The Minnesota Timberwolves, known for their abysmal draft choices over the years, have preemptively cut their losses and selected a bag of Oreo cookies with the first pick of the 2015 NBA draft.

“There’s just so much pressure to make the right pick, and we always muck it up,” said TImberwolves head coach Flip Saunders. “We are so awful at this that it’s almost like a curse. Being losers is in our blood. Selecting this bag of Oreo cookies will make our fans upset, just like when we drafted Wayne Ellington, but at least this time when the dust storm of failure clears we’ll have a bag of cookies to eat.”

The first pick is expected to be a choice between big men Karl-Anthony Towns and Jahlil Okafor, but the Timberwolves have now made it a race between Oreo cookies, which are the popular choice but may be overhyped, and Hydrox cookies, which have been around longer and have more experience but won’t create as much excitement with fans.

“The franchise is so incompetent that they actually asked Kevin Garnett to choose a draft pick for them,” said Kevin Garnett, an elderly cripple the Timberwolves traded a young prospect to get. “They traded an actual, real player to get me. I am 139 years old. They are paying me $12 million per year to give dudes high-fives. I told them to pick Towns. I guess by now I shouldn’t be surprised that they chose cookies.”

Towns is a solid choice who would lead any other team in the league to a championship within a few years, but being drafted by Minnesota would have caused him to instantly become a complete pile of useless garbage, while simultaneously causing Okafor to become a career all star who sometimes lets his kids keep the championship rings he loses in his couch cushions. Choosing Okafor would have led to the same outcome in reverse.

However, the team isn’t giving up completely. Instead of selecting a person who has skills and training them to be a seasoned professional, as most teams do, the Timberwolves have opted to skip that difficult route and instead use the free agency pool to form a team that cashes in on the nostalgia craze that appeals to older millennials.

“We’re gonna bring back all the old guys,” said team owner Glen Taylor. “Kevin Garnett, Luc Longley, maybe Pooh Richardson if he’s not dead. I’ll bet we could get Gerald Glass if we promised him a fitted hat. If he can play at least 40 games this season, it will be worth the cost of the hat.”

Despite this nearly definite guarantee of failure, Taylor and Saunders are convinced they can squeeze some wins out of this coiled turd of a team. As the great prophet George Costanza once said, if every instinct one has is wrong, the opposite instinct would have to be right.

“We won’t win all the time, because our staff and all our players suck,” said Saunders. “But every loser has to accidentally win sooner or later just based on the laws of pure chance. We’re long overdue, and we hope to string together enough of these accidents to deliver a season that gives our fans the false hope they so greatly deserve.”

“Look, we’re always gonna lose,” interrupted Taylor, now noticeably drunk at the press conference. “Minnesota is cold as balls for 10 months of every year. There’s only one restaurant in the entire state that doesn’t serve pizza or submarine sandwiches. Look at how white I am! Look at me! I look like I own a plastic silverware company. I can’t get real basketball players to come here. Screw it, man! Gimme some cookies!”

“Remember that year when we had 40 wins and 42 losses?” said Saunders, now a flurry of energy and excitement. “Well those glory years are coming back again, folks! Get ready to have as many wins as we do losses! Or at least somewhat close. A 40-42 record might be four or five years down the line. For this year, I’m thinking maybe 34-48.”

When beloved living fossil and Star Tribune reporter Sid Hartman asked if the Timberwolves would ever strive to win 45 games in a single year, Saunders angrily blasted him for being “batshit crazy” and “out of his goddamn mind with these unreasonably high expectations.”

Fans in Minnesota seemed to greet the news the same way Minnesotans greet most bad news: with gentle sobbing discreetly confined to the restroom stalls at work, and copious amounts of awkwardly silent alcohol consumption.


Eric Murton of Bloomington, MN sat on a creaky wooden swing on his porch, slowly swaying in the breeze, the wood from the once strong construction now brittle and rotten. The beer in his hand, his seventh of the evening, sat warm and still in his lap as he stared misty-eyed into the darkening sky.

“They drafted a bag of cookies,” said Murton, his inflection sad and defeated rather than angry. “I guess we’ll just see what these cookies can do. I trust that they made the right . . . I mean, they must have had a reason. I have to trust that our team’s front office knows what they’re . . . oh God, give me strength. I cannot take much more from this front office of useless dildos.”