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Alas, Friedrich, more bad tidings. Tis not a surprise

Ubermen: Loss, it's the only truth, August. We are witnessing the birth of tragedy.

Dodsdansen: Tis not a mere birth, Friedrich, but a full blooming of an old man's death, his crumbling body bursting through life's sick vulva into the comforting womb of eternal darkness.

Ubermen: 2-0, yes, August, a deficit that only 4 teams have overcome in the past 20 years. A weaker man would drown his eyes in the blood of Christ, but Coach Jordan has forsaken the spear of destiny. Alas, instead he has said to a man and Steve Blake, "Rise up, foul beasts, for thou art the definers of your own destinies. Do not look to the Kwame Manchild as your savior, for despite his moist mocha skin and beneficient gaze, he doth have small hands and a pubescent's mind. The akimbo Manchild, despite his rich beauty and pants-tingling potential, revels in public apathy and private lazyness. He will not solve your problems of loss and humilation at the hands of Chicago rodents like Griffin and Pargo, two pieces of life's lint who did not pry themselves from the bench in game one and then lit up Jefferies and Dixon like a Cuban cigar in game two. No, do not look to the cross on which hangs the No. 1 draft choice by that foul, stinking mule of a man known as Michael Salieri Jordan---I spit bile and bacon when I say it. Rather, look inward, hideous creatures of light, for strength is inside you just as the smell of cheese is about you. Ignore the systemic toxin and the formation of a false membrane on the lining of your throat, for that is but diphtheria choking your will. Kill the entamoeba histolytica causing the severe diarrhea you've displayed on the court, and force through your intestines the colon-blowing will to power your team to victory! For he who fights with monsters like Nocioni should look to it that he himself does not become a monster! Remember! When you gaze long into the abyss of that stout fucker Scott Skiles, the abyss of that stout fucker Scott Skiles also gazes into you!"

Dodsdansen: Coach Jordan really spoke such passionate poetry, Friedrich?

Ubermen: I imagine so, August, I imagine so.

Dodsdansen: Alas, my absinthe runs low, dear Friedrich, and the sweet relief of a hallucinogenic sleep doth call. There is no faith to keep, but I shall tune in Saturday nevertheless.

Ubermen: Me too, August, for that which does not kill you makes you stronger. In fact, I will now will attempt to kill myself and hope the muscles respond. Auf wiedersehen, rotten life and good friend!