What a stinking dog of a putrid rotting corpse of a disgusting disgrace of an abomination of a disgrace of a debacle of a sham of a fraud of a spectacle of a sham of an embarrassment. Or something like that. How else to describe the Warriors recent sleepwalk through Texas.

On Monday night, the San Antonio Spurs spanked the tribe like a teenager's monkey, 129-89; just 24 hours later, the Houston Rockets piled on and beat the living tar out of them, 118-90 -- neither game was as close as the scores would indicate.

Remember all the way back to the first week of the season? The Warriors waltzed in to Dallas full of swagger and energy and broke the Mavericks down like they was a cardboard box on recycling day. Barely cracked a sweat. In the next couple of weeks they went on to topple the Pistons, Jazz, and Spurs (all at home) to push their record to a surging 9-5.

That was then.

We think it was either Santayana or Benoit Benjamin who first impaled themselves upon the jagged, intellectual teeth of this timeless hardwood saw: Is it better for a team to pull off spectacular upsets of the highest NBA magnitude or to take care of business at home and against lesser teams that they should beat and thereby gain solid footing toward a playoff position?

It's now a full week into December and the Warriors are still sitting on nine wins. Well, they would be sitting on nine wins if their collective ass wasn't hurting so bad from the Texas-sized whuppins they just received from the Spurs and Rockets.