Week 3 Death Blossom!

Sunday was a jumble of fucking fuck. Ronnie Brown RULED the Patriots singlehandedly and totally fucked their shit up. Fucked it waaaay up. Travis Barker fucked up. That's how fucked up their shit is. Still, I made a run at Jere's shitty band of derelicts: the Fackin' Dahkies. Almost winning is worse than getting your ass handed to you. Ask Hillary Clinton. Their shitstained starters made me a grand total of -4 points.

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your tax dollars that will pay for my court costs and lengthy stay in prison. This week's Death Blossom victim is the entire defensive squad for the New England Patriots.

First, I pick up the phone. I call up my boy Tawmee from Quinsee. I offer him $100 and a forged coupon to pokerstars.net to make contact with the squad at their practice facility.

[door flies open]

Tawmee: WHAT THA FAAAAAACK! WHY ARE YOUUUUU FACKUS DOOOIN' NIS? YOU LET OWAH ENTIYAH CITY DOWN! YOU COULDN'T STOP THAT STOOPID DAHKIE RONNIE BROWN?

Tedy Brusci: (massaging his tumor) Who the fuck is that asshole?

Tawmee: WHO AM I? I'M DA GUY THAT'S GAWNUH FACK YOU UP!

[opens trenchcoat, brandishes shotgun]

Tawmee: EAT LEAD YOU LAZY MUDDAH FACKAZ!

[click]

Richard Seymour: (scratching his balls) The hell did that cracka say? Fack?

Brandon Meriweahter: THE SAFETY'S ON! WHOOP DAT TRICK!

[entire New England Patriots defensive squad crushes him]

[Bill Bellichick enters, floating two feet above the floor]

Bill Bellichick: Who is this intruder?

Tedy Brusci: He says his name is Tommy. He's from...where the fuck are you from, asshole?

Tawmee: KINSEE, FUCKAH! QUINSEE!

Bill Bellichick: YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR ARROGANCE, FOOLISH BOY!

[raises thumb and forefinger, makes little crushing movement]

Tawmee: GASP! IRK!

[dies]

As I listen via the wireless listening device that was cleverly attached to his Ford Taurus keychain, I gleefully press the button on the detonator. The entire New England region is decimated by a huge fireball of radioactive fallout and destruction. Let's hope that Bellichick doesn't rise from the ashes and become even more powerful than before.

Matt Serra's Definately Not Gay MMA Techniques

What's up there, fruitcake. I'm Matt 'The Terrah' Serra. You may remembah me from such medical crime dramas like CSI: Long Island and gymnasium viral awareness videos like HPV: Just Use Soap. Everyone here knows that my baldheaded ass doesn't roll outta bed for less than $100, so you douches are lucky dat I'm even awake. I had a rough night; Joe Rogan came ovah with dees stupid broads he met at some fuckin' comedy club and we were slammin' yaygah bombs till five in tha mornin'. YAAAAYGAH BOMBS! WOOOOO! What'd you do, twinkle toes? Fire off some knuckle children on ya sister's laptop? Queeyah.

Today's lesson is one of Joe's favorites. It's called tha Chinese Fingah Cuffs. Theyah's two tings that Joe Rogan does best: bombin' onstage and slidin' his Italian meat hammah into some tight asian ass. I've seen him walk up ta dees two Vietnamese hotties in Little Saigon and have dem each lickin' one of his balls out in Dana White's van inside twenty minutes. That guy is a real pro! 'Course, da roofies help. The pec implants too, I guess. But dey say a man should always go aftah his passion, you know? If you don't like that shit, then go play 'tummy sticks' with that skinny goth girl in Wedding Crashas.

Anyway, this is a finishing move when your opponent gives you his back. First, reach ovah and pull on one of his cheeks with your other hand. Fishook the shit out of him! Really get in there! I want you to know what he had for breakfast, ya Nancy! Make sure that fucker doesn't bite you...you'll need your hand in one piece to finger-bang his old lady after he taps out. Dat's the ultimate hahtbreakah there. Then, stick your thumb up his ass. I got it on my first try, chief. Think you can do bettah than me?

I didn't bring an instructional video today. Actually, I'm not even sure this move is recorded on tape. You might be able to get a tape from Chester. He hangs around on 34th street in the city. Nice guy. Don't get too close, though. Dat fucker has a weird twitch. Instead, I got a clip of one of my first students. Dr. Robert Rey has come a long way in tha fight world. He used to have the belt at 185, but he went back tah California and stahted rebuilding labias or some shit. Anyway, I'm going next door to get a Red Bull smoothie. Practice this shit for an hour, then turn off the lights and lock up. Remember to shower afterwards, ya filthy mooks.

Week 2 Death Blossom!

This week, my precious Hobo Sodomites were smited by my nephew Brian's Cougar Hunters. Who would have predicted that a ragtag group of cocktasters that are named after a grainy porn site would defeat my mighty band of homeless warriors? Do you know how sad and pathetic it is to hang your hopes of winning on a goddamn kicker on Monday night? Pretty fucking sad. Bruce Jenner sad.

