An ongoing chronicle of the very ugliest people and things the NBA has to offer.

There's "Kyle Singler", smiling the smile of wonder and gratitude at having made it so far from the slime-coated medical waste bin from which he slithered 26 years ago. They speak to me as one of their own! he is thinking.

Few know of the real Kyle Singler: the one who disappeared for 16 hours under mysterious circumstances after venturing under a dock near an algae coated lake during the summer of 1994. What is known is that the then-8-year-old "Kyle" returned to his grateful family out of the blue with wild pink-rimmed eyes, a newly gangly, angular shape, shocking gingival recession, and a bodily coating of what was assumed to be fetid pond slime. Also, his hair had been replaced by a ragged mop of clippings from the floor of a horse groomer.

18 strange years later, the slime is ever present. Behold:


Only God can answer for the miracle that infected poor Kyle Singler's placenta with the spark of life, but from those magical moments immediately following his birth, he and his placenta's paths were wildly divergent and tragically inextricable. Young Kyle, warm and cherubic and (it must be said) symmetrical, was taken to a loving home by loving parents and nurtured into a happy, curious, overwhelmingly human-like all-American child. He wore superhero pajamas and ate all his vegetables, went camping and dreamed of growing up to be just like dad.

The placenta, in those panicked moments before the nurses noticed the sticky red slime trail leaving the maternity ward, leveraged its quivering mass over the edge of the plastic bedside receptacle and plopped wetly onto the cold linoleum of the hospital floor, unloved and unwanted, an abomination before its creator. Thus began a lonely and harrowing journey of years, slithering from dumpster to dumpster, avoiding curious cats and (at all costs) churches, leaching nutrition from mold and detritus and the discarded scabs of the homeless population.

Via whatever strange senses are granted the nightmarishly animated biologically obsolete afterbirth, it is believed that the placenta tracked the Singler family - its family, by its deeply distorted understanding of things - to their summer vacation spot in 1994, there to initiate the foul and fateful crossing of these two godforsaken paths. What ventured beneath the dock with curiosity and youthful arrogance was replaced, via a mechanism known only to the devil and perhaps the Edgar character in Men In Black, by nothing short of an abomination:


Having successfully assimilated poor Kyle Singler, the ambitious filth set about fulfilling the young man's destiny, oozing and spraying his way to an athletic scholarship at Duke before thrashing and flopping his way into the NBA, where he currently spends several minutes per game frankly terrifying teammates and opponents alike with an aesthetically unpleasant mix of twitching, jerking, and always dripping hustle plays and a generally reliable three-point shot. Stretched comfortably over Singler's well-nourished structure, the animate viscera augments the scaffolding's ample athleticism with its trademark sheen of viscous slime, making its forays into the paint all the more difficult to defend as it easily slides and glides through all physical contact.

The NBA has seen fit to mostly ignore the horrific truth of "Singler's" path into professional basketball, but the truth is out there. Heaped at the putrid bottom of a green pond, a moldering skin-suit tells a dark tale of ambition, perseverance, and the pursuit of the American Dream, at all costs.

This is not Kyle Singler: