I know you’re all thinking, “Come on, no one has a Cheetah for a pet.” And I used to think that, too. One day, I’m cold lampin’ on the Serengeti, munching on a gazelle… when some bastard trappers caught me and were laughing about some dumbass American who wanted to buy me. I thought I was going to a zoo somewhere… I was going to hang out, scare the hell out of some children, do some screwing, live the good life. But that was not the case. Mark Cuban bought me.
Why did he buy a Cheetah? Well, from what I can gather from coversations I’ve overheard, he just wanted to do something cool and “outside the box.” He says “outside the box” all the damn time. And then he was babbling something about how he was “pushing his own limits” and “not living life by anyone else’s rules.” Hell, I don’t know why the guy bought me. I’m not sure he knows, either. This is the same guy who once traded for Antoine Walker, so who knows why he ever does anything?
But yeah, most people buy new toasters, Cubes buys jets and basketball teams. Most people have St. Bernards as pets, and this gung-ho maniac has to have a cheetah. Hey, whatever. I was getting tired of Africa, anyway. It’s not air-conditioned.
He even bought me a treadmill. I’m not kidding. He painted it with some fake-ass cheetah spots, set it in front of some motivational posters that say things like “Pain is temporary, pride is forever” and “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” He put my treadmill right next to his, and he makes me run with him. It’s bizarre, man. I quit after a few minutes because I’m bored, and then he rips his shirt off and starts going nuts, screaming, “I BEAT THE CHEETAH! MARK CUBAN BEAT THE CHEETAH! FEEL THE BURRRRRN!”
I think this moron really believes that he can outrun a cheetah. One of these days when he’s feeling so damn proud of himself, I’m just going to lunge at him and bite his hairy nipple off.
The only other time I’ve come close to tearing his throat out was when he tried to put one of those “MFFL” t-shirts on me. It was during the ’04 Playoffs, back when Don Nelson was still the coach. And I wasn’t mad because the t-shirt was so hideous (although it was), it was just that I knew the Mavs couldn’t win a title without playing any defense. I mean, it was obvious. I mean, come on, I’m a cheetah, and I noticed it. But yeah, Cubes tried to put that t-shirt on me one time, and I snapped at him and tore a hole in his man-purse. He was really depressed about that for a while. He didn’t blast any of his Journey albums for like a whole week. I miss Don Nelson, though. He used to pour scotch in my bowl.
And I get pissed off sometimes about how he feeds me, too. I’m used to hunting things down and eating them, you know? I used to dine on baby cows. And now, I’m fed a steady diet of lo-carb energy drinks and protein shakes and Powerbars all this garbage, man. He says I have to eat what he eats. I guess he doesn’t realize that we’re members of different species. If I don’t get ten pounds of raw meat soon, I’m just going to eat DJ Mbenga. I’m not kidding. I will eat and digest DJ Mbenga. Try me.
But you know, life isn’t really so bad. Most of the time, I’m just maxing in the house, listening to him close his business deals, curse at David Stern on the phone, and scream his own name while he masturbates. No big deal. And sometimes, DeSagana Diop comes over, which is awesome. I actually used to hang with him, back home. Yeah, me and ‘Gana used to hang, man. I’d go catch a wildebeest or something, and he’d barbeque it for me, and then we’d go get high under a tree somewhere. Those were the days, baby.
Anyway, I gotta get going. Cubes is making me watch Fear Factor tonight. He loves that show, I have no idea why. But you all have a nice evening, and say a quick prayer for DJ Mbenga, because I’m going to kill him.