Sunday, June 17

My Masterpiece: 10 Peter Dinkledges

It should not surprise you that I read Drew Magary and get inspired. Actually, he's the main reason I started this inside joke of a blog. Well, that and I was unemployed at the time. It takes something truly remarkable for me to get inspired. If the ghost of Thomas Jefferson rode past me on a rhino whilst brandishing a flamethrower, I'd snort and mutter something snarky like, "that's derivative."

A few weeks ago I read one of Drew's regular columns where he answers reader mail. I'll sum up a particularly striking scenario that a reader sent in:
You're returning kicks. Your team: ten Verne Troyers. Do I have your attention yet? Your opponents are 10 Muhammad Alis and one Cassius Clay. It's a rule that hay day Clay can punch you. How many times could you score?
Drew figures that the Alis and Troyers would be "about as effective as traffic cones out there." He goes on to paint a wonderful picture for us:
If we were talking about 10 Peter Dinklages, it's a whole other story. But these are 10 Verne Troyers. They're the size of babies. They can barely walk. Young Ali would be able to shake them off as easily as you could shake off the Old Alis. Then it's a matter of one-on-one, with Cassius Clay catching you, and then ... PAIN. No chance in hell. A hundred times out of a hundred, you end up dead.
So being a fan of Drew's, football and Peter fucking Dinkledge, I worked up this little photoshop of my fantasy Dinkledge team, the Orlando Orifices. I imagine us doing battle with all sorts of villains, mythical beasts, or even labradoodle dogsled teams.
Your shins are FUCKED.
Front row, from left to right:
My lead blocker, Lord Tyrion Lannister. It's a challenge to coax this little firecracker out from under a pile of whores. One winter, we were facing elimination against 11 Russian Bears on unicycles. I insisted his whores soak their undergarments in Siracha before entering his tent. About three whores deep, his little mushroom cap was  burning like a Hawaiian volcano. After a flew flagons of wine, he was ready to play. A Lannister always pays his debts.

Mr. President is a great leader on the field. He's the kind of executive I want in the White House: the kind of midget that would roll up his sleeves and get to work. Other Presidents (ahem) spend all their time slow-jamming the news or having their picture taken with Betty White. Sometimes, they'll give the order to eliminate mass-murdering terrorists. Not often enough, if you ask me.

That's your humble author. My shirt lends a little bit of legitimacy to my craft: it says Football, you see. I flexed so hard for this picture that I peed a little.

This is Trumpkin from one of the Narnia movies. I never liked that name, so I just call him Chronic ... you know, from this. Every time he lays a big hit on some unsuspecting opponent he's all like, "SNACK ATTACK, MUTHA FUCKA!"

This is Peter from some chintzy men's magazine. It's cool, because he's from the island of Europe. I call him the Totem Pole. When the ball is in the air, he goes all out. If an opponent runs toward him though, he plays fucking statue. This confuses some teams. I once saw a zombie on meth shamble up to him, and hesitate long enough for me to de-cleat that fucker with a vicious helmet-to-helmet collision. BEWSH!

Back row:
Here's Peter with his Emmy. For some reason, the officials let him use that 28-lb. hunk of brass as a club. He once brought down an orangutan mounted on a feral cheetah with a single swipe of that bitch. After the ref blew the whistle, he savagely beat both of them to death with the blunt end. The Emmy remains remarkably free of dents.

Here's my man Dumbledoore. Don't let his friendly expression lull you into a false sense of confidence. He can use that fashionable scarf like a whip and then garot your shit with it. He finishes with a little flourish like he's a wizard with a wand. 

Mr. Miles Finch is the short-fused executive from Will Ferrell's Elf. He specializes in hostile takeovers. *fist bumps self

Dildo Baggins and his dog Kevin regularly devastate the battlefield with their signature move: the 'Go Fetch.' He throws a Scooby Doo chew toy at an opponent and Kevin comes back with his balls in his maw.

This is Peter as Rowlie in 2005's Lassie. He thought it might be a good idea to dress as a gypsy street urchin and put a pair of chickens on his top hat. That would lure opponents into thinking he was a pussy. This is false. I once saw him debone an ostrich right out from under the mounted, fully armored sloth rider. It was horrifying ... and effective.

Here's Maximillian. He's a sneaky little fucker: that's not a puffy jacket. It's actually a utility vest full of grenades.

So here's a fun drinking game: All you shitheads gather 'round in a circle and take turns chanting, "10 PETER DINKLEDGES!" three times in a row. If you flub the line, take a drink. Repeat until faced, or until something good comes on cable.

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