Fakin Da Funk VI: Griffin ON Mozgov -- Blake and The Fat Man

Egged on by his pudgy peer, Blake Griffin gives new meaning to the term "facial features."


November 20, 2010, 6:30 PM EST

Los Angeles, California

Staples Center, Clippers locker room

“I can’t play tonight, boss. My knee is still badly swollen.”

“That’s not all that’s badly swollen. Look at yourself, Baron!” The silver-haired man looks down in disgust at the rotund point guard, now woofing down the last morsels of his 4x4 cheeseburger. “What kind of role model are you to the young men on this team? This is not what we’re paying you to do!”

“No, you look, Donnie, my job is to heal up and get these boys winning again. Yyyyour jobs…” Baron Davis pauses to grab a pinch of his Animal Fries. “…are to keep the eyes of your nightly harem away from our 'beautiful black bodies' while we're dropping soap in the shower and, oh, to sign my paychecks. Novel concept, huh? I hear Dunleavy Sr.’s in shape, have you signed his checks yet?” As his team’s miffed owner waves him off and saunters out of the locker room in disgust, Davis offers one last parting shot. “Don’t you have some sweatshops to attend to or something? Friggin’ owners. Hey, yo, Griff, come here!”

The Clippers’ 6’10” manchild, Blake Griffin, saddles up beside his self-appointed mentor. Davis backhand slaps him in the bicep, leaving Griffin to wipe off some In-N-Out spread himself.

“I keep telling you, son, you’re supposed to be covering for me when I’m back here eating dinner. That’s you and Aminu’s main job, aside from the Krispy Kreme runs. You like old bigoted dudes running up on you and glaring while you chow down?”

“I’m not a rookie anymore,” Griffin retorts, only to hear his protest mimicked in a chiding manner by Davis. 

“Please, that’s bunk. They’re not making up a Sophomore of the Year award for you just because you were out last year! Besides, you know who’s coming after your Rookie of the Year award tonight, don’t you?”

“Umm... Landry Fields?”

“Nah,” Baron sucks through the last sip of his Neapolitan shake. “Good guess, though. That Moscow dude… Timothy or something like that. I dunno what the phrase for ‘hot sh*t’ is in Russia, but he think he that, because he was killin’ fools over there in Eurobasket. Your dude Amar’e tells me that they getting ready to put him on. Major minutes, since they know Eddy Curry ain’t gonna play, he’s so out of... never mind. Look,” Baron pokes Blake’s arm again, causing Blake to instinctively check for spread. “You need to get out there and show Moscow Man how we do!”

“I heard you posterized a Russian or two back in your day,” Griffin says, smirking.

“Back in my DAY? To hell with you!” Davis smirks. “But thank you for bringing that up, because it brings me to my next point. I keep telling you, you need to keep getting more like me… Why you looking at me like that? I’m serious! We got parallel paths, Griff. High School All-American dunk contest champs, tore up our knees in our freshman years... we kindred spirits, right?”

“Now, I need you to go out there and be Baron Davis tonight. The Donald wants Baron Davis out there tonight, and dammit, he’s gonna get Baron Davis -- through you. Be reckless, fearless! Hot dog it a little, drop some fancy dimes tonight, don’t worry about turnovers. And if you got an open shot, take it. B-Diddy Ball!”  Davis pauses to finally employ a napkin. “Oh, and my big ‘come-up’ dunk in the NBA was actually on K.G.... ‘back in MY day.’ It’s time you go get yours.”

“You’re not talking about Amar’e, right? I was invited to his skills academy camp in college. I ain’t posterizing him.”

“Amar’e? He’s smart enough to know when to get outta the way, so you’ll be left with dudes like Gallnari at the rim. Or better yet, that Russian kid. Speaking of Russians, though, that brings up my last point. You know I’m lookin’ out for ya, right... what’s goin’ on with this?” Baron gestures his fingers in a circular motion around his face.

Griffin sighs, and facepalms. “We talking about my skin again?”

“Of course, man. You ever see a 40-year-old cat with freckles? It’s sad, man, sad. Not a good look. Seriously, you don’t wanna be that guy.”

“Okay, I know, and we talked about this. I got the lemon rinds and the sour cream thing going… anyway, where are you going with this? What’s all that got to do with Russians?”

“I was at a beach party a few weeks before The Emmy Awards, and my homeboy’s girl Jessica Alba tipped me off about this skin cream they use over in Russia. I hear it’s all the rage on Rodeo Drive. She says it makes freckles disappear.”

Griffin's eyes widen. “For real?”

