Real talk, I saw Dwight out at a club in Miami one night a few summers ago and I was still upset by the way he did my Magic. He was sitting in a booth with a few floozies. Bottles. Sparklers. The whole shebang. I casually moonwalked my way towards him and his entourage and purposely stumbled into the table knocking beverages in all directions. He looked up at me (we were actually about eye level from his seated position) and I glared his direction and told him that if he were half as committed to developing a legitimate post up game as he were to dumping loads into diminutive dipshits and breeding bastards he might accomplish something in his career. He just stared at me perplexed. I realized I had far exceeded his syllable ceiling. His brain being like a more primitive form of Twitter, with an even more restrictive character limit. I reverted to a language I was sure hed understand. I tore my shirt down the center and threw it at him then poured a bottle of his expensive champagne over my own head and told him to do something. I watched his eyes trace the champagne trickles down each of my striated muscles, my pecs leading the liquor to my rippling abs which acted as a slalom of sorts. As embarrassing as his IQ undoubtedly is, he knew enough to identify me as an adversary he wanted no parts of. He simply sat there dejected and as his female companions began to feel betrayed by his cowardice I saw them look longingly in my direction and I advised them to stay put, because a man of my stature wouldnt dare deal with someone who could find worth in such a miniature man hidden within such a foreboding shell. A few weeks later he sent me a friend request on Facebook. I didnt even bother acknowledging it.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Nov 2014 01:44:29 +0000
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