But the best trash talk is often highly personal. You’re not gonna shred your opponent’s last nerve if you’re just making general insults. You need to do your homework. Check out his MySpace page. It’s undoubtedly been laid out in a sloppy and careless fashion. Be sure to let him know that. Or edit his Wikipedia page to include a blatantly false fact and then tease him about that. Read his autobiography. Find out where he lives. Send a pregame death threat to his house using letters cut out from magazines and ask him, “Did you get my note? Remember, you have until three p.m. Wednesday.” That’s the kind of shit that really distracts a man.
But your pregame research is only one facet of being an all-star trash-talker. Your opponent will have done his homework as well. Even more crucial is having the perfect comeback. You need to train yourself, to sharpen your instincts for a witty rejoinder. You don’t want to be the kind of guy that figures out the perfect comeback thirty minutes into the car ride home. God, that’s annoying. Train your mind. Consider the following comebacks.
Soon, you’ll have mastered the art of the dance. No one will dare joust against you.
Then again, why let him get a word in edgewise? You can suffocate your opponent with a steady, never-ending barrage of inane chatter (imagining you’re a woman in this scenario helps). Drink lots of water before the game if you need to, but just keep talking. Forever. By the third quarter, you’ll have completely destroyed his will to live. Take it from one of the all-time greats.
HEAR IT FROM AN ATHLETE!
You ain’t got shit
by Gary Payton
C’mon, boy. C’mon! You wanna challenge me? This isn’t some JV shit you’re playing now. You ain’t got shit. You hear me?
YOU AIN’T GOT SHIT.
Where’d you get those shoes, you poor-ass motherfucker? Are those British Knights? I didn’t even know they made British Knights anymore. Why don’t you just go buy some shoes at TJ Maxx while you’re at it, you bargain bin–scrounging bitch? Know who else offers the max for the minimum? Your momma.
Oh, you want personal? Oh, I can get more personal than that. What kind of Social Security number is 948-02-2301? Did you know that number is a cryptogram for YOU IS SHIT? I did. I solved that shit in my head right as I was talking. I just blew your fucking mind with puzzles. I even checked out your credit report online. Know what your credit rating is? It’s Ass. That’s an actual rating, too. See this printout? See what it says at the bottom? ASS. Who buys a scooter on layaway? With a Discover card, no less? Kiss my black balls.
I can even fuck with you in different dialects, if you like. Ever been heckled in cockney? I’m about to get all up in your skyrocket. You understand that? I can tell by the look on your Chevy Chase that you don’t. Care for a foreign language lesson? You ain’t scheisse. See that? That was German. I took lessons with Herr Ludewig in Stuttgart for eight weeks just so I could fuck with you like that. I can even fuck with you in sign language. I saw Children of a Lesser God twice. See this middle finger? Suck on that.
(You start crying.)
Oh, are you crying now?
(You furiously deny it.)
Shit, I’ve had plenty of guys get mad. But I’ve never seen a bitch go and cry. What’s the matter, rookie? Are you just realizing now that you ain’t got shit? Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Pussy. Would you like some Puffs tissues? I got the ones with aloe vera, just for your overly sensitive ass. Here, take this lace handkerchief. I keep it between my thighs for occasions just such as this. Only half of it is wet.
There, there. Relax. It’s just a game. Everything’ll be all right. As long as you remember that YOU AIN’T GOT SHIT.
Showboating and the lost French art of pantomime.
In a perfect world, scoring would be its own reward. There’s a certain purity to making a great play and then simply tossing the ball back to the officials. The purpose of this section is to explain to you why that sort of mentality is stupid and gay. You busted your ass all year long (in theory) to get to this point. It’s your right, nay, your duty, to celebrate a good play in an overly demonstrative fashion. Even if it wasn’t a scoring play. Even if it was just a routine play. Even if you didn’t make the play but were in the general vicinity of it. Even if you only visualized the play in your mind. Regardless, you have carte blanche to go apeshit.
Remember: you aren’t just an athlete. You’re an entertainer now. Regular game play and the thrill of winning are no longer enough for today’s ADHD-riddled masses. They demand more. They want cheerleaders to ogle. They want loud music to drown out any potential conversation. They want T-shirt cannons. They want flying monkeys. They want war veterans paraded out onto the field at the half so they can feel genuine emotion for ninety seconds. They want a show, even if you have no formal training in the dramatic arts. So, you better dance for them. Dance, I tell you!