“For real, for real! They got all kinds of good product over there, man, and it’s all placenta-based… No, stop making that face, it ain’t gross at all! Smoothes all that skin out. J-Lo swears by it. And they got products for men, too. They got this conditioner that totally relaxes your hair. You know how AK-47 went from looking like Sonic the Hedgehog to one of those Partridge Family girls?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess... Wow.” Characteristic of most of his conversations with his mentor, Griffin's face reflects a mix of bewilderment and skepticism.

“Listen, the stuff works, man. It would take care of all that red Brillo-pad stuff you got up there. You know what? I bet you twelve dozen Krispy Kremes that the Moscow kid is using it right now.”

“Well, I'm not gonna just run up and ask him, so…”

“You don’t have to. Just while you’re out there, when he tries to foul you, rub his head and find out. Bet you can tell. If I’m wrong, I’ll put another 20 smacks into that child obesity thing you got going.”

“Alright, deal, bruh.” Griffin heads back to his locker.

“And one last thing, Griff. I got four words for you. Chocolate. Iced. With. Sprinkles.”

~iyf

Fakin Da Funk IV: Baron on AK-47 (FROM AMERICA, WITH LOVE)

After putting the Monster Mash on AK-47 in the Playoffs, a guard with mad hops gets to Mash something else.  It’s all part of “The Deal…”

DATELINE – Saturday, May 12, 2007, 5:19 AM PST

Hilton Oakland Airport Hotel - Oakland, California

It’s five a.m., and no, there was no good night’s sleep for Mr. Andrei Kirilenko.  Tossing and turning on the bed at his grungy Oakland hotel, he couldn’t get any winks.  Just hours removed from a grueling playoff loss to the Warriors, Andrei is flipping disdainfully through the meager porn offerings on the hotel’s on-demand TV network, doing his best to avoid SportsCenter.  At a ridiculously long postgame press conference, he was pretty coy with reporters who were seemingly more interested in the details of a meaningless garbage-time play than the game itself.

"I think I was late on the help. That's why I got dunked on. At least I got on the poster."

Would’ve been nice had he gotten back to the room and had his lovely wife waiting for him.  Alas, Mrs. K wasn’t having it on this night.  She wasn’t giving it, either.

His better half, Masha, stumbles through the door.  She’s sauntering gingerly into the hotel room, hair disheveled, lipstick smudged and, as best as Andrei could tell, a tad bowlegged.  What in blazes was so exciting about Oaktown nightlife that had Mrs. Kirilenko running the streets until five in the morning?

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Miss Lopatova,” he bellows to Masha, rubbing the back of her head as if someone’s been tugging at her hair.

“Andrei, sweetie… you remember we made that Deal, right?”

Up to now, The Deal always seemed to work out quite nicely for AK-47.  At a time when fellow NBA young bucks are saddled with alimony payments, baby-daddy paternity suits and DNA tests, tempestuous underage babysitters, strip-club fight wounds, money-grubbing rape accusations, and smoldering spouses with ridiculously short leashes, Andrei Kirilenko has himself a Deal.  One ensuring wedded bliss for he and wifey for as long as they both shall live.  It seems that the prenup arrangement includes a clause that allows AK a little, shall we say, wiggle room in the bedroom.  Specifically, once a calendar year at any time, Andrei is allowed to cheat.  With whomever, whenever.  No pre-approval, no questions asked, no guilt trips.

“What’s forbidden is always desirable,” Masha explained when The Deal got leaked to a reporter.  “And athletes, particularly men, are susceptible to all the things they are offered.  It’s the same way raising children.  If I tell my child. ‘No pizza, no pizza,’ what does he want more than anything? Pizza.”  So, she figures, what’s wrong with her hubby coveting an occasional pizza pie, or a piece o’ tail, every once in awhile?

It is an agreement that causes almost every red-blooded American male to pause and bow, to bestow praise to the Russian supermodel for this noble and flexible approach to lifelong fidelity… and every red-faced American woman to roll her eyes in disgust. Masha, Masha, Masha!

But with all the media hype over the leaking of this clause, there’s another half of The Deal that no one bothered to ask about.  One that only Masha knows quite well.  In return for being so flexible, The Missus gets one lifetime chance to find a man who’ll do her right… for one night only.

Just weeks ago, it was at the grand opening of her new fashion shop in The Gateway shopping plaza in downtown Salt Lake when Masha had a notion to cash in on her end of The Deal.  She had just opened a boutique for tall men and women to find stylish yet casual clothing, not an easy find outside of L.A. or Vegas.  Part of her business strategy was particularly to cater to NBA players passing through, a public relations ploy sure to attract other well-heeled customers in turn.  Well, one particular pro-baller who stopped by, got a pair of customized and perfectly-tailored jeans, and bought a fedora with bullets in it, offered the voluptuous shopkeeper and part-time pin-up model quite a tip.  Oh, and a phone number.  The note with the number read, “You’ll Know When to Call Me.  I’ll Send You a Signal.”

