Week 7 Death Blossom!

So Death Blossom is a little late...call my editor and log a complaint. He will come to your house and put out his cigar on your tongue, you hasty asshole.
Last Sunday, I chased hydrocodone with Lynchburg Lemonade wine coolers to numb the pain of John McCain's eventual humiliation on election day by moronic sheeple in love with a big-eared twatface named after a Mortal Kombat character. Pretty standard day, actually. But, with me being a bright-side kind of guy, I like to look at the positive aspect of things:

I had a wet dream! It was awesome. This chick with a long, wide neck looked up at me and called me Alex Rogan and said she loved me. She was the kind of down-ass bitch that I would like to spend my life with after a comet destroys the world. Maybe even father some crumbsnatching kids with, who knows?

Last week, I emerged victorious after defeating Blake's Empire. You've, uh got a little humiliation on your empire there, fella. Matt Cassel rose from the dead and somehow threw 2 touchdowns to Randy Moss, doubling up my score and sending Blake's Empire tumbling into chaos and ruin. You will rue the day you ever matched up against The Hobo Sodomites! Well, what are you waiting for?!?! Go ahead, RUE THE DAY! RUE IT!

This week's victim is San Diego Chargers backup running back Darren Sproles. MJD was on hiatus in a Philipino whorehouse all weekend, so I got stuck with this asshat, hoping for a returned kick, a 1-yard punch TD or a good 35-yard scramble. Hell, I would have been happy with a fumble recovery! Useless prick. Go back to riding the pine while your knees slowly age. Better yet...

First, I'm going to grab your hands and force them into a rusty meat grinder. Then, politely congratulate you on the numerous NFL records that you hold while I mince your phalanges into filling for sausages that I will eventually feed to your girlfriend's Shi Tzu.

Next, I'm going to rip your hands out of the meat grinder and kick you square in the balls. After you're on the floor, clutching your marbles in agony, I'll step on your windpipe until you suffocate, staring into your eyes as your soul flows downward into hell.

There, your useless carcass will be roasted in the flames of a thousand suns, forever and ever. Good night and good luck, you silly fuck.

Fall Training Camp Debriefing

SOMEWHERE NEAR THE SYRIA-IRAQ BORDER

Good morning, courageous warriors for Allah! For those of you who are new, my name is Ali and I'm your camp counselor for the fall session. I know some of you new guys are tired. The midnight camel-raping hazing thing we always do ran a little late last night. That's why you guys got the little inflatable pillow thingies in your chairs this morning...compliments of the Saudi Wahabi theocracy!

I know all of you are dying to watch the Comedy Central Roast of William Shatner. I am sorry to announce that Yusef taped over it. The elimination round of Dancing With The Stars was apparently more important than making us laugh out here in the cold, dusty shitstorm of a training camp. I think I speak for all of us when I say FUCK YOU, YUSEF. I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL, YOU INFIDEL-LOVING DOG.

But, I have good news! I downloaded the transcript this morning and here is my favorite part:

As usual, Lisa Lampanelli closed the roast with her usual style and grace. She is easily the funniest uncovered female infidel comedian. She continued the jibes aimed at Andy Dick and took a few more rips at the other filthy homosexual at the roast: "When Elton John heard Bill Shatner's version of Rocket Man, he spit George Tekei's dick out of his mouth."

I HAVE A SURPRISE! Gather 'round my laptop, everyone! I also found this clip of Shatner singing Rocketman!

Well, that was a lovely distraction. I wish that we could be watching this in a comfy, air-conditioned luxury home instead of shitting in a hole out here in the mountians. Oh well! Allah works in mysterious ways!

On to the first order of business: CELEBRATING THE SUCCESS OF OUR TRAITOR INSIDE THE GREAT SATAN, BARACK OBAMA! The American media is overwhelmingly predicting a victory for the Democratic party, and the hapless, idiotic voters are actually believing them! Also, the entire entertainment industry is showing what elitist, snobbish pricks they actually are and have continued spouting hateful, ageist slander against Obama's opponent, the terrifying killer superhero known as Senator John McCain.

We will feast on lamb tonight and celebrate Barack's victory over the American infidels! I know that we will...

[rumbling sound]

The fuck?

