Hey there, cats and kittens, troobs and noobs, dicties and hincties and solid solid spenders, it’s me, the movinest groovinest swingin’ Hall of Fame hepcat #1, Dr. Jack, comin’ atcha and raisin’ the roof with the troof, the whole troof, and nuttin’ but! Time to hit ya where it hurts with all the news that is the news….

ITEM: Stan the Van has been 86’ed down in Sun City. If this surprises you then you’re L7 from jump street. Don’t people know that Pat the Phat has been jonesin’ for that gig since he had to drop it like it was a hot potato a few years ago? That was a martyr move that I didn’t cotton to at all — like Charlie Chan once honked to yours truly, if you’re the big cheese, don’t let a rat into the pantry! But that is not where Pat’s head was at at that place in space. But Solomon Gundy did less than a negative forever with that team, and there’s no way the good citizens of M.I.A.M.I. were gonna put up with that. So the king is dead, long live the king, a real standup magician of the hardwood. Pat is where it’s at, and that’s that, jacks and jills. Look for the Shaq and the Flash and the Twan to get back and get cash and get gone!

ITEM: My main mozilla Ron Artest, the most flippinest trippinest goony loonybird in the Association, wants to zero out to Trade City so he can get his points on. Don’t lose your icebox, but I’m with him all the way. He’s going nowhere timely in the ‘Apolis, and that’s indubitable. Could ‘Trane have dug his stone groove in the Glenn Miller Orchestra? Would Bud-o have chimed his crazy chords on Lawrence Welk? No, daddy-o, no with a bullet! I hope the Pacers do the stand-up and flop him somewhere nice, some Big Rock Candy Mountain where he can put up numbers like the Hip Einstein. Maybe they can get some bland oatmeal zzyzzyva on the anodyne side to make those hoosiers feel all squishy. Can I get a Matt Harpring?

ITEM: Don’t feast your vulcan squinties now, but the Timberwolves are on an inclined plane upwards, and I don’t mean that on the Sisyphus tip. KG and Wally Sizzle have their ducks quackin’ like sixty up there in Minnefreezeyourassoffland. Hey, that division is cake for the nibblin’, and with Seattle in the long grass and the Blazers pulling oars crosswise and the Nuggs playing like they’re wearing Uggs, the prognosis is copasetic all down the alleyway.

ITEM: Back when I was helming the pine in the Rose City, I saw ’em come and saw ’em head out on the last train. The reason we copped the trophy that year was not Bill the Pill or Little Train or Tward-nasty or even Bobby Gross. Neigh-o, Pops! Mo Lucas was the reason that jet took off. He was major league, baby, he was the house dick, he regulated, he was frammin’ on the jim-jam and frippin’ on the krotz. So when I look around at teams that will be movin’ on up like George and Weezy, the answer is easy peasy. Look for Dwight Howard to straddle this narrow world like a colossus and lift the Magic up where they belong. Can they beat the Heat? Hey, is reet petite?

Okay, jawtime is over, I gotta see a man about a bundle of sacred herbs that have just swung in from the Sinister Coast. Keep your lid on, don’t run when you can walk, and dig the lights and sounds and wacked-out jazz that is life…cause you never know when you’re gonna check out of the big flophouse, and you better have your bill paid.

Dr. Jack Ramsay, coach of the 1976-77 World Champion Portland Trailblazers, retired with 864 wins and some losses. He sometimes scribes for some corporate overseers, but mostly he plays for his own team, slim.