Two great tastes that taste great together.

(Montage of Marbury dunking/on the set of Stars On Stars/fitting young urban youths for sensibly priced footwear ends.)

Oprah: (affects Brooklyn accent) Aiight folks, you’ve seen the clips, now let’s meet da man, Stephon Marbury!

(Marbury walks out to applause, Oprah claps and smiles so wide you can see her soul.)

Oprah: They love you! They love you, Steph! Sit on down!

Marbury: What up O. Nice to be here and shit.

Oprah: Gawd, you are TALL, boy! Anybody ever told you that you are a TALL man? Stand on up! Folks–

Marbury: I’m like six-three, tops.

Oprah: –ISN’T HE TALL?

(Audience cheers like idiots.)

Marbury: Y’all need to settle down.

Oprah: Steph, they are just pumped that you are here! Now look at you, dressin’ all fresh! Now that you’re a big ol’ shoe baron you gotta look the part, right?

Marbury: I like these clothes.

Oprah: And you look FABULOUS! Now, you just HAVE to tell me, WHAT is the story with the shoes?

Marbury: Well, they’s called the Starbury, just like me. But I was feelin’, you know, too many kids who don’t have it too good, they gonna drop tons on fresh kicks, or else–

Oprah: UH HUH! AND?

Marbury: –uh, else, you know, they gonna run ’round in ratty sneaks. Starbury shoes is affordable for them shorties with budgets, you know?

Oprah: (eyes bulging, hands on her cheeks) I. LOVE. IT. Folks?

(Wild applause, stagehand throws bucket of raw fish into first three rows.)

Marbury: … that’s fucked up. That why I don’t have no audience on my show, f’real.

Oprah: The show! Why don’t you tell me about the SHOW?

Marbury: Yeah, yeah, well the show–

Oprah: Because let me tell you, I saw a few of them, and you are wonderful, baby! I saw the one with Kobe, and that boy looked like a brown Adonis! When you see him next time, you tell him I got some home remedies I’d like to teach him!

Marbury: Yeah I’ll do that. Cubes was just on too, and some peo–

Oprah: Like, say, if he hurts his knee again, I say forget surgery. I learned this trick where he can just stick his whole leg in me up to the thigh and–

Marbury: What the fuck.

Oprah: I am JUST saying, he could put some gooey glasses on me, any time, no questions asked. What do you say, folks?

(Audiences engages in sycophantic hooting, stagehand jiggles keys to regain their attention.)

Marbury: I’mma need to throw up in the fish bucket.

Oprah: Now what about the BAS. KET. BALL. PLAYOFFS. You know I looove my ball, and since you didn’t even make the playoffs–

Marbury: Fuck you, you cocoa-dipped dump truck.

Oprah: –you MUST have had time to watch some games. And I know you used to play in the A-Z, so what is UP with these suspensions?

Marbury: It’s some bullshit. Basketball’s emotional, son, how you gonna tell guys to sit on a bench like bitches when they boy get hit like–

Oprah: Oooo-OOOH! That STEVE. NASH. I would slather that boy with maple syrup, suck all that tender white meat off him and then eat the marrow right out the bone! Just slurp it up! Mm-MM!

Marbury: Ain’t you married to Steadman or some shit.

Oprah: (affects ludicrous British accent) Starbury, gorgeous, it’s been wonderful having you! Hasn’t he been great, folks? Don’t we just LOVE him?

(Audience spontaneously menstruates in unison, emits high-pitched shrieking that only wolves can hear.)

Marbury: Me and Bassy gon’ be back, and this gon’ be some real shit.

Oprah: When we come back, I’ll talk about The Color Purple for fifteen minutes and you’ll all bark like adorable baby seals! Ow-ow!

League of nations.

At the risk of riling up two very different groups (who probably wouldn’t appreciate being compared to each other), something occurred to me today while sifting through all suspension outrage. The Spurs are the United Arab Emirates of the NBA. And not just because Tony Parker hates freedom.

They’re (ostensibly) highly sanitized, the embodiment of a certain ideal of efficiency, and in possession of some inarguably enviable resources. They’re attractive to the sort of person who’d rather vacation on a man-made island where their investment is guaranteed than take a chance in a naturally exotic locale. They lack true character, but their success pays its own dividends in terms of garnering surprisingly widespread support (viz., the “That guy’s rich, he must be doing something right!” mindset).

All of this in spite of the fact that there is an undeniably ugly side to them that manifests when they’re challenged, one that shatters that facade of sterility, but for the worse and not the better. At first blush they look like they can be a safeguard and entrusted with being a good face for the league (or, say, in charge of protecting America’s ports), but in reality they stand for — and succeed by way of — some very unpleasant things. The fact that Bruce Bowen hasn’t yet cut off the hand of an opponent for posting him up (or, at the very least, kidnapped him and induced some sort of hormone therapy) doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it.