Things weren’t supposed to go this poorly.

Times wudn’t supposed to be real swell, but 15 and 38?

This mess has to go 16 and 13 to top 2002-03’s moribund campaign?

And this is the high point. The Bulls are coming off a 20-point shellacking of the Boston Celtics, who still boast about a player and a half from the team that went to the 2000 Eastern Conference Finals. Ahead by as much as 32 at one point, Chicago took in solid statsies from Kirk Hinrich (23 points on 7 of 11 from the field, with 14 assists) and Jamal Crawford’s half a brain (27 points alongside seven dimes).

As good as it gets. February 13th. What a feeling.

Other high points including a strong win in Utah over a Jazz team that some idiots picked to win nine games, a throwback performance from Scottie Pippen on all Hallow’s Eve (before he crawled into his cave to sleep through the winter), and an overtime loss against the Timberwolves. Had the Bulls pulled that one off, the record would have stood at 5 and 5; with playoff pleasantries to come.

The Pacers would have traded Ron Artest back.

I would have gotten the sled I wanted for Christmas.

She would have said “yes.”

Her sister would have worked the Super-8 properly, after she said “yes.”

That Canadian ponce from VH1 would have ignored that prick Jools Holland and Squeeze would have gotten back together.

Jools Who?

Instead, despair set in, John Paxson fired a coach and made a pair of pointless trades, and I have four months to learn how to spell Uhmeeka Okofour.

No way it should have gone down like this, the town deserves better, the fans deserve better, and game missed out on what could have been a brilliant and dynamic group of men.

The fact that the Bulls have let Elton Brand, Brad Miller, Ron Artest slip through their fingers — the fact that they tanked all of 2001-02 just to crumple a tree on Honore street — the swoon that forced Scott Skiles upon us.

Igh.

Daddy’s gone be on the drink for years.

Krause follows me around. There are crumbs in my bed and I can’t get Weill’s “Speak Low” out of my head. Forget the MJ/Pippen/Phil purge of ’99. Those therapy bills have been paid, the tips’ve been pocketed, and the scars are healing nicely.

Krause’s heinous’ous’ offenses started in June’01 with the Brand/Tyson Chandler trade. Chandler could turn out to be twice the player Elton (20.1 ppg, 11.7 rebounds, 3.7 assists, 2.1 blocks this year) is right now, no matter. You don’t trade a top pick, Rookie of the Year, and get only a #2 pick in return. You also need to get a Maggette or a Richardson or even the rights to something called a Marko Jaric.

Artest and Miller for Jalen Rose? That’s the next trade. Well, after he gave Eddie Robinson all that dough.

Worst of all but criminally underlooked was the move Krause didn’t make in the summer of 2002. JK balked and Jeff Bzdelik’s salary demands after Bzdelik interviewed for an assistant coaching position. Bzdelik, a Chicago native, decided to coach Denver’s summer league team instead of sticking around to see Krause come around on $650k a year.

Jeff has the Denver Nuggets in the playoffs right now with a 31 and 23 record, he’ll probably win the Coach of the Year award when Utah hits the Lottery, and we’re stuck with Scott Skiles and his Bill Haley haircut.

But that’s just the bad news.

As always with these recaps, we start with:

Sammy Sosa, RF — this is a stupid tradition, and I’m tired of it.

A great team needs to run straight up the kilt, inside-out, so I’ll continue with:

Eddy Curry, C — Eddy hurt his eye last summer after getting hit by a cell-phone that James Caan threw at him (some of that was true), and apparently his double-vision kept him from finding the stair-master.

It didn’t keep Foreigner from hitting the top of the charts, but that’s a story for another day.

Next Tuesday, more specifically.

Curry came into camp woefully out of shape, even by his Benoit-ish standards, and pulled a hammy sometime during media day. He’s been held back all season by his girth, and the fact that his brain is 70% pork product.

Eddy’s weakside fundamentals are some of the worst in the league. Given the choice of committing to one of two participants in a screen/roll, he plays Switzerland and gives both cats a nice look at the rim.

He literally, no exaggeration needed, does not jump for rebounds. He’s three years removed from rebounding over the heads of 6-5 high school kids, but this is no excuse. I wasn’t hitting on high school girls three years after graduating.

I waited until last month, when my brother got his license, and he could drive my besotted arse home from high school parties.

Curry is still coming through with 13 and six, with less than a block per contest. I do like the fact that he doesn’t mind playing ugly, going to the same move over and over again if the damn thing works over and over again. He has rounded into solid shape, his shoulders finally look set, and the Bulls need to go to him time and time again in the second half to see what sort of player they have in this kid.

