"Cleveland teams remain a psychic rock, an anchor for my wobbling, fretful soul." What soul?

Author Scott Raab of Cleveland Heights, Ohio wants us to believe that he has not gotten over The Decision.  And prays that you haven’t either. 

In an effort to profit from LeBron James’ seemingly tarnished brand, the roly-poly author is rolling through Cleveland pushing his literary dribble (shamelessly entitled) The Whore of Akron.  Not The Pimp of Akron.  The whore!  Obviously Raab has never seen his feet to step foot to a playground.  Ergo, by the size of his belly, my guess is . . . it’s greed that’s driving him.

The author claims the book started out as a publication of praise until the hour-long King-sized decision shook him and the sports world to its soft (bitch-like) jelly core.  Raab promises, however, that the story is not a bitter one, but a funny one (because everybody knows putting a black man in a skirt is always funny).  And just when the rest of the world thought the crabs were gone . . .

Scott Raab pumps the King's leg to sell his own pathetic life story.

As hard as the label may be to swallow, what leaves me gagging even more is that the editors at Harper blacked such a libelous and castrating title.  Blackbiter that I am, even I am appalled.  I may be the only person in Cleveland who does not hate LeBron James.  But even if I did, I would think that calling James a whore and selling hate or whatever it is—even with a grin—is dribbling a bit too far.  Miles too far.

While I understand how Clevelanders who made a golden idol of “The King” could mistake him for property that should remain on “da Land” (like chattel or a slave), those of us who truly love him are simply grateful that he spent any of his precious, dewy youth here at all.  What mighty King wants to be surrounded by endless rows of tiny brown bushes for seven of his best years?  Had the King not demanded a massive grove of big black shiny trees, cleared of underbrush, to match his kingly stature well before the very end?

Oh.  Thank.  Gawd.  LeBron James did not feel the need to sacrifice himself and make of himself a forever ring-less Charles Barkley.  Sweet Sir Charles deserved a ring.  Certainly King James deserves a genuine 18-carat opportunity to slide one up his royal—uh, uh, uh, don’t go there—finger as well.  But I digress. . . .  All of these arguments have been made.  And made.  And made.  On the one hand, we have the salt-n-pepper-haired Santa with his dime bag o’ books.  On the other hand, we have the big-time pusher—I mean, publisher.  The only question left to be pondered here is this: Between the two, who do you think is the bigger whore?