That's the text I received at 9:51 Thursday night from my pal Chad while I was at work. The dreams of an undefeated postseason were dashed; the one-seed Cavs had been defeated by the eight-seed Bulls.
As soon as I digested the weight of those words "No," "more," "fo" (although it would have been a lot cooler if Chad had written "No mo fo fo fo fo," but I digress), I was awash with a rage that surprised me, a desire to bite the brim of my filthy Ohio State hat quelled only by my intense fear of whatever germs may be crawling on it. I wanted to scream nonsensical slurs at the Japanese executives going about their business around me, and pull the hair of my female co-worker. I wanted to shit on the president's desk, and then wipe my ass with the picture of his daughter (I'm guessing). Someone had to pay for this smear on the city of Cleveland and their basketball team, but my senses got the better of me and instead of essentially resigning from my job in the worst manner possible, I just punched my gut until I felt like I was going to cough up blood. The pain soothed my rage, and I began to reason through what had transpired.
