Like a fine cheese, Zach LaVine needed to spend a couple of years in a cave before he reached maturity as a basketball player. He may not even be at his peak yet, but damn it, we cut through the rind already and might as well enjoy him now, because his funky, sweet, exciting flavor is all you want at 12:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.

The dude can dunk, we know this, but the rest of his game is developing nicely, much as the bacterial cultures in a wheel of cheese grow and multiply in the aging process. Ever since shifting to shooting guard, his natural position, he’s shown he can hit the jimmy well. His shooting stats are up across the board, and his aggressive style of play is a natural complement to the beautiful-but-fragile Rubio’s calculated assistery — the pungent Roquefort to Rubio’s water cracker.

LaVine seems destined to play a role in the rise of the Timberwolves, who will one day challenge the Raptors as lords of the barren #North. Under the tutelage of Thibodeau, time will tell if his defense can improve to the point where his game will age well when his athleticism diminishes. Either way, he’s going to make our farts smell terrible for at least the next few seasons.

What is it that makes Zach LaVine so successful with the women?

Here’s one of the NBA’s worst-kept secrets: Zach LaVine is the sole heir to the LaVine family Spanish Fly empire. If you’ve ever been in a truck stop restroom, you’ve probably seen their wares displayed in the steel condom dispenser bolted to the wall. Some say Zach’s athletic ability is thanks to his mother’s use of the potent aphrodisiac during her pregnancy, but that is all hearsay. What we do know is this: From an early age, Zach was trained in the arts of seduction. His junior year of high school, he interned on Sean ‘Puffy’ Combs’ yacht for a summer, where he learned how to apply cocoa butter in a sensual and medicinal capacity. In the years since, LaVine has developed his own method for success in dating.

Step one: Introduce himself as Zach LaVine, Heir to the LaVine Spanish Fly Empire and 2016 Dunk Contest Champion.

Step two: Bow deeply with hands clasped at chest.

Step two and a half: Jump over the head of the woman.

Step three: Obtain consent.

Step four: Cocoa butter.

If Zach LaVine dunked in your dreams, how would he dunk in your dreams, where the physics that he makes his bitch in reality aren’t an issue?

This is a tough one, because usually it’s Stromile Swift who’s dunking in my dreams. To answer this question, I ingested a near-lethal dose of LaVine Spanish Fly and smoked a bowl of opium. As I drifted into sleep, the perfumed smoke of the potent narcotic tickling my nostrils, I put on a YouTube video of his rookie highlights and let them seep into my subconscious.

I see Zach soaring through an endless black void. He is beautiful. His jersey flutters though there is no wind, and he smiles at me. His smile morphs into a grimace. I notice the ball in his hands is wrinkly and it scares me. The ball is Freddy Kreuger. I now see why Zach is unhappy. The Freddy Kreuger ball is slicing at his palms with its razor gloves. Despite the excruciating pain, Zach turns his focus to the rim, which is slowly emerging from the void. This is no ordinary “basketball ring,” to use Ted Cruz’s parlance — the bottom of its net leads straight to the bowels of hell. The Freddy Kreuger ball knows this and redoubles its efforts to injure Zach, but he grits his teeth and windmills that motherfucker straight down into three-headed Satan’s leftmost mouth, where Freddy spends the rest of eternity being chewed up with Cassius.

who, me?

Explain all the times you have shouted Zach LaVine’s name in your life.

I have whispered his name on many occasions, but only shouted it once. It was recently, when I heard he changed his name to Zach LaSnapchat after Vine went under. I just wanted to hear that sound one last time, those three proud syllables, hard then soft then hard again.

Tom Thibodeau mumbles what to himself about Zach LaVine while he is eating Five Guys and watching game film in his Timberwolves bunker room 2:30 AM?

Like a chump, Thibs doesn’t tape over his laptop camera. It took two hours of browsing Tor and a tenth of a bitcoin to find a script that would get me inside his machine. From that point it was just a matter of reading his greasy, full lips, begrimed with Cajun spices. Whenever LaVine makes a big play, he always says the same thing: “Olive Soup.” The only other pattern I’ve identified occurs when he watches the Bulls. Over and over again, he screams “vacuum, vacuum, vacuum.”

What is the most underrated Maroon 5 track/album?

“Sunday Morning,” duh. Adam Levine’s side of the family was cut out of the LaVine Spanish Fly empire, but that didn’t stop him from establishing himself as something of a ladies’ man with 2002’s Songs About Jane. “Sunday Morning” was the album’s fourth single, overshadowed by the runaway success of bangers like “She Will Be Loved” and “This Love.” Maybe it’s my secret love of Jamiroquai talking, but I always thought this song deserved more play. Saturday Night is for fucking, but Sunday Morning is for sweet stuff with Adam Levine, like listening to his poetry and farting beer farts under the sheets.