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.