On the list of overrated things I’m sick of hearing about, the Miami Heat’s “Big Three” are just ahead of Avicii and Community. Honestly, has there ever been a more disappointingly dull collection of supposed “stars” ever assembled (besides the poor saps roped into presenting at the MTV Movie Awards every year)? Future Rogaine spokesman Lebron James is kinda good at basketball, I guess, but we all know his talents are the result of ESPN forcing him to shoot up with PEDs (Pterodactyl and Epachthosaurus DNA) before every game.

Dwayne Wade tried to change his nickname to “WOW” earlier this year, which was awesome until I learned he wasn’t trying to appeal to the legions of level twenty-four sorcery orcs that follow basketball (big mistake there, Wade, ’cause the Mists of Pandaria promotional money could’ve been huuuge).

Of the trio, Chris Bosh is the only truly likeable guy, and even he loses entertainment points for refusing to change his boring first name to the much cooler “Hieronymus.” Thankfully, amidst their mundane dominance, the Heat decided to add someone to their roster who is not only exhilarating but also happens to be the most critical component of their almost-guaranteed championship: Chris “Birdman” Anderson.

In the storied history of interesting bird-people, Anderson resides in the upper echelon alongside the YMCMB rapper of “Still Fly” and “What Happened to the Boy?” fame and ornithologist/murderer Robert Stroud (unfortunately, because they’re a flock, Juelz Santana’s crew Byrdgang are disqualified from the rankings).

I mean, how can you not love him? The guy has a mohawk sharp enough to serve is a guillotine blade and more ink than Jamin Winans. Seriously, his body looks like a My First Felony coloring book. He plays with a frenzied style that I can only describe as “deranged dachshund” and he is so enjoyable to watch that it almost makes you forget his wretched performance in the 2005 Slam Dunk Contest, which was so atrocious that the NBA secretly considered banning white people form dunking ever again.

Nobody on the Heat brings the same level of entertainment value to the court, unless watching Shane Battier flop all over the place like a beached flounder somehow enthralls you.

The thing is, not only are the Miami Heat more enjoyable to watch with Anderson swatting shots into the nose-bleed seats, but he makes their championship nearly an absolute certainty. Every title-winning team has a guy whose sole job is to play with the type of barely-restrained psychotic energy that terrifies opponents and small children alike. Consider the recent history of the NBA for evidence.

The 2008 Boston Celtics had Kevin Garnett, who is such a sociopathic bully that he routinely harasses the color blind. The 2010 Los Angeles Lakers had Ron Artest…who is Ron Artest. The 2003, 2005, and 2007 San Antonio Spurs had notorious psychopath Tim Duncan, who is such a dangerous miscreant that I heard he once forgot to cover his mouth when he yawned and neglected to say “please” when reaching for the mashed potatoes on the same night.

Yes, winning a championship requires a at least one top-notch scorer, solid defense, and a gripping narrative for the media to use as clandestine justification for rigging the games latch onto, but it also requires one intimidating reprobate that seems slightly unhinged. Chris Anderson is exactly that guy for this iteration of the Miami Heat. In the calculus that comprises a potential NBA champion, you could say he plays an integral role (but then I’d have to smack you and curb-stomp your pocket protector).

So when Chris Anderson is hoisting up the NBA Finals MVP trophy in June, grinning so widely that his “Freebird” neck tattoo is stretched until indecipherable, basking in the glorious rain comprised of confetti and Russell Westbrook’s bitter tears, remember that you read about it here first.

I’m not a licensed clairvoyant like Nate Silver (I’m not even an unlicensed one), but I have a good gut feeling about this prediction.

Let Lebron James continue to induce orgasmic convulsions in announcers with every dribble, let Dwayne Wade continue to blatantly travel every time he drives towards the basket, and let Chris Bosh continue to do whatever it is that justifies the $17.5 million he’ll make this year; I’m leading Team Birdman and not looking back.

In fact, last week I decided to demonstrate my allegiance and confidence with my own neck tattoo, but evidently having a replica of Anderson’s face, complete with his neck tattoo, drawn on my neck was just a bit too “meta” for the tattooist (it’s okay, though, since Dan Harmon is going to make an obnoxious TV show about it).