Months ago, when Brett Favre finally retired I came out as a fan. Despite being an avid Lions fan (thus programmed to hate Green Bay and Chicago), I couldn't help but admire the passion and grit with which Favre played.
But the recent coming out of retirement circus has been an abomination. The Packers, Favre and the media are all to blame. Mostly the media, in my opinion. In what must have been one of the slowest sporting news months in recent memory, the Favre story was on for about 1/4 of every sporting news show. SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT BRETT FAVRE! Speculation on top of speculation. Interviews with people who have nothing to do with Favre, the Packers or his situation. I mean, they asked Tiger Woods about it. You seriously don't have any better questions for arguably the most dominant athlete (within his sport) in the world? That journalist should be fired and Tiger should refuse to answer any more questions about over-the-hill athletes from other sports possibly coming out of retirement.
Favre has to take some responsibility for this. I mean, make up your mind. I understand the desire to play again once the season gets close, but think about your legacy. This has certainly tainted it. You were a legend--no, a God--in Green Bay. You played there your entire career. You could probably feed a whole nursery full of babies to a pit bull, then torture that pit bull and feed it to your infant daughter and nuns in Green Bay would STILL give you a blowjob on the street. But now you're going to play for the Jets? Ugh. Brett, Brett, Brett. You're ruined everything.
Now we just have to wait for the end of season "will Brett retire" talk to begin. It'll probably start tomorrow and last all season.
Showing posts with label vomit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vomit. Show all posts
8.07.2008
12.12.2007
TWO GIRLS, ONE CUP.
The "porn" craze that's sweeping the nation. What is it? Some sort of terrible video that will make you scream, gag, flinch, vomit and possibly ruin you. From what I gather, it has something to do with two girls, one cup, mouths, some puke and some shit.
Here is my friend Enveris watching it:
And here are The Roots:
While I'm tempted to watch it, I'm also afraid. As my new roommate so aptly put it, "some things you can't unwatch." What if I watch it and it ruins women for me? Every time I see a woman, all I can think of is girls puking in one another's mouths and eating shit? I don't want that. Or even worse, what if I watch it and I like it? And from then on, to get aroused, I need to see a girl eating a big log and washing it down with a 32 oz. big gulp of puke?
No, I'm not going to watch it.
Here is my friend Enveris watching it:
And here are The Roots:
While I'm tempted to watch it, I'm also afraid. As my new roommate so aptly put it, "some things you can't unwatch." What if I watch it and it ruins women for me? Every time I see a woman, all I can think of is girls puking in one another's mouths and eating shit? I don't want that. Or even worse, what if I watch it and I like it? And from then on, to get aroused, I need to see a girl eating a big log and washing it down with a 32 oz. big gulp of puke?
No, I'm not going to watch it.
10.28.2007
BEWARE THE DEVIL.
For reasons I'll discuss later, I haven't been a huge fan of Halloween for years now. Yet on Friday night I found myself in a hot dog costume, accompanying my roommates on a one-block bar crawl. This consisted of six bars that are within one block of my apartment.
Things were going well until we entered Julep, stop #2 on our tour, to find all of the patrons standing about three feet from the bar. There was a woman in a devil costume on the bar, presumably bartending. Pleased that there was no crowd, I ignored the warning signs and made my way to the bar to order.
What I said was, "one PBR, please." But what the devil-woman must have heard was "please pull my head toward the bar, straddle my shoulders, and begin to wildly buck up and down in an attempt to snap my neck."
The shock of almost having my face bashed into the bar and the focus I had on keeping my teeth in my mouth distracted me, enabling her to spin me around, rip up my hot dog costume and like a hell-tiger wearing clothes too tight for its body, scratch at my tender belly. Notice my glasses have been smashed down so they are now on my upper lip and I'm holding out my wallet, which originally had been removed to purchase one lonesome can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Then, perhaps to cleanse the wound, the wannabe-sexy satan poured an ample amount of vodka down my stomach and into my pants. Exactly what I don't like. I had now decided that this was no longer fun. The devil proceeded to pour a large quantity of vodka into her own dirty mouth, grab my cheeks and spit the vodka into my mouth. I didn't want the vodka; in fact, I immediately felt my stomach turn and my mouth began to water in a pre-vomitous manner. At this point, I was actively trying to escape.
But the devil was not finished. I was still stunned and ready to throw up, but the crowd was cheering and about 5% of me thought, hmmmm, I bet she thinks I'm having fun, I should go with it. She spun me around, bent me over the bar and began to whip me with her belt. The first one or two strikes hit my ass, which hurt a little, but were nothing compared to the final lash, during which she somehow extended her reach, allowing the belt to wrap between and under my asscheeks, snapping violently at the back of my balls. If you've never been whipped in the back of your balls with a belt, pray you never will be.
In pain, shock and shame I broke free of the devil. In passing I informed my friends I was going to throw up and made for the bathroom, where I retched so violently I broke blood vessels under my eyes.
It was the most memorable, most horrible thing that has ever happened to me involving a repulsive she-devil, a belt and a hot dog costume. It's possible that I threw up my soul into the Julep bathroom and that the devil now owns it. I can only hope the alcohol in the vodka killed whatever form of hepatitis and herpes were spit into my innocent little mouth.
Things were going well until we entered Julep, stop #2 on our tour, to find all of the patrons standing about three feet from the bar. There was a woman in a devil costume on the bar, presumably bartending. Pleased that there was no crowd, I ignored the warning signs and made my way to the bar to order.
What I said was, "one PBR, please." But what the devil-woman must have heard was "please pull my head toward the bar, straddle my shoulders, and begin to wildly buck up and down in an attempt to snap my neck."
The shock of almost having my face bashed into the bar and the focus I had on keeping my teeth in my mouth distracted me, enabling her to spin me around, rip up my hot dog costume and like a hell-tiger wearing clothes too tight for its body, scratch at my tender belly. Notice my glasses have been smashed down so they are now on my upper lip and I'm holding out my wallet, which originally had been removed to purchase one lonesome can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Then, perhaps to cleanse the wound, the wannabe-sexy satan poured an ample amount of vodka down my stomach and into my pants. Exactly what I don't like. I had now decided that this was no longer fun. The devil proceeded to pour a large quantity of vodka into her own dirty mouth, grab my cheeks and spit the vodka into my mouth. I didn't want the vodka; in fact, I immediately felt my stomach turn and my mouth began to water in a pre-vomitous manner. At this point, I was actively trying to escape.
But the devil was not finished. I was still stunned and ready to throw up, but the crowd was cheering and about 5% of me thought, hmmmm, I bet she thinks I'm having fun, I should go with it. She spun me around, bent me over the bar and began to whip me with her belt. The first one or two strikes hit my ass, which hurt a little, but were nothing compared to the final lash, during which she somehow extended her reach, allowing the belt to wrap between and under my asscheeks, snapping violently at the back of my balls. If you've never been whipped in the back of your balls with a belt, pray you never will be.
In pain, shock and shame I broke free of the devil. In passing I informed my friends I was going to throw up and made for the bathroom, where I retched so violently I broke blood vessels under my eyes.
It was the most memorable, most horrible thing that has ever happened to me involving a repulsive she-devil, a belt and a hot dog costume. It's possible that I threw up my soul into the Julep bathroom and that the devil now owns it. I can only hope the alcohol in the vodka killed whatever form of hepatitis and herpes were spit into my innocent little mouth.
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