I don't wake up every day, hoping to write a murder report, but this morning is different. Because I'm staring down Wesley Johnson's autopsy, and my face is cracked in half with glee.
Last night, the pick-pocketing Houston Rockets took on the Clippers, wagging Chris Paul in their face, but it wasn't Paul who'd snag the headlines. It was James fucking Harden. Because... just watch:
You can say a lot of things about this. It's disrespectful. It's dirty. It's James Harden, calcified. But let's just take the time to appreciate the in-between—the negative space: the amount of time that James Harden has to contemplate his shot after wrecking Wesley Johnson and staring him down.
It. Was. So. Long.
So long Harden could have:
- Knitted a sweater depicting him breaking Wesley Johnson's ankles
- Contemplated changing religions
- Done three weeks' worth of New York Times crossword puzzles
- Built a model rocket
- Read Ulysses
- Forget Ulysses, taken a time machine back to 1922 and rewritten the whole thing before James Joyce
- Solved world hunger
- Written Wesley Johnson's mom an apology note
- Taken a nine-year course on podiatry
- Repaired Wesley Johnson's ankle