Spurs vs Jazz Is Proof God Hates Tuesday Nights

My head hurts so bad my teeth feel loose.

It’s 8:15 on a Tuesday.

I’m four ounces of lukewarm Jameson deep into pretending I’m folding laundry, and Google tells me the country is furiously searching Spurs versus Jazz.

Jesus.

Christ.

Spurs vs. Jazz sounds like a custody battle between two divorced chiropractors.

It sounds like the punishment a Catholic priest assigns you when three Hail Marys just won't cut it.

You have to be a specific brand of broken to lock into this matchup.

I should know.

I’m sitting right here.

My wife asked me twenty minutes ago why I’m staring at a screen of sweaty millionaires bricking threes in Salt Lake City instead of fixing the garbage disposal.

Valid question.

The garbage disposal currently makes a sound like a feral raccoon caught in a blender.

I don't care.

At least Wemby has a future. My sink is as cooked as my 401(k).

Utah vs. San Antonio.

A combined winning percentage that looks like my high school GPA after two warnings from the truant officer.

Basketball purists will tell you it’s about "young core development."

Bullshit.

It’s about sportsbooks preying on guys like me who need forty bucks on an alternate under just to feel something other than acid reflux.

I took Utah +4.5 because I fundamentally hate myself.

Now I’m sweating through my Fruit of the Loom undershirt, listening to my kid throw a metal Hot Wheels car against the drywall for the forty-fifth time, watching a seven-foot-four French kid get hacked under the rim.

This isn't sport.

It’s an alibi.

It’s something bright and loud to point my dying eyeballs at so I don't have to look inward.

Because if I look inward, I have to acknowledge that my liver is actively filing for emancipation.

Go team, I guess.

Pass the Advil.