you getting your fuckin’ wig split son, even if you do serve me some fine-ass ribs.  When he showed up in Toronto without my money, his ass should have known better.

So next season, when some punk throws T.J. Ford’s surgically repaired ass to the ground and Jorge Garbajosa’s pimp-hand stays stuck at his side, ask yourself: are the ho’s scared now?

- Oak

P.S.  Blue Baller, you even think about asking me to write one more muthafuckin’ story for this piece of shit website, you’ll wish all your peckerwood ass got was a RickBrunson.com cease and desist letter.

Oak on Killing

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.

On White Women

By Charles Oakley

Oak here.  Yeah, that Oak—I ain’t go no where.  This tree’s got some roots boy, I’m still standing, just might be startin’ to sway a little bit.  I know I ain’t gettin’ any younger.  This chicken might’ve laid its last egg in the League, but it don’t mean it’s laid its last damn chickenhead.  I ain’t talking bout laying out bitches like Hill or McGinnis—I still throw bows and bloody fros of those punk-ass clowns—I’m talking bitches with pink toes and shaved ho’s.  That’s right, I’m talkin’ white women.  See, I don’t have them running legs to get up and down the floor no more like these kids today, but Oak knows more about what it takes to sex up a coal burning cracker than anyone in the NBA.  Real good too.  And since I got a few more rings around my trunk these days, I thought I’d pass along a few of my secrets to all you young brothers out there who might want do some snow flakin’,  Charles Oakley-style.

#1.  Remind her you’re black
Sound dumb?  Then you’re dumb, punk.  You probably don’t know polo from lolo, let alone what it takes to mash a fine European ho.  Listen here: at night, what does your white woman do when she goes on off to bed?  She closes her damn eyes is what.  That’s right, even when it’s nighttime your cracker wants it blacker.  And take it from Oak, you gotta be midnight.  This ain’t so much for when you first start hittin’ them lily skins—I’ll get to that—it’s for when she starts getting all comfortable, coming with that “aren’t we all just the same” shit.  Take if from Oak, when she starts in on that, you remind her what time it is: “Ain’t only one of us here that can scare the hell out of old white women, like yo mama…”  She’ll love yo ass for it. 

Secret #2.  Remind her she’s white
After you wear this white dicksock a few times, she’s gonna start thinking she’s all down.  Happens every the time.  First she’ll start flipping to BET, then she’ll start singing along to your rap joints, next she’ll be talking all black poli-tricks.  Listen, you can burn up a marshmallow, but it don’t make it chocolate—it’s just crusty.  So when she goes from Gap to Sean Jean, take Oak’s advice: bust a nut on that high-water booty, and tell her to clean it up—you always wanted a white maid.   

Secret #3.  Wear fur
Touch is one powerful-ass sensation.  And touching fur?  That shit is like Caucasian crack for any sorority-bred white girl.  See, all these chickens have grown up wanting to wear one, but they’re too damn afraid.  If Tiffany goes off to the mall wearing some mink that’s whiter than she is, she’s gotta watch out for some crazy-ass red paint attack, but when I wear one at my car wash, all I get is white women to mack straight on Oak’s chocolate ball sack.  The secret?  Let her rub all up on you and that damn fur, but when she asks to wear it, don’t let her.  Ever.

There’s the secrets boy, it’s up to you now.  See, all these honkey ho’s want to get down and dirty with a brother, so you just got to work that balance of telling her she’s bad, while letting her know you the baddest.  And I should know.  No one’s badder than Oak.