- Joined
- Jan 27, 2012
- Messages
- 18,206
I declare with a shrieking voice! Wailing upon drums made from bone and the skins of our enemies: fate and the zebra clan have allied themselves with our beloved universitah! Hatred will run red from every lunch pail of the working class, the ironsmith, the miner, and the guy who says “trade jobs are better than college”.
1.75 million hearts turned against us tonight, pregnant for 4 hours in a labor of try hard, rust, and blue collared nursing gowns. Giving birth to a sports-child that will utter its first words in 6 or 7 years: “Thug. U.”
Yet there are those who spilled the blood of their own brethren tonight, devotees of lesser gods and victims of poopy genetics. I give you four names, I give you four flowers:
- Meesh Powell. He must be stopped. I realize this statement is ironic, as he cannot stop anyone else. I heard turf itself begging to be released, after he tackled the grass for the hundreth time tonight. Damien Martinez took his soul last year and it appears that God has not given it back.
- Kiko, once a proud and noble warrior from the lands of Samoa, played like a daughter of the confederacy. He gaveth up his cheeks on play after play, exhibiting a reverse bampf, somehow moving from precisely the right spot to precisely the wrong spot with uncanny skill. I hear this was his first game, perhaps he is merely working out the kinks.
- Elijah Alston. My gleefully galloping horse of a friend. What is the point of running as hard as you can to miss the play? Is there an achievement that demands you close your eyes once you cross the line of scrimmage? Did you not know that quarterbacks have feet? None of those questions need an answer, you’d probably run into another room to give it anyway.
- Markel. Markel, Markel, Markel. Sometimes you’re the belle, sometimes your bell gets rung. Always a tall drink of water, but never a river. Markel bell makes me yell. I yell until I yell, and then I yell, “Markel.”
Weeks from now, few people will remember this game. The petals of these flowers will have blown away, the players will have performed better and the world will say, “I mean they’re 7-0.” I will forget this post and only remember the frothing joy of victory, until one of you summons it from the dead, because Meesh let another TE push his skull into the turf, or backup OT Markel Bell lets a skinny DE break Poff in half. Then we will all remember this moment together, for 3 whole seconds, as we sit on the toilet.
Great win boys. A team win. An undefeated win. Onto the woke mind virus.
1.75 million hearts turned against us tonight, pregnant for 4 hours in a labor of try hard, rust, and blue collared nursing gowns. Giving birth to a sports-child that will utter its first words in 6 or 7 years: “Thug. U.”
Yet there are those who spilled the blood of their own brethren tonight, devotees of lesser gods and victims of poopy genetics. I give you four names, I give you four flowers:
- Meesh Powell. He must be stopped. I realize this statement is ironic, as he cannot stop anyone else. I heard turf itself begging to be released, after he tackled the grass for the hundreth time tonight. Damien Martinez took his soul last year and it appears that God has not given it back.
- Kiko, once a proud and noble warrior from the lands of Samoa, played like a daughter of the confederacy. He gaveth up his cheeks on play after play, exhibiting a reverse bampf, somehow moving from precisely the right spot to precisely the wrong spot with uncanny skill. I hear this was his first game, perhaps he is merely working out the kinks.
- Elijah Alston. My gleefully galloping horse of a friend. What is the point of running as hard as you can to miss the play? Is there an achievement that demands you close your eyes once you cross the line of scrimmage? Did you not know that quarterbacks have feet? None of those questions need an answer, you’d probably run into another room to give it anyway.
- Markel. Markel, Markel, Markel. Sometimes you’re the belle, sometimes your bell gets rung. Always a tall drink of water, but never a river. Markel bell makes me yell. I yell until I yell, and then I yell, “Markel.”
Weeks from now, few people will remember this game. The petals of these flowers will have blown away, the players will have performed better and the world will say, “I mean they’re 7-0.” I will forget this post and only remember the frothing joy of victory, until one of you summons it from the dead, because Meesh let another TE push his skull into the turf, or backup OT Markel Bell lets a skinny DE break Poff in half. Then we will all remember this moment together, for 3 whole seconds, as we sit on the toilet.
Great win boys. A team win. An undefeated win. Onto the woke mind virus.
