"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.