[M1 tank crushes entire camp]

Week 6 Death Blossom!

I love it when people say 'I'm so anal.' Almost every day, I encounter some fuckwad that prattles on and on about themselves, relating everyday happenings to some of their more annoying habits and qwerks. Luckily, most of these twits are women, and when I hear the word anal uttered by an undersexed, bored suburbanite, it just makes me giggle. Even happy sometimes! Imagine Glenda: 40-something loyal viewer of Desperate Housewives telling me all about her phobias in gyms, reluctant to touch anything for fear of infection. Wait for it...

"I'm so anal...I mean er, picky about germs," she stutters. Jackpot. You just got a handsome, condescending personal trainer to think about your withered, fuzzy anus.

Transverseley (big word alert!), I FUCKING HATE IT when some shit-nose says IT IS WHAT IT IS. You know folks, the English language is one of the most eloquent, poetic tongues on the face of the Earth, even when it's bastardized by that uppity pseudo-messiah Barack Obama. I know what you're thinking: "Jeff...chill the fuck out. It's just an expression." To paraphrase Bender the robot: bite my shiny metal ass. Something as idiotic as 'it is what it is' really chaps my balls. If you're going to open your filthy food hole and spit something out, put some thought into it first. Whay can't you just tilt your empty head, shrug your shoulders and sit there like the human hemorrhoid that you are? YOU JUST WASTED MY AIR, YOU SCRODUM SWALLOWER!

Last night at my compound, I got trashed on Natural Light and loaded my collection of 19th-century revolvers. After I finished the second twelve pack, I shot out five of my televisions while watching the final presidential debate. Sometime during John McCain's wrapup, I lost conciousness and saw my little brown friend again...and he brought pictures of his family!

"This, is my Wife-oid, and twelve thousand little grig-lets."

I'm actually starting to like that dude. And his Grig-lets. This week, I eeked out a sloppy win over another fellow shitty team, Steamer. I can only assume this refers to every gay man's favorite meeting place for anonymous homosexual encounters. Nice name, Tom. Was Glory Hole Depot already taken? Get a writer already.

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, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your words of encouragement and humorous singing telegrams during my lengthy stay at my compound on house arrest. A membership in a pie-of-the-month club would also be a nice gesture.

This week's Death Blossom victim is New England Patriots quarterback Matt Cassel. Everyone knows that I've been struggling at the QB position, especially after I traded the legendary Derek 'Horse Balls' Anderson for a thrid-tier reciever and some Sizzler coupons. This prick is making it even more difficult for me because I scooped him up after ten minutes after Brady went down in glorious, writhing agony. What a cruel universe this is!

Since he is such a shitty backup to great athletes, I'm going to drive over to his crib in my rented Chevrolet Cavelier in reverse. Then, I'm going to ring the doorbell. No answer. He's probably in the garage arranging his Cabbage Patch Dolls in compromising positions. Nope! He's just under his Mazda pickup, changing the fuel filter. Who knew that Matt Cassel does his own preventative maintenance? How convenient...

Next, I'll pull him halfway out from underneath his truck. A few swift kicks to his jackstands and his truck will come crashing down on his chest, pinning him under a ton and a half of miniature utility vehicle. After dousing him in hi-test gasoline, I step on his nuts and twist my foot until he begs me to stop. I have no idea that he even used them! Reaching into the cab of his vehicle, I steal his toll money from his drink holder and leave the pennies. Then, taking a queue from my man Bruce Willis in Die Hard 3, I light a roadside flare and toss that shit into his modest garage. Mmmmcrispy backup quarterback.

Week 5 Death Blossom!

Once upon a time, in a tourist trap of a town far, far away, I lost a bet to this freaky chick and had to watch Brokeback Mountain with her. Far be it from me to welch on a bet...and besides...I heard the music was especially tranquil. Ang Lee created sweeping landscape shots and finely crafted scenes in the first few moments of the film. What followed was something that would scar my psyche forever and I refuse to sully the pages of this fine blog with anything further. This weekend, I was toasting another win by my gay sharks (Miami Dolphins) and another loss by my Hobo Sodomites (shitty fantasy team #4). I was drinking what I refer to as my gay cowboy drink: Lord Calvert and cream soda. It's similiarities are twofold:

1) Lord Calvert is what rednecks drink (see: plastic bottle, rustic label)

2) cream soda is for pillow biters

As I celebrated another score by the 'Phins, I jumped so high that I slammed my head into a low-hanging eyelet for a sex swing mounted clandistinely on Ross' cieling. He really needs to get some therapy.

