Apparently Dwite Howard had some kind of unspecified "fluid" drained from his knee and will miss some games.
Note how the Lame-stream media are conspicuously silent about what kind of fluid it is. Oh, you know, fluid. Fluid is fluid.
Like when you pull into a gas station and say "fill it up with fluid," and they say "do you want me to fill it with gasoline, or orange juice, or blood?" and you answer, "what difference does it make, fluid is fluid right?"
Or when you sit down at a diner and the waitress comes over and pours you a big tall glass of liquid mercury, and looks at you funny when you complain, because after all, fluid is fluid right?
When is the media going to give up on their attempts to keep the public in the dark though their cowardly and deceptive reliance on euphemisms?
Ceci n'est-ce pas une Dwite Howard. When I googled for an image to include with this essay, seeking as always to give my wankership a diverse reading experience with excellent communication skills and teamwork, there along with all the pictures of the lanky good-time Charlie who is the indirect subject of this think-piece I found this one, which I liked way better than the rest. I don't know who this lady is, maybe it's his girlfriend or something. Doesn't matter, I can't waste all my free time finding out every little detail about every single girl I post pictures of on every single blog I write 24 hours a day. I have bigger fish to fry, Jackson!