Tyson Chandler‘s had a rough year. He took it easy last summer as well, and his back balked at a tough training camp. He’s appeared in 16 out of 53, with right at ten points and ten combined blocks/rebounds in around 24 minutes a game. When he’s healthy, is game is something else. He was the only player worth watching in November, diving in the stands, snaring every board, getting in every face.

He has no moves. Nary a turnaround or jump hook to be found, but perhaps next year (when he’s able to jump and land without having to worry about which disc slips where), we’ll see something. In the meantime, he’s an odd bird: the rare 7-1 jumping jack who is able to fool us into believing he’s overachieving.

Like Chandler, Eddie Robinson is tall and black, but the only person he ever fooled was Krausie. He may have the highest vertical in the league, but he seems to dig life as a 6-9 Voshon Lenard. He likes to run off screens, grab a pass, travel, and chuck the 18-footer. Good for him.

Jamal Crawford is leading the Bulls in scoring, blown assignments, terrible shots, and bad hoop karma. He’s second in assists. Crawford doesn’t really know how to play “basket-ball,” his only real skill is dribbling long enough to free himself up for a 25-footer. He might be the worst defensive guard in basketball, including Robby Benson, and he’s got some really bad tattoos.

But he’s our Jamal, and Chicago traded the rights to Chris Mihm, a surefire Hall of Famer, to get ‘im, and the Bulls need to try and keep him around for a while. He played two years of high school hoops, 17 games at Michigan, and JC didn’t really become an NBA starter until last March. He didn’t become a starting off guard until last December. Throw in three head coaches and a torn ACL, and you can begin to understand why they call me “Mr. Patient” down at the docks.

Speaking of which, my man-love for Kirk Hinrich is off the friggin’ charts. Andy needs to create a One-Sided Man-Love Alert System with Kirk and Kelly’s picture on either side.

For years, I’ve gone out of my way avoid the cliches the broadcastin’ and/or scribin’ elite come through with for these players. How guys like Tom Tolbert or Ryan Bowen or even little Scotty Skiles seem to scare up the the finest in hyperbole — how “cerebral” (read: white) or “well-taught” (pasty) or how “the hustle never stops with this kid” (white with creepy eyebrows).

Kirk gets it because he defends like few other at his position. He gets it because he recognizes defensive shifts two or three flares ahead, attacking the middle or the baseline when the defense is begging for it with their eyes. He gets it with 10.8 and six assists and a brilliant plus/minus that has hovered around double-digits all season.

He didn’t get it right away, turning the ball over nine times in his debut, passing up open shots and trying to make entry passes from the half-court line. Something clicked, though, bloody quickly. Only Sam Cassell and Steve Nash keep their dribble alive better than Kirk at this point, only Jerome Kersey has hair worse than Kirk, and I was the only one who applauded when the Bulls drafted him last June.

Actually, I may have drank ten beers and kicked my roommate’s dog in frustration; but everyone gets a miss now and again.

Kendall Gill has been a terrific addition, all he does is done do ev’rything right, every night. The extra pass, the defensive help, the corner jumper. His body’s more or less shot, but his defense has been great and his per’fessionalism has been a welcome a addition to this motley crew.

I wish I could say the same for Scottie Pippen, but something happened last April that put #33 out of commission for good. This time last year, Pip was running the point for a surging Portland club, but the left knee balked right before the playoffs, and things haven’t been the same since.

When he’s healthy, Pip’s been half of his Hall of Fame self, which is still pretty brilliant — all long arms and modern-as-tomorrow angularity. I still say he retires to Paris next year, heralded as a genius by the jazz cognoscenti.

Antonio Davis. Solid, overpaid, bad knee, hot wife.

Jerome Williams looks like he made out with Shane MacGowan and picked up whatever he had.

Got a drink for you too, JYD

JYD works hard, but he’s an undisciplined help defender and he too often mistakes activity for achievement.

Marcus Fizer needs a new uniform. I like Marcus, especially after he kept his mouth shut and worked himself into a big contributor before tearing his knee last January. This year’s been a bit rougher. He shooting 36% in under 14 minutes a game, treating each time out like a showcase for the scouts (who have all deduced that Marcus is entirely capable of missing an ill-advised 17-foot jumper).

Fizer will round into a double-figure scorer off the bench for a good team, before all is said and done. Nothing gets said and nothing gets done in a Bulls uniform, or something more intelligent than that.

Chris Jefferies cannot be trusted around your children or my calypso records.

Corie Blount has been nothing but good news for the Bulls. He remains the squad’s best interior defender, a smart passer and accurate outside shooter. What this all means, you’ll have to figure out on your own.

Ronald Dupree is a minor-league pickup with moderate-league upside. He has a nice scoring touch and attacks the rim well, but he has a lot to learn.

Also, 2004 is the year I stopped loving Rick Brunson.

So long, suckers!