My vision was blurry, but I could just make out a terd with a helmet as he appeared appeared before me, shouting, "SHOOT, ALEX, SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!"

For the love of fuck's cunt that guy is annoying. If I were Alex Rogan, I would have ejected that uppity co-pilot into the cold vacuum of space the second he whipped out the pictures of his 5,000 little 'Grig-lets."
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, in which I have a personal interest in succeeding. I thank you in advance for your words of encouragement and heartfelt text messages during my lengthy stay in a Federal prison.

This week, my victim is Matt Schaub. I traded Brian some unlucky asshole for this cuntfaced pussy. He captains the offense for the winless Houson Texans. He decided that his little T-Rex throwing arm was aching and decided to fucking sit out of the game. WHAT. A. BITCH.

First, I'm going to gather all my credentials and head on down to the heavy equipment rental place, wherever the fuck that is. Then, I'm going to rent my huge piece of fucking shit steamroller and put that shit into high gear. I would surely be able to outrun that immobile douchefuck injured pussyflap of a benchwarmer, Matt "Big Schaub." Finally, I run over that sandbagging son of a whore up to his neck, leaving him barely alive to I can crank up the 10,000 watt stereo I had specially installed on the steamroller. In case you were wondering, it cost an extra $25.99, plus insurance. Ladies and gentlemen, here's DethKlok singing their hit, Bloodrocuted!

Matt Schaub's eardrums burst just before I squash that useless noodle-armed fish stick into the pavement. The End.

I STILL Got Nothing

I Got Nothing

Week 4 Death Blossom!

Lately, I've been playing a lot of Call of Duty 4. That shit is badass. Last Sunday, I no-scoped Abdul751 while falling out of a three-story window. During my post-snipe celebration, I slipped on a beer bottle and fell, hitting my head on the coffee table. Through a deep haze of ominous theme music and cough syrup mixed with codine, I experienced a vision:

"Death is a primitive concept; I prefer to think of them as battling evil, in another dimension!"

This confused and angered me. What is this scaly prick doing in my house? Why does he talk like Yoda, except in complete sentences? More importantly, does he know about the bank job? I had to take action. Right after I picked up the shotgun I keep stashed under the couch, I searched the condo in for the intruder. No scaly prick. Oh well.

This week, I miraculously defeated chronic masturbator and known pedophile Ryan in a hard-fought battle for the history books. His band of obese stupor heroes, known collectively as Fat Spiderman, crawled back to their parent's basements and quietly maturbated to Kirsten Dunst's paparrazi photo collage. DIE. CUNTS.

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 letters and files baked into cakes during my lengthy stay in a Federal prison.
This week, my victim is Ryan Grant. He fucking fumbled, crawled for less than 50 yards and basically got issued his fucking extra light loafers to walk in the gay pride parade. This twat still has not found the endzone this season. That's why his fucking card has been pulled.

First, I have to finish my beer.

There, all done. Next, I text my good friend, Xenia Zirgavna Onotop. She tells me she's just finished squeezing the life out of some fatass general with her thighs of steel. Then she flew his prized experimental helicopter the fuck out of that bitch. Oh, that Xenia! What a minx! I wire her the usual payment: $100,000 euros and a few free carwash tickets and the Spit 'N Shine.

[int. Packers' steam room]

[Xenia enters wearing only a towel]

XENIA: (takes off towel) Oops.

RYAN GRANT: (looks up from GQ magazine) You're not Manuel!

XENIA: Are you as strong as you are observant, comrade?

RYAN GRANT: huh? What the? Get off me, bitch!

XENIA: (squeezing him around the head with her legs) MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!

Ryan Grant's head is crushed, filling the steam room with an audible crunch sound. Xenia uses his sweaty towel to clean his useless, inbred brain matter off herself and giggles at Tom Brady's picture on the cover of the bloodstained GQ magazine. Far, far away, I nervously pinch the ends of my new mustache, plotting my next moves to conquer 11th place...