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GOTHS FROM THE POWER RACK

We'retheBoss said:
this is "From the Shake Weight"
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Hopefully he didn't get attacked at the gym for looking at a machine that was close to a woman working out 10 feet from it
 
Idk where JHall is but I think his ode deserves a little better. Here we go. 1 beer deep on a Friday afternoon I’ll give it a go..

Saturday night. 7:30 PM. Death Valley. Rain in the forecast.

Eighty thousand Clemson fans packed into a stadium in the middle of South Carolina dressed head-to-toe like the local Home Depot exploded due to a meth lab in the trailer park next door.

They’ll rub Howard’s Rock. They’ll run down the hill. They’ll play the Tiger Rag approximately 47,000 times.

Dabo will come sprinting down that hill like Jesus just returned and announced the first 100 people to midfield get courtside seats at the Rapture.

That man is going to spend pregame clapping so ******* hard you’d think every clap deposits another $50 into the collection plate.

And then?

THE MIAMI HURRICANES ARE GOING TO PLAY FOOTBALL. And Miami isn’t rolling into Clemson looking for a pleasant Saturday evening.

No.

Miami is arriving with the energy of a 245-pound divorced personal trainer named Derek who hasn’t slept since Wednesday because he’s been dry-scooping pre-workout, injecting enough roids into his *** to make a Belgian Blue bull nervous, snorting coke off the bench press, and waiting for a big ****y goth ***** named Raven to respond to the “you up” text.

WE ARE ABSOLUTELY ******* DIALED.

There are no thoughts anymore. Only reps. Only violence. Only football. ONE MORE SET.

Clemson fans are checking Doppler radar.

Miami fans are checking whether the liquor store opens before the tailgate.

Clemson fans are discussing rainfall totals.

Miami fans are Googling “does Tren break a fast?” while injecting something labeled FOR VETERINARY USE ONLY and trying to figure out if the coke they snorted this morning technically counts as a carbohydrate.

We are not the same. They say it’s going to rain Saturday night. GOOD. Let it ******* rain.

I want biblical rain. I want it raining so ******* hard that Dabo spends halftime reading Genesis and asking the equipment staff why nobody thought to build a god**** ark.

I want Dabo standing on the sideline staring into the heavens like, “Lord, I know you promised Noah you wouldn’t do this **** again.”

I want two Clemson players from every position group lining up two-by-two outside the locker room while Dabo starts measuring Howard’s Rock in cubits. I want Jim Cantore zip-tied to the goalpost screaming about atmospheric instability. I want Clemson’s grounds crew staring at the radar like they’re trying to defuse a nuclear warhead.

Because Clemson spent millions building a fancy sand-based drainage system. Congratulations. Abella Danger heard the specs and said, “Those are rookie numbers.”

Miami isn’t checking the weather. MIAMI IS THE ******* WEATHER. The Hurricanes are coming north. Barometric pressure dropping. Women and children being advised to seek shelter. Somewhere in Coral Gables, a strength coach just screamed “ONE MORE REP” so loudly that a JHall woke up in cold sweat.
 
JayCane20 said:
Idk where JHall is but I think his ode deserves a little better. Here we go. 1 beer deep on a Friday afternoon I’ll give it a go..

Saturday night. 7:30 PM. Death Valley. Rain in the forecast.

Eighty thousand Clemson fans packed into a stadium in the middle of South Carolina dressed head-to-toe like the local Home Depot exploded due to a meth lab in the trailer park next door.

They’ll rub Howard’s Rock. They’ll run down the hill. They’ll play the Tiger Rag approximately 47,000 times.

Dabo will come sprinting down that hill like Jesus just returned and announced the first 100 people to midfield get courtside seats at the Rapture.

That man is going to spend pregame clapping so ******* hard you’d think every clap deposits another $50 into the collection plate.

And then?

THE MIAMI HURRICANES ARE GOING TO PLAY FOOTBALL. And Miami isn’t rolling into Clemson looking for a pleasant Saturday evening.

No.

Miami is arriving with the energy of a 245-pound divorced personal trainer named Derek who hasn’t slept since Wednesday because he’s been dry-scooping pre-workout, injecting enough roids into his *** to make a Belgian Blue bull nervous, snorting coke off the bench press, and waiting for a big ****y goth ***** named Raven to respond to the “you up” text.

WE ARE ABSOLUTELY ******* DIALED.

There are no thoughts anymore. Only reps. Only violence. Only football. ONE MORE SET.

Clemson fans are checking Doppler radar.

Miami fans are checking whether the liquor store opens before the tailgate.

Clemson fans are discussing rainfall totals.

Miami fans are Googling “does Tren break a fast?” while injecting something labeled FOR VETERINARY USE ONLY and trying to figure out if the coke they snorted this morning technically counts as a carbohydrate.

We are not the same. They say it’s going to rain Saturday night. GOOD. Let it ******* rain.

I want biblical rain. I want it raining so ******* hard that Dabo spends halftime reading Genesis and asking the equipment staff why nobody thought to build a god**** ark.

I want Dabo standing on the sideline staring into the heavens like, “Lord, I know you promised Noah you wouldn’t do this **** again.”

I want two Clemson players from every position group lining up two-by-two outside the locker room while Dabo starts measuring Howard’s Rock in cubits. I want Jim Cantore zip-tied to the goalpost screaming about atmospheric instability. I want Clemson’s grounds crew staring at the radar like they’re trying to defuse a nuclear warhead.

Because Clemson spent millions building a fancy sand-based drainage system. Congratulations. Abella Danger heard the specs and said, “Those are rookie numbers.”

Miami isn’t checking the weather. MIAMI IS THE ******* WEATHER. The Hurricanes are coming north. Barometric pressure dropping. Women and children being advised to seek shelter. Somewhere in Coral Gables, a strength coach just screamed “ONE MORE REP” so loudly that a JHall woke up in cold sweat.
Click to expand...
I didn't write mine while waiting to train soccer slaps so they could brag about their 9" verts to be one upped by this AI slop
 
JayCane20 said:
Idk where JHall is but I think his ode deserves a little better. Here we go. 1 beer deep on a Friday afternoon I’ll give it a go..

Saturday night. 7:30 PM. Death Valley. Rain in the forecast.

Eighty thousand Clemson fans packed into a stadium in the middle of South Carolina dressed head-to-toe like the local Home Depot exploded due to a meth lab in the trailer park next door.

They’ll rub Howard’s Rock. They’ll run down the hill. They’ll play the Tiger Rag approximately 47,000 times.

Dabo will come sprinting down that hill like Jesus just returned and announced the first 100 people to midfield get courtside seats at the Rapture.

That man is going to spend pregame clapping so ******* hard you’d think every clap deposits another $50 into the collection plate.

And then?

THE MIAMI HURRICANES ARE GOING TO PLAY FOOTBALL. And Miami isn’t rolling into Clemson looking for a pleasant Saturday evening.

No.

Miami is arriving with the energy of a 245-pound divorced personal trainer named Derek who hasn’t slept since Wednesday because he’s been dry-scooping pre-workout, injecting enough roids into his *** to make a Belgian Blue bull nervous, snorting coke off the bench press, and waiting for a big ****y goth ***** named Raven to respond to the “you up” text.

WE ARE ABSOLUTELY ******* DIALED.

There are no thoughts anymore. Only reps. Only violence. Only football. ONE MORE SET.

Clemson fans are checking Doppler radar.

Miami fans are checking whether the liquor store opens before the tailgate.

Clemson fans are discussing rainfall totals.

Miami fans are Googling “does Tren break a fast?” while injecting something labeled FOR VETERINARY USE ONLY and trying to figure out if the coke they snorted this morning technically counts as a carbohydrate.

We are not the same. They say it’s going to rain Saturday night. GOOD. Let it ******* rain.

I want biblical rain. I want it raining so ******* hard that Dabo spends halftime reading Genesis and asking the equipment staff why nobody thought to build a god**** ark.

I want Dabo standing on the sideline staring into the heavens like, “Lord, I know you promised Noah you wouldn’t do this **** again.”

I want two Clemson players from every position group lining up two-by-two outside the locker room while Dabo starts measuring Howard’s Rock in cubits. I want Jim Cantore zip-tied to the goalpost screaming about atmospheric instability. I want Clemson’s grounds crew staring at the radar like they’re trying to defuse a nuclear warhead.

Because Clemson spent millions building a fancy sand-based drainage system. Congratulations. Abella Danger heard the specs and said, “Those are rookie numbers.”

Miami isn’t checking the weather. MIAMI IS THE ******* WEATHER. The Hurricanes are coming north. Barometric pressure dropping. Women and children being advised to seek shelter. Somewhere in Coral Gables, a strength coach just screamed “ONE MORE REP” so loudly that a JHall woke up in cold sweat.
Click to expand...
Now that was some EPIC ****!!
 
JayCane20 said:
Idk where JHall is but I think his ode deserves a little better. Here we go. 1 beer deep on a Friday afternoon I’ll give it a go..

Saturday night. 7:30 PM. Death Valley. Rain in the forecast.

Eighty thousand Clemson fans packed into a stadium in the middle of South Carolina dressed head-to-toe like the local Home Depot exploded due to a meth lab in the trailer park next door.

They’ll rub Howard’s Rock. They’ll run down the hill. They’ll play the Tiger Rag approximately 47,000 times.

Dabo will come sprinting down that hill like Jesus just returned and announced the first 100 people to midfield get courtside seats at the Rapture.

That man is going to spend pregame clapping so ******* hard you’d think every clap deposits another $50 into the collection plate.

And then?

THE MIAMI HURRICANES ARE GOING TO PLAY FOOTBALL. And Miami isn’t rolling into Clemson looking for a pleasant Saturday evening.

No.

Miami is arriving with the energy of a 245-pound divorced personal trainer named Derek who hasn’t slept since Wednesday because he’s been dry-scooping pre-workout, injecting enough roids into his *** to make a Belgian Blue bull nervous, snorting coke off the bench press, and waiting for a big ****y goth ***** named Raven to respond to the “you up” text.

WE ARE ABSOLUTELY ******* DIALED.

There are no thoughts anymore. Only reps. Only violence. Only football. ONE MORE SET.

Clemson fans are checking Doppler radar.

Miami fans are checking whether the liquor store opens before the tailgate.

Clemson fans are discussing rainfall totals.

Miami fans are Googling “does Tren break a fast?” while injecting something labeled FOR VETERINARY USE ONLY and trying to figure out if the coke they snorted this morning technically counts as a carbohydrate.

We are not the same. They say it’s going to rain Saturday night. GOOD. Let it ******* rain.

I want biblical rain. I want it raining so ******* hard that Dabo spends halftime reading Genesis and asking the equipment staff why nobody thought to build a god**** ark.

I want Dabo standing on the sideline staring into the heavens like, “Lord, I know you promised Noah you wouldn’t do this **** again.”

I want two Clemson players from every position group lining up two-by-two outside the locker room while Dabo starts measuring Howard’s Rock in cubits. I want Jim Cantore zip-tied to the goalpost screaming about atmospheric instability. I want Clemson’s grounds crew staring at the radar like they’re trying to defuse a nuclear warhead.

Because Clemson spent millions building a fancy sand-based drainage system. Congratulations. Abella Danger heard the specs and said, “Those are rookie numbers.”

Miami isn’t checking the weather. MIAMI IS THE ******* WEATHER. The Hurricanes are coming north. Barometric pressure dropping. Women and children being advised to seek shelter. Somewhere in Coral Gables, a strength coach just screamed “ONE MORE REP” so loudly that a JHall woke up in cold sweat.
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Post of the Year candidate… nominating now Maude’s!
 
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