Hey, Bobby. Hey, Bill Walton. Whatcha doing?

“Looking up. Pointing.”

“My friend, I am witnessing an event of great and noble import unfolding before my eyes, a phantasmagorical scene that rivals any vista taken in by Buzz Aldrin or Neil Armstrong, and sharing the moment with a man who is not just a legend of music, but of life and beardiness. Every day I’m alive is the greatest day of my life. And I’m also pointing.”

Sure, okay. What are you looking at?

“Not Gary Coleman. For several reasons.”

“That little fella got screwed. Reminds me in many ways of Greg Oden. More talent than the E Street Band, but the man’s bones were made of Play-Doh left in the fridge overnight. Can’t choose your DNA! Unless you’re a mad scientist, and I’m relatively certain neither Gary Coleman nor Greg Oden were scientists of any sort, let alone mad.”

Seriously, what the fuck are you two doing?

“It’s Pippi Longscotting.”

No.

“Pippa Middleton.”

Nope.

“Suzanne Pleshette.”

“Bob, my compadre, this is Scottie Pippin. The Sancho Panza of the NBA! The Tonto! The Otis Toole!”

That last one was a bit inappropriate, Bill Walton.

“We’re all grown-ups here. In fact, two of us are far more than grown. Look at Scottie and my paws.”

Jesus.

“That’s why I live in San Diego! If I lived somewhere cold, I’d have to buy custom-made gloves, and they’re stupidly expensive.”