Nate, what were you thinking?

It should come as little surprise to readers that a reservoir of hooey flies around in sports media these days.

Too many times, we’re forced to take sources at their word, if only because it would take a year-long investigation to unearth the truth.

Trouble is, investigative journalism messes with our putting.

So most of us settle. What else can we do? We take Nate McMillan’s word that he exchanged 19 years with the Seattle SuperSonics for the horrid Portland Trail Blazers, not because Portland money-whipped him into signing, but because he needed a change.

Well, horse hockey.

Permit me to set the record straight. After all, I have the means to do so where others do not.

Sodium pentathol. Yes, truth serum.

Never mind how I got it. I got it.

And I think the results may surprise you.

After all, that’s how I got Brad Pitt to admit he, indeed, dropped spousal unit Jennifer Aniston for bombshell Angelina Jolie (“Hey, dummy! Are you blind? What would YOU do?”).

So, cleverly disguised as a potted plant in McMillan’s Portland hotel room, I sprung, pinned McMillan down and injected his right arm with enough sodium pentathol to make O.J. Simpson confess.

The result is the following:

Q. Nate, what was the deciding factor in your leaving for the Blazers?

A. Do the math, baby. Four years, $18 million against five years, $30 million. Man, you must have the IQ of gravel. But the way the Sonics low-balled me was only the last bad burrito. I knew way before last year that I was outtathere sooner or later. Management treated me like something they’d dug out of their ear.

Q. How so? Do you mean when Wally Walker and Rick Sund kept the roster largely intact and owner Howard Schultz still said publicly that he expected playoffs?

A. Bingo, Einstein. We were 37-45 the year before. We stunk. We needed players who didn’t trip over the painted lines. So just for giggles, I shot over a list of names to the suits. Free agents. Guys who could have helped. Carlos Boozer. Marcus Camby. Rasheed Wallace. Kenyon Martin. Robert Horry. Manu Ginobili. After all, it’s my job on the line, right? So what happens? Only move they make is Danny Fortson. Danny Fortson! Only good thing that came out of that was we got rid of Calvin Booth. Then we draft Robert Swift out of high school. Robert Swift?? Hellooooo! When he’s ready to play in this league, I’ll be known as “The late Nate McMillan.”

So what did they expect? Walker sticks me with these bozos and Schultz says he wants me to get them into the playoffs. I think someone laced his non-fat vanilla latte with Cuervo, but I keep my mouth shut like a good little Nate. I figure I’m gone by Christmas, Valentine’s Day at the latest. But I coach my rear off and we start 17-3. Fans are buying me drinks. Even you guys in the media love me again. Suddenly, I’m John Freakin’ Wooden. But even then, there’s exactly zero mention from upstairs about a contract extension. We win the division, beat the Kings in the first round and nearly beat the Spurs, who went on and took the whole combination plate.

And NOW they mention an extension. NOW they say they want me. Hysterical. The organization’s gushing more red ink than the chainsaw scene in “Scarface.” They have eight free agents, who may or may not re-up. Duane Casey couldn’t take it anymore, so he flew off to Minnesota. I need this in my life? Sayonara, Sam.

Q. Many were surprised that you left right after the team signed Ray Allen.

A. George Karl was right. Dude can’t cover a coat rack. See, we could have beaten the Spurs if we could have spelled “defense.” That’s how we got into the Finals against the Bulls in ‘96. That’s how I stayed in the league for 12 years. Your stud has to set the example. If he plays defense like Aunt Bee, so will the rest of the guys. Gimme Gary Payton any day.

Q. Yes, but, don’t you think Portland is a bit of a mess?

A. You mean how they turned into the JailBlazers? You mean how they turned off a formerly frenzied region to such a revolting extent that they’re now begging for fans? You mean the drug busts? You mean Darius Miles cussing out Mo Cheeks during film study? You mean how Zach Randolph clutches the ball like he’s paying mortgage on it and pouts like a schoolgirl when he doesn’t get his 25 shots a game? You mean the dog-fighting scandal?

They lay that mess on me, Jack, and I’ll ship ‘em all to Charlotte. But the truth is, it still beats the Monty Python’s Flying Circus they’ve got going up north.

Besides, for what they’re paying me, I can afford the aspirin. Hell, I can buy the whole Bayer Company.