“Hey James, great game tonight, thanks for all those lobs.” Clint Capela said to his teammate, holding out an angled arm to receive a hand-clasp and hug.
“You know it man,” James Harden responded, pulling Clint into a hug. “You made Cousins into a little bitch, especially when you swiped your balls right over the top of his head.”
Clint laughed. “Yeah, he was pissed off after that one.” But then Clint got serious. “Speaking of little bitches, how much better am I than Dwight Howard right now?”
James furrowed his considerable eyebrows. “I dunno. I try not to dwell on the past too much.”
“Yeah, but, on a scale of one to ten, how much more do I impact winning basketball than that crybaby Dwight?” Clint pressed. “One being I only impact it a little more, and ten being I’m an All-Star and he’s not even backup quality.”
James saw his teammate’s eagerness to get this question answered and felt compelled to give a response. “Uh, six. You’re a six for sure.”
Looking slightly crestfallen, Clint replied, “Only a six? Don’t you think having a drama-free locker room and a greatly improved free-throw ability merit more than a six on the Clint vs. Dwight rating scale? Have you seen Charlotte’s record lately? They majorly blow.”
James was uncomfortable now with this line of questioning and was willing to say anything to get Clint to give up. “Okay, a ten. You get a ten out of ten. You’re way better than Dwight. I love having you on the team whereas I resented every minute I had to spend with that melodramatic low-effort manchild.”
Clint took the recording device out of his pocket and switched it off. “Awesome. Dwight will love to hear it.”