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Clipper Cooper Talks Tech

What's up skanks? It's me Clipper Cooper.

I dictated this over my iPhone (I have the Platinum 3G, the one Steve Jobs carries) to a Barking Carnival stooge because I just had a manicure and I didn't want the cuticle risk.

And because I CAN. Sometimes if I don't want to go to the blog I make them print out pdf files of their articles and fax them to my secretary.

My Daddy says give a man some venture capital and his pecker is in your pocket. I had a fraternity brother in Mexico find out that there are other ways to get a man's pecker in your pocket, but that's another story! Oh, Parker. I hope you're not reading this!

Ha ha ha ha!

We have a game this weekend against Texas Tech and that's a school I don't know much about. It's basically a school for poor dirty kids. Like SMU or Grambling. Yes, it is true I applied to their law school, but they claimed that seven years at Texas and a 2.2 GPA didn't cut the mustard. They changed their tune after Daddy called. The Cooper name is very powerful. The Cooper name is like a tsunami of power and good taste. And their Red Raider floaties could not save them.

I have an awesome analogy about this game. Probably the best you've ever experienced. You should probably fax it to all of your friends.

Playing Texas Tech is basically like playing basketball with your girlfriend. At first it's all casual: you're each holding a drink, you cover her by squeezing a tit when she tries a jump shot, giggling when she bounces the ball off of her ankles out of bounds. It's clear that you're better than her and the power balance is respected. You don't call her for traveling or double dribbles because of chivalry. Good fun until she fucks it up.

She scores somehow on a bullshit fadeaway while you're pretending to nap on the free throw line and she begins to really celebrate. She starts running around the sport court like an asshole raising a ruckus and seeking attention. You see the help start to smile and call out to her with encouragement: "Nice shot Meeeeesus!" and "Chew scorrrre ball on heeem!"

Then the mood of the game changes. You know you have to do something because both she and the help are getting above themselves at your expense.

39-33, right?

She runs up all trying to hug you like it's some fun shared experience or "just a a game", but you just throw the ball at her hard and scream CHECK IT! CHECK THE FUCKING BALL! CHECK THE BALL NOW!

And then she gets all hurt looking and her lip gets quivery and she's like, I hate it when you're like this. So I say I hate when I see your drunk of a mother climbing in the bottle again Brooke, but that's life isn't it? Between my actions now and your mother being the lush of Highland Park, the one constant is YOU. Think on that.

Uh, and excuse me, weren't you just humiliating me, yourself, and your family moments ago galavanting around in front of Julio and Ms. Hernandez like a Special Olympian with a juice box? And I'm the asshole?


I check the ball off of her forehead after I fake throwing it to her twice and she drops her hands. I speed by her, not even bothering to dribble because that would only slow me.

I miss that lay-up because of wind conditions, but I gather the rebound with authority and go back up HARD.

I miss off of the rim because the rim is new.

Then I shoot an airball when my boat shoe slips off.

I fire another off of the side of the backboard as the sun purposefully blinds me.

I easily gather the rebound.


By this time, my peripheral vision shows Brooke walking down towards me, crying, with her arms out wide to defend me (or hug?), and I gather myself, create space on Brooke with my elbow, and go up again.

It tickles through the net cleanly for a basket.

Brooke is crumpled in the lane and I stand over her. Who is celebrating now? Then I fling the ball at Julio as he ducks behind the geraniums. "You meees me, Meester Cleeeper," he lies. I hit him square.

That's what's going to happen in Austin this weekend: a restoration of order. If we don't win by 70, I will have my secretary send a scathing fax to Sally Brown.


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