In a rare piece of legitimate reporting, we here at Heveron Industries managed to hack Mark Cuban’s blackberry and download this important document — an apparent apology — right from the King Douche himself.
Note: For those of you blissfully unaware, Mark Cuban is the owner of the NBA team, The Dallas Mavericks. He is famous for writing the world’s most blindly self-centered, close-minded blog, being almost totally ignorant about how professional basketball works, yelling at refs even though he is not a coach/player/assistant, consistently displaying a total lack of any discernable sportsmanship, and wasting roughly 11 million dollars in luxury tax to have aged point guard Jason Kidd do his best coma impression for 82+ games a year. Oh, and he also punched a camera man for no reason and yelled obscenities at a player’s mom…on Mother’s Day weekend. A real class act. His apology is presented below.
“Dear To Whom it May Concern,
Hi, my name is Mark Cuban (but don’t worry, I’m not actually Cuban — since I didn’t come to this country on a piece of driftwood and I don’t work for minimum wage at a Denny’s kitchen in Miami. By the way, I’m a huge racist). In light of recent events, I thought it would be a good idea to let the world see into my thought process about why I act the way I do. Normally I would just say you should read my blog to see my thoughts written out, but we both know that my blog is far too one-sided and ignorantly written to actually be capable of conveying any real thoughts or emotions. Hell, if I posted something eloquent, sincere and balanced on there, people would probably assume it was someone else writing it, like a sort of April Fool’s gag or something that I had written up by a secretary. And then once I had that secretary explain what the word “eloquent” means, I’d fire her for even suggesting the idea in the first place. And of course all my secretaries are female, because I don’t think women are capable of any task more complex than doing laundry or taking dictation — unless you count getting pregnant and raising a family as a job (which I don’t. By the way, I’m a huge sexist).
So why am I the way I am? Why am I a bitter, ugly man with a chip on his shoulder as big as the trustfund that I didn’t have to work for? And what business do I have being involved in professional athletics of any sort? Well, as with most things, I suppose it all comes back to my childhood. As a perpetually out of shape white boy who only grew to 6’3”, I was never very good at sports growing up. I was mocked on and off the field, bullied in the locker room, made fun of in classes (mostly by my teachers), and just generally disliked for being such an unbelievable jerk. And I was often picked last for doucheball (a sport played exclusively by us rich kids who have never had the sense of what a hard day’s work is, or any sense of gratitude of values — it’s how we get so good at being douches in our adult lives). So naturally when all the odds said I’d never be able to play professional sports, and my grades were too low to do anything meaningful with my life, I decided that the best solution would be for me to do what rich people had been doing for years — just throw obscene amounts of money at something and yell at people to improve my self esteem. And that’s just what I did. Sure, everyone knows that despite all of that cash, I’m really little more than a glorified season ticketholder, but that doesn’t keep me from acting like I invented the F-ing NBA and the sport of basketball in general.
As far as my temper, well I’ve never really been clear on how basketball actually works, but I’ve found a pretty good trick that’s really helped me over the years. All you have to do is just watch your team’s coaches and players during the game, and when they get a little mad about something, then you get way, way madder! It sounds so simple, I’ll bet you can’t believe you hadn’t thought of it yourself. For instance, when our marquis player, Dirk Nowitzki (I think he’s from Mexico, because I think all foreign people come from Mexico. By the way, I’m still a huge racist), gets upset about a call, and maybe has an angry look on his face and expresses his anger to one of his teammates, then I know that’s my cue to go batsh*t crazy and start flipping out on everyone within earshot and arm’s reach. Everyone will be so caught off guard by how psycho you can act that they’ll never even realize it’s because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and that you have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Of course that’s the subtler route, and might be hard for beginners. If you want an easier example, just wait till the end of the game. If you’re at the home court and your team wins, they always shoot off fireballs or confetti or something like that. So when the game ends, if they don’t shoot off anything, then that’s when you start screaming every swear word you can think of, and shoving everyone who’s anywhere near you (this included pregnant women, the elderly, other people’s mothers and below-the-line workers such as cameramen and concessions salesmen). And when you’re at road games, just do it vice versa. When those confetti cannons shoot off, that’s your cue to shoot off just as loudly.
That brings me to another popular question I’d like to address. The question I get all the time is, “why — out of the league’s 32 teams — are you the only owner who feels the need to sit courtside and act like a megadouche instead of sitting up in the owner’s box on the club level that’s reserved for exactly that sort of thing, where you’d at least be able to keep your childish antics out of the public eye?” And the simple answer is, I’m not allowed. Like all rich people, I don’t have any idea where my money actually comes from, or where it goes, so I have a bunch of people I pay to tell me those things. And the one condition that all those people stipulated in their contracts was that they be allowed to watch the games in the owner’s box, without me there. I think it’s because they probably just want some time together to talk about how much they like me, how great of an owner/boss I am, and how much they like it when I explode into a violent rage for no reason and fire them. I didn’t have the heart to deny them that special time together, so I fired the person who suggested it and then let the rest of them sit in the owner’s box without me. It’s probably more appropriate that they sit there anyway, since they know way more about what it takes to run an NBA team than I do — although I do get to take some credit for some decisions…after all, whose idea was it to make a massively-uninformed trade and spend 11 million in luxury tax PLUS the cost of his contract for 35-year-old point guard Jason Kidd? That’s right, baby, it was all this guy — Mark Cuban. In fact, I still remember the day after that trade, as I was listening-in to all my employees’ conversations with the Watergate-style phone taps and bugged offices that I’ve implemented over the years, I heard all of them saying that the trade was ‘Pure Cuban’ or ‘exactly the kind of move you’d only see Mark Cuban make’ or ‘like some sort of sick joke that only that nimrod from the front office would push for.’ I never did look up what ‘nimrod’ means, but I’m pretty sure it’s Icelandic for ‘wise chief who makes wise decisions and slays many seals. With wisdom.’
Anyways, I guess I’m gonna mosey on to the NBA commissioner’s office and bitch about a legitimate non-call for a couple hours, rather than explaining to my team and coaches what exactly a hard/intentional foul is, because that’s the only solution I can come up with.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot this was supposed to be an apology letter.
There, now it’s all apologized up. Man, I bet even more people love me now.
Happy Tuesday and go Mavs (also, if anyone can tell me what ‘Mavs’ is short for, I’d be really thankful. So thankful that I might not even fire you on the spot for making eye contact),
Mark Elizabeth Cuban”
“And just to show that I still respect Mother’s Day, here’s a picture of me and my mother (Mrs. Cuban) from Mother’s Day Brunch on Sunday. See? We still care about each other. Now you know that Mark Cuban loves his mom almost as much as his drinking problem.”