Clint Capela 19 Points/7 Dunks Full Highlights (12/25/2017)

Dwight Howard answered his ringing doorbell with bleary eyes. He had been taking advantage of the rare chance to sleep in on the day after Christmas. When he opened the door and saw who the visitor was, he immediately tried to close it again.

Clint Capela stuck his foot in the door to prevent it from being closed. Even after Dwight slammed it on his foot, he refused to move. “I’ve got a singing telegram here for a Mr. Howard,” Clint said, dressed in a full Santa outfit complete with fake white beard.

“I’m calling the police for real,” Dwight said.

“♫Clint is a way better center than Dwight in his prime♪,” Clint began to sing in an out-of-tune tenor. “♫When it comes to resurrecting his career, Dwight has run out of time♪.”

Dwight turned to back into his house, but Clint followed him inside, continuing his song. “♫James Harden prefers Clint’s game to Dwight’s♪, ♫and appreciates that he’ll run the pick and rolls right♪. ♫Clint doesn’t demand post touches in a vain attempt to replicate past success♪, ♫out of all centers in the league, Clint is the best♪.”

Dwight was looking for where he had put down his cell phone so he could dial 911 and inform them of this home invasion. “Shut the hell up and get out of my house, man.”

Clint was not deterred from his singing. “♫Merry Christmas to Dwight, the biggest loser of them all, when Dwight catches the ball, the offense will stall♪! ♫The best gift to receive under the Tannenbaum tree, is Dwight getting shuffled from team to team♪!” Having finished his song, Clint turned around, bent over, and pulled his red velvety pants down to expose his bare rear end. “Kiss my ass, Dwight! Kiss it! I own you!”

When Clint heard Dwight’s enraged yell and the rapid sounds of stomping footsteps, he quickly pulled up his pants and ran towards the front door. “What’s the matter, Dwight? Can’t handle the truth in the form of song?” He wrenched open the door and ran out to the street where his car was parked.

“Expect a visit from the police soon!” Dwight called out to his former teammate. “As soon as I find my phone!”

“I’ll be long gone, buddy,” Clint said happily, moving his floppy Santa hat out of his eyes as he got into his expensive convertible. “Merry Christmas!” Then, with a squealing of tires, he peeled off down the street, leaving one very angry Dwight Howard shaking his head and trying to remove the sight of two very black buttcheeks from his mind.

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