Chris Kaman is Like a Blacker Magic Johnson With More STD's.

When I go to sleep at night, I thank God for Chris Kaman, and I thank Chris Kaman for God. Before I get in bed, I make sure that Mr. Kaman is not using my bed to make love to a beautiful woman, and then I check under my bed to make sure he's not there choking out the boogie man. Once those facts have been confirmed, I get under my covers and close my eyes and attempt to go to sleep. If I'm having trouble drifting off, I think of super-hero names that Christopher could use, like "Flying Ebony," or "Captain CrackRock," or "Really Huge Penis Man." Then I think of names for his enemies, like "Dr. Owes-Me-Money," or "Trick-Ass Bitch," or "The White Man." When I do fall asleep, I inevitably dream of Chris frolicking through fields of various substances and materials -- usually including some combination of money, champagne, cocaine, and boobs. Waking up is always a cruel moment, but I get myself out of bed and eager to take on the day with these thoughts: "Chris Kaman is not in my room, he is out there in the world, and I will never find him or his majestic titty-cocaine-champagne fields if I stay in my room all day." So I get out there and I live my life, one thought about Chris Kaman at a time.