I am not a role model.
Now that you’re famous, lots of people will tell you you’re a role model whether you like it or not, but that is some heavy bullshit. People that say you’re a role model are people who are too damn lazy to raise their own kids. It’s a free country, and if you want to be someone who no one in their right mind would consider a good example for children to follow, that’s your right. That’s what I did. I’m no role model. Shit, I’m too fat to be a role model.
Imagine if some kid decided to follow my dietary habits. Jesus, they’d need daily insulin shots by age four if they saw the shit I stuff in my enormous piehole. Every morning I eat a pound of bacon and tuck six extra slices into my back pocket for snacking on the go. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything with any sort of nutritional value since age six, and that’s because my gramma slipped a leaf of romaine into my cheeseburger without me looking. Sometimes I drink Wesson right out of the bottle. When I eat apple pie, I don’t even eat the apples. I just eat the crust and the sticky, cinnamony syrup surrounding the apples. I don’t have no time in my life for apples. I’m rich. If I have a heart attack, I can just pay some surgeon to unclog my shit. So don’t tell me I need apples. I’m not a role model, and I don’t like fruit. Fuck fruit.
And there are so many other reasons that I’m a poor role model. For example, my gambling habits. When I hit the roulette table, I never bet on red or black or anything sensible like that. That’s for poor assholes. I bet $5,000 on #32. Every single time. I don’t think I’ve hit it even once. But I don’t give a shit, because I am not a role model. Role models are people who care about math. I went to Auburn. You think I know math from the hole in my ass?
Good kids should, ideally, end up nothing like me. They should be thin and frugal, and they should try and form coherent thoughts before attempting to speak. I don’t do any of that shit. I just say the first thing on my mind, no matter how crazy. It’s part of my charm. Did you know they made Augusta National longer because they’re racist against Tiger Woods? Sure, lengthening the course arguably favors Woods more than any other golfer, but screw that. That shit was racist.
Say, are you gonna finish that burrito? Man, don’t hog that thing like some kind of goddamn Republican. Give Chuckie a nibble, man.
(eats the rest of your burrito)
Of course, I can get away with all this, because I clearly stated up front that I am not a role model. I suggest you do the same thing as well. Not only does it provide you with a mantra to justify all sorts of ignorant behavior, it also appeals to the womenfolk. Ladies don’t like a guy who plays by the rules. That’s why they go out with me, even if I have a size 62-inch waist. That just adds to the intrigue. Where’s my penis? You’ll just have to find out for yourself, honey.
Not being a role model also freed me up to steal Kenny Smith’s chair from the TNT set. Fuck you, Kenny. You ain’t getting your Aeron back. I need the support. Quick, someone find me a production assistant who’s willing to be my footrest. I had to walk here from the elevator, and my dogs are fucking sore.
Remember: you are not paid to be a role model, just like I wasn’t paid to be a role model. You’re paid to go out and wreak havoc. I’m sure being a good role model has some sort of intangible reward. I’m sure it’s a nice feeling to get kids across America to dress, act, talk, and make love just like you. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it. You don’t have to do shit. I don’t.
Just because I dunk a basketball doesn’t mean I should raise anyone’s kids. And that’s a good thing. Because those kids would get fat as shit.
“I said I’m not a fucking role model!” Raising your kids.
Many athletes live with two or three of their closest children. As a father, I can tell you that children are a lot of hard work. But they’re worth it, especially if you aren’t the one doing all that hard work. Your “job” requires far less effort and mental strain than what goes into staying at home to raise a child. But you can’t let your wife know that. You have to get her to believe that all the time you spend clowning around with your teammates, attending team banquets, and playing games in front of an adoring crowd really takes its toll. If she finds out that your job is insanely fun, which she already suspects, you’re fucked.