Three years ago I was watching a Celtics pregame show, and the program presented a feature piece on Rajon Rondo's favorite things to do outside of basketball. It turns out, he loves to go roller skating. Yes, roller skating. What is the point of this factoid, you may ask? Well, this story got me thinking about what I would do if I were an NBA player. Since basketball season has now started, I figured now would be as good a time as any to indulge my fantasy of being a star point guard in the NBA. Here is how a typical day would go:

9 a.m.: Wake up. Still pretty groggy from a night out partying, turn on SportsCenter to watch highlights of me shredding the Knicks for 27 points and 12 assists. The only problem is I took 34 shots, and went 2-13 from three-pointers. Because I only care about my stats, I don't mind. Hit the snooze button seven-eight times.

10:03 a.m.: I finally get out of bed. My trophy wife has made me my favorite breakfast: sausage encased in bacon and covered with cheese. After signing my six-year, $120 million contract in the offseason, health is no longer a priority for me. I wash my breakfast down with a delicious Myoplex shake. Now I'm done.

12 p.m.: I skip team shootaround. I am in year seven of my NBA Live dynasty on XBOX, and I am much more concerned with practicing that than real basketball. I also think that my teammates suck, and have a framed copy of the Allen Iverson quote which reads: "How in the hell can I make my teammates better by practicing?"

2 PM: I head over to the Nike corporate building to demand my own shoe. Of course, they aren't too keen on a shoe that replaces the swoosh with a middle finger, but I don't care. I am the franchise, after all. I make a stink about their corporate greed; they respond by telling me to look in the mirror. I do, and I look good.

4 p.m.: Drive my Bentley to the arena. Watch Scarface on my ceiling mounted television on the way there. Put on the baggiest shorts and highest socks I can find. Head into the weight room, taking special care to talk to only the teammates who pass me the ball. Successfully manage to walk around for over an hour without lifting a single weight.

5:30 p.m.: Go to the trainer's and pretend to fake an injury so I don't have to play. Apparently, being hung over doesn't count as an excuse any more. Coach tries to talk to me about the game plan. I respond with a disparaging remark about his wife's resemblance to the Swamp Thing. He is not pleased.

6:30 p.m.: Everyone is quietly reading the scouting report in the locker room before the game. I am sitting in my massage chair watching old Cribs and Pimp My Ride episodes on my handheld DVD player. Coach comes in to talk, so I decide to show him a little respect. I put my headphones on.

7 p.m.: Tip-off. I take my customary shot from half court to start the game. The next two hours are a combination of ignoring my coach's instructions while he pretends he does not want to rip my head off and ogling the cheerleaders during timeouts. In the third quarter I make plans to go to a club with the other team's European center while I shoot free throws.

10:30 PM: Having showered and cursed out the media asking me questions after the game, I hop into my car and head straight to a nightclub. I don't care that we have another game tomorrow, since I was going to pack it in and not try anyway.

2 a.m.: Definitely have to take a cab home.

2:30 a.m.: Back at my estate, I open up the refrigerator and take out a steak. In an attempt to grill it, I accidentally cook my hand and then compound the error by slicing it with a steak knife. I super glue the skin together and ignore the significant blood loss.

2:45 a.m.: Check on the betting pool from my underground cock-fighting ring.

3 a.m.: Fall asleep face down on my living room floor satisfied with a "day in the life."