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your tax dollars that will pay for my court costs and lengthy stay in prison.
This week, my victim is Antwaan Randle El.

Antwaan Randle El fucking sucks. He may have made a crucial drive-saving catch, but he didn't even break four points for my Hobos. And what's with your stupid ass name? The nurse must have been cockslapped when she was filling out your birth certificate and she misplaced his first, middle and last names. What the fuck is a Randle El? Is he Ron Mexico's sidekick? GO. GET. FUCKED.

First, I'm going to catch the redeye to DC. Then I'll take a taxi and sit quietly, wringing my gritty, sweaty hands like any great supervillian. When I arrive at his estate, I'll kick the cabbie's ass, GTA-style and run over him four or five times. Then, I'll take out the tire iron and pummel his crushed remains with it until I break a sweat. After all, the cabbie is a Redskins fan and he was spouting some gibberish about Antwaan's 'coming out party'. Hey jackoff! I've got a coming out party for ya: blood is coming out of your ear!

After I crash through the gate with the taxi, I ram that fucker into his foyer and kick his guard dogs to death with my steel-toed Sketchers. When Antwaan comes running out dressed in his My Little Pony pajamas, I'll just stand there and calmly take the remote control out of my flourescent green fanny pack.

Flipping the power switch on, I'll start laughing manaically, like the Indian dude in Predator when he laughed at Poncho's shitty jokes. Then, I'll gently grasp the controls with the tips of my fingers, making dainty little movements while dancing a jig.

The remote control commands an Apache-D helicopter, armed with a single 20mm cannon, eight high-exposive hellfire missles and a huge fucking circular flying wing of death on top of it.

Antwaan will just stand there, drool hanging off his chin while I hum a few bars from C&C Music Factory's Gonna Make You Sweat. A full ten minutes later, the Apache will crash through the cieling in a cavalcade of rubble, war machine and bath oils from the upstairs bathroom. The wreckage comes to rest within inches of us and I'll remain perfectly still as Antwaan uncovers his eyes and sees his wet, pee-stained crotch. Just as Antwaan begins to rejoice in his apparent survival, The police burst through the window and beat him to death with their nightsticks.

"Good job, boys," I say in my best Police Chief Wiggum voice. "Let's go home."

Week 1 Death Blossom!

There are few things in this world that I commit more time and effort to than my fantasy football team, The Hobo Sodomites. I spend virtually twenty minutes each week to meticulously calculate my starters and sitters, weighing my options as to the best possible combination of points and matchups. Then, I masturbate four times, ejaculating into a old Smucker's jar. Finally, I set my teams and pray to my heathen God that She will grant me victory over my foes, culminating in an elaborate ceremony involving live piglets and medieval pole arms.

Sadly, I lost to my brother Trey on opening weekend. Ben Roethlisberger and Hines Ward, the NFL's version to Harold and Kumar, rode me hard and put me to bed bloody around four o'clock on Sunday. I'm still walking with a limp. During the initial stages of my excruciatingly painful recovery, while in a deep haze of barbituates and whiskey, I experienced a vision:

Right after I picked up the flyswatter I keep at my bedside for just such occaisions, the vision spoke to me! It said, "Remember, Death Blossom delivers only one massive volley at close range... theoretically."

Each week here at Magnificent Bastards, I present Death Blossom. I will pick one of my Hobo Sodomites and describe for you, in gory detail how I will kill that player. Winning and losing does not concern me. What concerns me is the unyielding suffering and eventual death of a player that has failed me, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your tax dollars that will pay for my court costs and lengthy stay in prison.

This week, my victim is Donte' Stallworth. It's easy to hate this asshole, because he used to be a New England Patriot. But you know what really grinds my gears? The shitbreath injured himself DURING PRE-GAME WARMUPS. Zero points. ZERO.

I'm going to fly to Cleveland and harpoon that doucheknuckle. And on that harpoon will be affixed a sturdy iron chain. That chain will in turn be steadfastly affixed to the rear bumper of a 1999 Ford Expedition. That Ford Expedition will be at the bottom of a lake of fucking lava. And in that lake of lava will be hungry bears with lava-proof SCUBA suits that have specially adapted mouthpieces so they can fucking gnaw on him, starting with his genitals. Next, the bears will shred his throat and eat his useless hands. Then, the bears will shit out the charred, partially-digested body parts. It won't take long for the laxatives to work their magic, especially in such harsh environs. Finally, the bears will force-feed his burnt, shitty dick and hands back to Donte' Stallworth, while they laugh and laugh. One of the bears will be homosexual.

Ricky's Rough Ridaz Remix

Recently, it was announced that Miami Dolphins running back Ricky Wiliams is attending night school. Guess what he's studying? If you guessed some gay shit, you'd be right. It's basically glorified massage therapy, sprinkled with bits of herbal prozac and sitar solos.
I can see him now, on the bottom of a huge pile of defenders, asking them in calm, soothing tones why they have so much tension in their heart chokras. What a bitch.
The Magnificent Bastard investigative reporting team found out another little tidbit: He also serves as the schools' A/V club treasurer. Here's the rough cut of his final project: