I don't want to make love up in this club

I don't even know why I'm in this club. I hate clubs. Plus, I've lost my glowsticks and I'm running out of hair gel. HOW CAN I SPIKE MY HAIR WITH WATER!!!! Hair gel is forever, like diamonds. Or herpes. It's a lot easier to lose a diamond than it is to lose herpes. Or so I'm told.

But, regardless, I would like to make some love. To somebody. With a pulse. Hopefully she weighs less than me. I'm clocking in at about 182 lbs. these days, so that's not too tall an order. Maybe I'll take you over to this dive bar. We could make love there, no? Sure we can. Let's go.

Alright, if you aren't into that, can we leave this little entertainment complex to go get it on somewhere? Like, I don't know, in my garage? Or maybe...in your mouth? Can I make love in your mouth? You can give me road head WITH the top down. How freaky would that be? Adina Howard wouldn't even be down with that.

God damn it. Fine. Walk away. Why do I go to these clubs with all of these gold-digging prudes? You want me to buy you a drink and you won't even take a Bud Light, even though it's on sale? I mean, special? What. The. Fuck. Fine. Fuck off. And don't come back until...whoa, look at that chick. Hold up, I'll be right back.

Hey, Myanmar

Yeah, it's me, Marvin Lewis, head coach. Cincinnati Bengals. National Football League. In it to win it. Listen up. Life fucking goes on. I know you just had some hurricane or typhoid or something, but at some point you've got to man the fuck up and get over it. The hurricane was weeks ago. You hear me, Burma?


I know you may have lost some family members, but they've been buried for awhile now. Well, that is, if they have been found yet. Look, I know it's tough, but you really need to stop bitching and fucking pull it together if you want to keep your jobs.

Hello, I would like to titfuck you

Hey there. Wanna show me your tits?

I usually find myself out at night, or, well, at any time of the day, wondering exactly how I can politely walk up to a young lady and tell her that, hey, those are some nice tits. Why would these broads flip out? That's a compliment, woman! Take it! Be flattered! And then let me titfuck you.

I also want to ID some of these chick's titties, because they can't be more than 2 years old. South Florida is awesome! WELCOME TO COUGAR COUNTRY!!! As far as I'm concerned, I am living in the largest natural cougar wildlife preserve in the country.

The court-martialing of Pfc. Kellen Winslow

Let's begin the proceedings. Private First Class Winslow, you have been charged with desertion and dereliction of duty and anything else military-ish that actually happens during these proceedings, since I am clueless. For reals. What is your troop, soldier?



I'M A SOLDIER!!! I'M A FUCKING SOLDIER!!!!! YOU DON'T PULL THAT FUCKING SHIT ON ME 'CAUSE I'M A FUCKING SOLDIERRRRRRRRRRR


Kellen, please. Your honor, please refer all questions for my client to me.



*whispers* but I'm a fucking soldier, Philip */whispers*


I know, Kellen. I know.

Your honor, Private Winslow is a member of the Cleveland Browns troop, offensive unit, where he is stationed as a tight end. Why are you a caricature, if I may ask?


This is all I could find on Google images.


Fair enough.


Mr. Savage?

Mr. Savage, was Private Winslow given permission to skip this voluntary minicamp that he has not made himself present at?


Absolutely not. Why the fuck am I even here? Does he realize that he isn't a real soldier?


Objection! My client believing he is a soldier is not hurting anybody, nor is it relevant to this case.


It's absolutely relevant, we are at a court martial proceeding. Look, Kellen, we aren't renewing your deal. We've already shown a great deal of faith in guaranteeing your previous contract in light of your various misdeeds. Remember how you laid on the concrete like a broad after your motorcycle accident?



THE SOLDIER WILL NOT FUCKING RE-UP WITHOUT A NEW FUCKING CONTRACT!!! I'M THE ONLY FUCKING SOLDIER ON YOUR FUCKING TEAM! I'M FROM THE U, BABY!!! THE UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU


Kellen, please. Mr. Savage, we appreciate what you have done for my client, however, this is a business, and it just so happens that my client has performed at a level higher than any other tight end in any other offensive troop unit, and he's only getting better. The soldier is still young, and that's just how it works.


Awww, thank you Philip, you called me The Soldier.


Listen, he signed his name on the contract. No one forced him to do so. We bent over backwards for him in the past, and we are not going to do it again. We'd like to see another good year and continued good behavior. And in the meantime, you have to show the fuck up.


It's voluntary. He doesn't really have to show up, technically.



Your mom is voluntary.

OBJECTION!!!!


ORDER!!!! I will not tolerate any more of this.


Your honor, you know what comes up with the second hit when you Google search for "court martial"? Check it out.



Baby, you gotta meet up with The Soldier.


This is ridiculous. I've heard enough. I'm sorry, but these minicamps are not mandatory, and therefore the soldier in question has not done anything for which he has incurred a violation. There will be no further discipline. Case dismissed. Do they even say that in a court martialing?


FREEDOM!!!!! Y'ALL CAN SUCK MY FREE DICK!!!! I'M A FUCKING SOLDIER!!!!!


Will we be serving refreshments?

I’m standing knee-deep in puddles of my own ball sweat

Fucking Florida. It's as hot as my singed pubes after banging a homeless chick in front of a makeshift bonfire. Jeans do not belong here. Nor do long-sleeve collared shirts. God damn it, man. These shoes are not waterproof, let alone ball sweat proof. This ball sweat is seeping through my socks like the jizz on a piece of circle-jerk bread. And not any of that fancy herbs and cheese bread at Subway. Fuck that. We use straight up Publix rye here. And I don't even like rye bread.

So what am I going to do? Now that I have air conditioning in both my car and room, it won't be nearly as bad as last summer, right? No. No way. It can't be. Last summer I arrived at work everyday looking like I was covered in placenta. It's 98 degrees in the morning, like turning on your radio with a Nick Lachey CD in it. And then I would proceed to sweat like a Florida public school student in a Korean math contest. I must have smelled like desire. And then I would return home in the afternoon sun, walk into the garage my room with a vapid, trancelike glare on my face, and get all up on the fan like it was giving me a lapdance at Eden. Apparently I live my life in simile.

So now it starts anew. But I'll have the air. And with the air, I can get by. I can survive. I'm a regular Gloria Gaynor. You hear that, The Sun? Let's get it on, motherfucker. Water's getting warm. Hurricane Vern is forming. Don't feed it, The Sun. Don't fucking feed it.

Greetings, white devils.

And I am being kind in the use of that nomenclature. Did you hear that? Nomenclature. Does that sounds threatening coming from a black man? Did white America even realize that a black man is capable of the utilization of words containing more than two syllables? Would you feel more comfortable if I was talking to you from the home that you give to thousands of young black men every day?



There, I imagine that is better. Behind these bars, the white folks are safe from me preaching the truth about America. The cold, hard, big black truth that you all fear. The truth that makes your ears bleed, your eyes sting, and your pubes fall out unnaturally. I know...I KNOW...that the white man created AIDS. I KNOW...that the white man causes hurricanes. AND I KNOW...I KNOW!!!!...that the white man shot Old Yeller. I SAW IT IN THE MOVIE!!!!

Young black men!


Yes?


YOU MUST HEED MY CALL! You young black men are the future of blackness in this country. YOU MUST BREAK THE FIGURATIVE CHAINS OF OPPRESSION! You must demand change from the white devils. You must demand accountability from the white man. You must demand that the dealer at Hyundai not assume that you are looking for an Elantra when you so clearly have good enough credit to afford the Sonata. Credit! ANOTHER CREATION OF THE WHITE MAN! Designed to keep the black man in check, to keep him wallowing in poverty. As my friend and presidential candidate Barack Obama so stated in his book, "The Audacity of Hope", young black men MUST hope for this hope! IT IS THE ONLY WAY TO HOPE! It is not audacious for us to hope for change and hope! To one day take over America, and banish these white devils! We must give our young brethren something to look forward to besides a life of poverty or incarceration! WE MUST DESTROY THE PILLARS OF WHITE AMERICA!!!!


Holy fuck. This is not good.

"Also, I lay on the ice like a broad."

How much does Daniel Briere make to lay on the ice like a broad? Glad you asked. $10 million. Tied with two other dudes, Thomas Vanek and Scott Gomez (Scott fucking Gomez? jeeeez), as the highest paid players in the NHL. Obviously, the guy has to consider himself an elite level player in the sport of puck-shuffling.

Nope.

"I've never considered myself a superstar," said a smiling Briere, who signed an US$52-million, eight-year free-agent deal with the Flyers last summer. "Obviously, they might get protected a little bit more. That's understandable, but when they do some of the cheap shots that they're doing I think it would be fair for everybody that they get the same treatment in that regard."

His cheap shots were in reference to the Penguin cheap shots that, well, I'm still trying to figure out which ones he was referring to. Probably just earning his endorsement money, as he has a six-figure deal with Always (with wings).

More importantly, the highest paid player in the damn sport is claiming that he should not be considered a superstar. Motherfucker, you are compensated better than any player in the damn league. This would be like Jenna Jameson claiming she was not a talented dicksucker. You ARE dicksucking, you bitch. But hey, everybody aboard the "Pens + the refs" bandwagon, complete with nonstop service to the Menstruation Station.

We must send aid to Peking!

In response to the tragic earthquake that has just struck China, the US is pledging our support to the Peking government. China, we are there for you, and we will do whatever we can to help your great nation rebuild from this tragedy. The US is pledging immediate aid of $250,000, to be sent directly to the Peking government, until we can obtain more funding through Congress.

Particularly troubling to us is the tragic effect on many of the young school-age children of China, which deeply saddens both me and my husband. We pray that this aid package will enable China to get back on its feet, both emotionally and economically, as almost 90% of these children held jobs with Nike. Nike itself is pledging millions to rebuild the Nike factories that were destroyed in the earthquake. Fear not, people of China, for US aid is on the way to Peking, and you can rest assured that there will be more to follow. We will rebuild the area better, stronger, and even more highly polluted than it was prior to this tragedy. Like a Nike-branded phoenix rising from the ashes, the affected areas of China will rise from the rubble.

We have full faith in the Peking government to use this money as efficiently as possible to restore this once beautiful area to its previous glory. We know that this will be done. To commemorate this restoration to glory, we will be officially referring to the epicenter of the quake as the "Glory Hole". I urge the American people to heed the calls for help and donate to this cause. The more aid we can send to Peking, the better. Thank you.

This poor economy has really taken a toll on my ability to make it rain.

I'm not talking about Pac-Man. You think a poor economy is going to get in the way of Pac-Man's own personal weather system?

But I worry about Pac. You know, those Lamborghinis aren't exactly hybrid cars. And Pac ain't driving a Prius. In fact, I wouldn't even drive a Prius. I'd rather drive the Buick, even though it was a threat to break down every time I fired it up. Luckily, I live in South Florida, so a passing lesbian would always come by and show me how to fix it. I count my lucky stars for that.

But as for me, all of this gas guzzling and lack of a significant paycheck has really hampered my ability to throw some rain around at Ruby Tuesday's. And I really hope that everybody buys into whoever wins the election's philosophy of change, and hope, and peace, and prosperity, and the gas tax holiday, for which I will certainly not get a day off of work, but will save a whopping $1.23 at the pump. That's $1.23 more that I can throw at a 19-year old waitress at Benigan's. And when it comes to banging 19-year old white girls, I'm like Kobe Bryant. Game over, yo. Throw quarters. Make it hail.

MURDERERS!!!

EIGHT BELLES! I can't believe they killed that horse. That fucking horse wanted to live. Like Barbaro. That horse wanted to live for another year while Appalachia's best and brightest sent it flowers and postcards and tried to bring it water like some sort of equine Terri Schiavo. That horse had heart. While the horses' ankles were broken, one thing that remained unbreakable was its spirit.

And, even though it was a chick, that horse had a bigger horsecock than any of you haters can ever hope to have. Even in the face of two broken anks worth of adversity, that horse never...I repeat, NEVER...laid on the track like a broad.

The interesting thing to see will be how the freerepublic reacts, as they are all undoubtedly horse lovers, however, this was Hillary Clinton's horse. Well, her prediction at least. Quite a dilemma, as you can see. I'm guessing it's Hillary's fault for killing the horse.

Obama's horse lost because it was not black enough. McCain fell asleep while thinking of a prediction, but dreamed about riding a snow-white unicorn.

Like a broad.

Jaromir Jagr. Laying on the ice. Put the spotlight on him.

Breaking down the Candidates

The uninformed masses need some help. And I'm here to deliver it. Like DMX.

First, let's get a general breakdown of our potential candidates.



HUCK! Sorry, Huck. Sure, you aren't fat anymore. But you've already lost. And that's because...well, because he is gay. GAY FOR JESUS!!!!



Obama! He's black. Sure, just part black, but any black is too black.


Hillary? She's a fucking woman! The Oval Office is not a kitchen.



That leaves McCain. Sorry, people. McCain is old. Old as fuck, even. He's old enough to be Strom Thurmond's grandson.

We need a young white guy in the race. Who could that possibly be?


Unfortunately, he was cast aside after it was made known that he drives a Prius and gets over 40 mpg. Mainly because in a Prius, those are some gay ass miles.

So what does this mean? Well, this sets us up for a thrilling battle of the prejudices. Who do we hate less? Will we find out that people are as afraid of a black man ascending to the highest position in the land, a throne from which he will surely use his power to fuck all da white women? Or are ageists more prevalent than statistics show? Or do we think that what this country needs is a good sandwich? Only time will tell. Sweet, fuckable time.

Huckabee was paralyzed early in the process, after being thrown from the Jesus Horse that he attempted to ride into the presidency. On the other side, Hillary is reeling and angered at the reality that she is the only white woman that Barack does not actually want to fuck. Still, a convincing choice has not been made, as poor women have gone lesbian for Hillary, after sucking off Bill a decade earlier. Reverend Wright did not help matters for Obama recently, as race has made this race exciting. And by exciting, I mean gay as fuck.

So vote for Evgeni Malkin.