Good news, fans. I've located the silver lining in the Bulls' back-to-back blowout losses in Detroit: rediscovering what it is to hate the Detroit Pistons.

As a child of the '80s in Chicago, hating the Pistons is second nature to me. Like breathing, or having a swig of vodka first thing in the morning.

Still, over the past 10 years, sadly I had forgotten how much I hate the Pistons. I'm not just talking about the dirty play or Isiah's crybaby routine, though that stuff won't soon be forgotten.

There are little things, too. Like the image of Chuck Daly's perpetual frown. Or Vinnie Johnson coming off the bench to score 12 crushing points in like three minutes. Or Bill Laimbeer ... well, just Bill Laimbeer.

And now that the 2006-2007 Pistons are beating the Bulls senseless, all the ill will is boiling back up.

So congratulations, Pistons. I hate you. Again. And it feels good.

To be clear, this reincarnated rivalry has a ways to go. Make that, the Bulls have a ways to go. It's not a rivalry when you can't keep your opponent within 20 points.

And really, this Pistons team isn't nearly as thuggish as their late '80s predecessors. There's still plenty of jersey-tugging and stray elbows, and Jason Maxiell seems to be a Rick Mahorn-Dennis Rodman-Bill Laimbeer hybrid. But the physicality of these games is tiddlywinks when compared to those matchups with the Bad Boys – the team, as a boy, that I learned to hate like no other.

No, this Pistons team gets me in other ways.

Like the unrelenting whining. You know, that automatic "Who, me?" after every, single, stinking foul call against them. Tayshaun Prince and Rasheed Wallace, and to a slightly lesser extent, Richard Hamilton, are the poster children for this one, but few on the Detroit roster seem immune to the You-Called-What?! Epidemic. You'd think the way the Pistons throttled the Bulls in Games 1 and 2 they wouldn't bother questioning insignificant calls at every turn. Better to build up a little goodwill with the officials while the going is good, right? But these Pistons can't help themselves. Complaining is so ingrained in their team culture. Makes me crazy.

And let's not forget about Chris Webber. During his college days at Michigan and then in the pros at Washington and later in Sacramento, Webber had a beautiful, athletic, all-around game that I worshipped. He never won a title, but his teams had some success, especially in Sacramento. Then, in Philadelphia, the record went south, and Webber's effort followed. It got so bad this season that the 76ers had to pay Webber $25 million NOT to play. I repeat: The 76ers had to pay Webber $25 million NOT to play. The Detroit native then signed with the Pistons, who have since played up the nauseatingly contrived prodigal-son-returned story, ignoring the fact that Webber, in the wake of the Ed Martin scandal dating back to his days at the University of Michigan, had embarrassed much of the state. Meanwhile, Webber, predictably, has rediscovered his burning love for the game with the No. 1-seeded Pistons. How terribly convenient. I hate everything about this story.

Oh yeah, and what about all the chummy laughing on the Detroit bench the first two games? I mean, every time the cameras flash their bench I invariably see Chauncey Billups yukking it up with Antonio McDyess or Carlos Delfino or Rasheed or whomever else happens to be around him. Look, the Pistons beat the Bulls so soundly those first two games of the series they can dance the Horah if they so choose. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

And that's ultimately what we're talking about here. I may have a handful of rational reasons for not liking the Pistons, but in the final analysis, it's just this thing in me – an admittedly emotional thing – that's laid dormant the past decade, but reawakened this week: I hate the Pistons.

Until the Bulls get a win in this series, it's all I have.

For now, I encourage all of you to join me. You'll feel much better. I know I do.

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