As much as the self-feigned American public revels in a comeback story, we solicit higher ratings for the downfall of one even more.
Watching hopes crumble in a Hollywood (Hollyweird if you're from Cali) fashion is best suited for an American TV landscape where reality is as popular as a colonoscopy.
Enter the surreal.
Worlds where Jersey Shore and steroids are the barometers by which we judge the nature of reality. A place of boob jobs, fake tans and miniature dogs.
The one year anniversary marking the Cavaliers messy fall from grace to that of NBA serfdom is not only a sour topic for its last remnants of fandom, but a juicy one as well.
LeBron James—the God turned dark satanic villain—is the caricature that never sleeps. In fact he is the group of spring breakers who party next door for entire night, bumping Biggy and using choice slang.
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