GET SOME TODAY

There was a long time ago when I was chillin with Shaq, just layin low and trying to let some shit roll of my back, ya know? We had a slam dunk contest (I won) and then we retired back to Shaq's lounge for a few drinks. Shaq mixed me up a killer Rob Roy and I mixed Shaq up the best damn vodka and red wine he'd ever had. It was really romantic. Well, at one point, Shaq started crying a bunch.
"Shaq, whoa, what's wrong, man?" I asked inquisitively.
"It's just...it's just..." struggled Shaq, "It's just...I keep thinking of all of those poor victims of the killer tsunami...what a senseless act of horrible natural tradgedy that was!"
"Oh, Shaq!" I sobbedd, "I know! Oh lord, I know. I mean, how many people died? Like a million or something? Now, I'm no numerologist (that's for sure), but I can definetly tell you, for a fact, that that's a lot of fuckin' people!"
"I knoowwwwww," wailed Shaq, sobbing into the official Lakers jersey he had given me mere hours beforehand. "It's reallllllly gayyyyy!"
"Here Shaq, have a sip of soothing vermouth," I offered, cradling the big man in my arms. He paused for a moment to gulp down some of the sweet, sweet booze, then resumed his howling. "Let it all out, honey, let it all out."
"Ahhhhhhhhh," blubbered Shaq, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
"Shaq, it's okay to cry. You're not a pussy...here, have another sip of soothing vermouth." I ladeled some more of the alcohol down his gullet and then Shaq cried for another hour then he practiced his free throws but he didn't get any better, he actually got worse.
"Jesus, Shaq!" I barked, watching the mammoth African-American miss shot-after-shot, "What the fuck is wrong now?"
"I was...I was..." stammered Shaq, "I was just thinking about all of those poor office workers and firefighters who died on September 11th, 2001...and...and it made me saaaaaaad!" wailed Shaq Fu, breaking into hysterics.
"Oh, brother!" I groaned. "That's really not funny at all...now put some clothes on, Harpo."