Wednesday, September 17

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."

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