sat·ire
[sat-ahyuhr]
-noun
1. the use of irony, sarcasm, ridicule, or the like, in exposing, denouncing, or deriding vice, folly, etc.
2. a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human folly and vice are held up to scorn, derision, or ridicule.
3. a literary genre comprising such compositions.
ACT I
Lights On a conference room high atop U.S. Airways Arena. In the room are Lon Babby, Robert Sarver, Alvin Gentry, and Lance Blanks. Babby sits at one head of a cherry wood table while Sarver sits at the other:
Babby: Alright boys, let's get this shindig underway, I'm scheduled for another damn colonoscopy. 3rd this year. What the crap are they looking for up there? It's like their looking for a damned diamond or something...
Gentry (under his breath): Or a starting power forward?
Babby: HM? Speak up Lance, did you say something?
Blanks: No.
Sarver: "Remember Lon, Lance is supposed to be silent until year 3?"
Babby: "HM? Listen, boys, what's the plan here? We got #13 and Minny flaunting the 2 in our fat faces like they were flaunting a shrimped out Hope Diamond! What's the plan?"
Gentry: "Pimped, Lon. Not shrimped."
Babby: "Whatever. Look we got the Sun and the Moon signed for another year, we've got Gortat, whose like our double-rainbow stuffed into a delicious canole whose cream is sent from heaven. We need the Sun and the Moon, and everyone knows how much I love rainbows and canoles. They stay, over my bloodless, pale, stiff, dead body.
Sarver: "OK Lon, we get it. All I know is there's a Wildcat in this draft, AND I WANT HIM!"
Gentry: "Excuse me, Robert, how much longer are you going to keep Treloar locked on the practice courts?"
Sarver: "What in God's name is a TREE-LORE?"
Gentry: (Sighs, gets on the phone, says a few words, then hangs up while rubbing his forehead)
Enter John Treloar
Babby: "Wha, who the hell is this? You bring in the ice cream? I love me some Cold Stone chocolate brown-"
Treloar: "Lon, you hired me to be your draft guy. The draft is in 3 weeks. I've been working hard on this."
Sarver: "What's this going to cost me, TREE-LORE? You know the economy's still in the toilet, I only control all the liquid in 30 to 45 banks and my wife's busting my balls to remodel the bathroom."
Treloar: "At 13 we could see some serious talent. We have the Morris brothers..."
Sarver: "Brothers! Yes! Let's draft the bad one!"
Treloar: (Ignoring Sarver) Fredette may also fall, but I really like Burks at the 2.
Gentry: "What about Thompson?"
Babby: "What? He's DEAD. What did we hire this putz for? Christ man, I remember when Hunter and I drove out to Vegas, you know back then you could get away with murder...We had this drop top caddie stocked with beer, tequila, uppers, downers..."
(Puzzled Looks Abound)
Sarver: "Hey Lon, why don't you run out and pick up some cupcakes for us. You can get the rainbow sprinkles, my treat."
Babby: (Sincerely) "Bob, you're like the Sun and the Moon and the..."
Sarver: "Yeah, yeah, stars...Take your time."
Exit Babby skipping out of the conference room
Treloar: "Look Derrick Williams is the real deal, let's feel out Minny and see what their willing to do."
Sarver: "Yes, and he's from U of A, he'll be great! But Kahn wants an experienced big man. Alvin, what do you think?"
Gentry: "Give 'em PsychoLo, I'm tired of picking up his little curls all over the practice courts. And he called me last night to see if I wanted a part in his play about a 7 foot guy who's the brother of a super hero but he wants to be a superhero too, only he's not as good a super hero as his brother. This kid's freakin' mental! WE NEED A SCORING POWER FORWARD!"
Sarver: "But will this Williams kid demand a paycheck? And a contract? What do we do then?"
Blanks: (Incensed) "Listen, with all due respect, Robert, you gotta PAY a man to play, you can't just-"
Sarver: "Relax Lance, that's your quota for the day. No more talkie."
Gentry: "Bob, look, we got virtually no young talent, and more holes to fill on this squad than Paris Hilton. We need scorers but we also need to develop a young point guard. Nash can't play forever, and well, let's be honest Lance, that Brooks deal kind of sucked."
Blanks: "I didn't make that deal! I was playing golf that day with Majerle, Remember, you guys haven't given me a celli or a laptop yet? How the hell could I have conducted any business?"
(Puzzled Looks Abound)
Treloar: "I developed a spreadsheet of possible guys we should work out along with a list of free agents in our price range. Lemme just..." (He breaks out a small yellow back pack with a unicorn on it, retrieves a folder with papers in it. The pages are all construction paper art projects with glued macaroni in the form of a house and trees, pictures of mommy and daddy, flowers, the family dog...)
Sarver: "John, did you bring in your daughter's back pack again?"
Treloar: "Crap, crap, crap."
(Sighs all around the room)
Blanks: "Look, guys, here's the deal. This is our reputation at stake here, the future of the organization. We need to establish ourselves, let the fans and players know we know what we're doing. We need to draft players-"
Sarver: "THEN TRADE THEM FOR CASH! Cold hard American currency. Ben Franklin, Andrew Jackson!" (Fades off into a daze).
Blanks: "No! Dammit. Scout for diamonds in the ruff, draft young quality talent, develop the talent, you know like Oklahoma City.
Sarver: (Blankly) "Not trade draft picks?"
Blanks: (shaking head) "Wonder if Cleveland still has my old job open..."
Lights down, end of Act I...And Thanks to Eutychus.