True Life: I Met Bismack Biyombo

A couple weeks ago one of our writers, Jack Peterson, wrote this piece about couples and families in the NBA. In this piece, Jack jokingly made reference to Bismack Biyombo, of the Charlotte Doormats Bobcats, as the unfortunate child of a destructive family. A reader and close friend sent the following email about a hilarious and actual run-in he had with the one-and-only Bismack. The original text of the email is in bold, with our very selective edits in parentheticals and italicized. 

"Sup

I'm currently struggling with my perception of blogs. Originally, (creative edit...just assume he wasn't a fan). Then Ian Tupper wrote a blog about his Formula 1 experience in Singapore, and I read it...and I didn't turn (creative edit...woof, can't include that). So that's why I've started reading your blog too (I will still deny it to anyone who asks) (creative edit...oops too late)...and I enjoy it a lot! Good shit son. Now I'm even struggling with the prospect of writing one myself if I ever do anything cool...unlikely. (Creative edit...obviously we just left this whole paragraph in there to toot our own horn. Horn tooting.)

Anyways, here's the reason I'm writing you (besides just to say Hi and tell you your blog is nice): I went out to eat after a Bobcats - Clippers game, during which I had spent the entire time hazing Bismack Biyombo (once rumored to be Jake's next-door neighbor at Post-South End a.k.a. the South End Dormitories) and consistently taking the under on micro-bets with William about his stat-line (e.g. points: 4, rebounds: 8, words in English: 2). At this restaurant - the Ale House - who walks in but Bismack himself? He's rolling 4 deep (girl, 2 relatives, and a tall white guy). Immediately, all hatred and implorings for the D-League was substituted for school girl giddiness last felt when I hung out of a car window with my Davidson shirt to holla at Steph outside Andrew Lovedale's wedding. I finally build up the courage to ask him for an autograph, so I get a pen from Nmeli and walk over. If his girl didn't notice me, I would have had no shot, but she nudged BizzyBiz who finally acknowledged me. I gave him my ticket and pen, and he proceeded to sign his name....with the back of the pen. Obviously, nothing happened. Confused, but not to be denied, he flipped the pen over and tried again...without clicking it "on". Still nothing. Things would have gotten tense if his Eureka moment hadn't set in, and he clicked the pen and proceeded to write...nothing. "Shit man, that's my b", I said...Nmeli's fucking pen is out of ink. He throws up his hands in disgust and stares at me (he has yet to say a word). His Caucasian friend starts fumbling in his pocket for another pen, which he then hands to me...so I can hand it to Biz...? They were sitting right next to each other. Whatever. I give Biz the pen that works and he then folds my ticket in half to sign it. I'm thinking, "why fold it?", but this pen exploit has obviously fucked with him enough that I decide against saying anything. He starts to sign his GIANT signature, and is then bewildered when he runs out of space at the edge of my half-ticket. Literally looking like he's about to explode, he writes another huge "B" on my ticket, hands it back to me, and gives me this look like "get the fuck out of here." You don't have to tell me twice, so I split...and that's my story, inspired by your recent Bismack post. Completely true, but told with some creative flare that I'm hoping measures up to that with which you all write.

Miss you, kbye"

Needless to say, we were all doubled over by the end of this story. It really begs us to ask the question, why isn't there a Wonderlic Test for the NBA??