Now, while at the hotel peeking at the conference semis Game 3, between episodes of "Martha Stewart Living," Masha fixes her eyes on Fedora Man.  Up by a comfortable 20 points with just minutes to spare, almost as though he knew she was watching, he decided the time was ripe to send out The Signal.  He blew past the flailing Jazz guard Deron Williams on the left wing, drove to the hoop and illustriously sacked her Russian husband as if he was getting revenge for Apollo Creed in Rocky IV.  Game Over.

Photographers and cameramen around the arena must have sensed the tremors before the Quake, because they caught shots of this utter destruction, in progress, from every conceivable angle.

As the Oracle Arena erupted in joy, he inexplicably pulled out his jersey, “poppin’ the collar” from the waist up. 

With the momentum of Game 3 now decidedly in the Warriors hands, the crowd thought it meant the night was over for their superstar.  But Fedora Man suspected his night was just beginning.  As Stephen Jackson dusts off the Bay Area’s Man of the Hour, Masha scrambles to find her cellphone... and her little black dress.

“Is that a… a… how do they say… a hickey?”  Andrei is standing there dumbfounded, mouth agape, trying to find the words as Masha persistently realigned her bra straps.  “I can’t believe you cashed in already.  But with who?”

“Now remember the rules, dahling, no questions asked!” reminded Masha, now realigning her jaw.  “But, if you really wanna know… that’s his car revving up outside.”  With his curiosity killing him, Andrei makes a dash to the drapes and peers down to the street.  Sputtering off into the dawn was a golden Mercedes. Twenty-two-inch rims.  And a California custom tag that appeared to read, “BDIDDY5.”

Fedora Man strikes again. Hey, Fedora Man, how many times did you hit that last night?

Wow. Impressive!

“You were with HIM?” Andrei didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this latest cruel twist of fate.  “That’s like, how they say, ‘Sleeping With The Enemy!’… Nyet, I don’t want to hear anything more – no wait, I do wanna know why!”

“I was watching the game tonight, and, well, you know how I value honesty,” Masha said, taking a deep breath after rubbing the sides of her mouth clean with her thumb.  “Now I know you won’t take offense, but quite frankly, I suspected… and now know for sure… that Baron can take me higher… farther… to places you’ve never been, Andrei.”  For a minute, he thought she was referring to the square atop the rim.  “Plus, you know us Russian women like a man with big, scruffy beard.”  Now that he could acknowledge.  Indeed, compared to his furless chin, Baron indeed had quite a Flavor Saver on him.

“Now, all the ladies you’ve been with over the years,” Masha queries, her attempt to brush through Andrei’s hedgehog hairdo causing him to recoil, “has anyone popped them in the nose, keyed their car, or tried to go after them?”  Andrei sighed, rolled his eyes, then nodded his head in the negative.  “So I can expect you and your friends won’t do anything to harm my high-flying American baboushka, nyet?”

Andrei rubbed his chin, and pondered aloud, in his best Drago impersonation, “I MUST BREAK HIM.”  Then he laughed.  “Well, I do have connections.  Us Russian men do know how to make people disappear, you know!  At least let me get him a little sick, like my man Nikolay does it!”

Before she got nervous, he grinned and said, “Nah, I’ll get your little baboushka back on basketball terms when we get back to SLC for Game 5.”

“But look, I have a proposal to modify The Deal a little.  Last night I was watching… well, never mind that… but anyways there was a commercial for a product called Elongawoodie…”

“I know about that, I almost bought you a case.”

“Oh, yes, thanks a lot, lovey!  Well, I’ll buy it myself, a lifetime supply, IF you allow me to cash in one extra time this year, just this once.  You see, Anna Kournikova was on the sideline at the Laker game, and…”

“Deal!”

Drei would eventually have his day, after dispatching Golden State from the conference semis and eventually getting the tennis-star hookup he desired in the offseason.  But Masha is always quick to remind him, pills or no pills, who can take her higher.  She blogged recently about her ongoing friendship with another Warrior who scores occasionally, albeit in the traditional sense. 

“I was so happy for my friend Al Harrington who scored 38 last night!  Al is a great guy.  We were on vacation in France this summer.  We were playing Charades on the boat and he was supposed to show the word ‘cucumber.’  He had no luck expressing or acting out the word ‘cucumber.’”

As Al held his forefingers out about a foot apart in a lame attempt to depict the vegetable, a vodka-influenced Masha absorbed a bony elbow in her side from her significant other after blurting out,”

“BARON DAVIS!”

The awkward thing is both Kirilenkos knew she deserved at least partial credit for her answer.

~iyf