Hahahahahahahaha

Dunna Nunna Nunna Nunna Nunna Nunna Nunna Nunna Nunna…

Never cross an ibex.

The coward who could have been a legend.

Pure disgust.

That’s all I feel when I look at this prick. Once upon a time, LeBron James had a shot at being the best ever. But no longer. He left that opportunity back in Wardrobe, somewhere near the make-up chair on the set of his public masturbation bender known as “The Decision.” It was there, in front of the HD cameras and the eyes of the world that this uneducated Frankenstein 187ed his legacy forever. A brand image that took nearly a decade to build was dismantled in under an hour. Well played, idiot. You talk about knowing the “history of the game,” but clearly you missed the chapter on legends. (Probably because you can’t read). The true titans of this game are cut from a certain cloth—the Isiah Thomases, the Larry Birds, the Michael Jordans, and yes, even the Kobe Bryants (to name a few). They all share something special. Something above and beyond their God-given talent. It’s intangible, yet is embedded in the DNA of every champion worth remembering. It’s that killer instinct, that leadership and the unspoken understanding that you are at helm of something much greater than yourself. It’s what legends are made of, and it’s something LeBron James has proven he does not have. Do you think Michael Jordan and Larry Bird would have ever played on the same team? Not a fucking chance. Why? Because they are men. Alpha competitors who needed to beat each other to prove to themselves and history that they were the best. They demanded it of themselves. These are the types who build dynasties around their own talent. They don’t cut and run and ask other superstars to help them win because the pressure’s too great. They stay and fight for what is theirs. They shoulder that pressure and shed blood, sweat and tears in their pursuit of the history books. Win or lose, they make their own destiny. It’s the plight of a basketball god deserving of his praise.

It’s who LeBron could have been.

Queen James, you took the bitch route. You went for the easy road, and relieved yourself of the pressures the all-time greats are supposed to bear. Whatever championships come your way will be forever tainted. They will be unspectacular and not nearly as sweet as they once could have been. Cleveland was your story. It was supposed to be your legacy. We were the ones who watched you grow from a child to a man and showered with you praise all the way. You were our King, and our love was pure.

Then, you abandoned your people, and did so in such an unthinkable way. You stuck a knife in our hearts in front of the world, then twisted the blade. All to satiate your narcissism. Where’s the honor? Where’s the respect? No King are you. You’re just a punk and now the whole world knows it. You left your “real fans” back in Northeastern Ohio, bleeding.

We will never forgive you.

And neither will history.

Open your textbooks to page 76…

Haters gone hate.