Roaden Polynice
Superstar
I'm growing old bros.
I'm 23. 23 and a half is right around the corner. Then 24. Then 24 and a half. Then 25
.
At that point in my life I will have lived...25 years...of however many years I, uh, live.
Right I don't know what that intro was^^^^
But I do know that I am growing old. My bones are brittle, I have set routines, I play racquetball 3 days a week, run three miles a day for three days and on the seventh I have a fap-a-thon day. I take a shower at night, gingerly climb into my twin bed and sleep away, minutes, hours etc. etc. I drink to excess like Don Draper and I wage psychological warfare on my roommate. Because I don't have a wife yet. But when I do I will psychologically abuse her, much like Don Draper. So this analogy is really, like, a future analogy that takes place many years from now but is in the formative stages. A latent analogy.
But I digress.
But I progress. I will soon be 35. Going through the pains of a bitter divorce. I will don a cheeto-stained bathrobe with no shirt on but dad jeans on.
But I digress the progress to the original digress. A prigress (
)
ANYWAY.
What I am trying to say is that I want to develop a passion for American Football because I know fukk all. I'm like Brendan Fraser in Encino Man. I watched football for a stretch in the late 90s and Terrell Davis was my favorite player. Then I FROZE. Now I am thawed, cold, naked, donning outlandish 90's garb in place of my loincloth in a strange and foreign world where Pauly Shore is a star, and people have pool parties in unfinished pools (
) and Sean Astin isn't a Goonie anymore and isn't trying to save the Goondocks.
But I digress.
I'm like Brendan Fraser. In Encino Man. Frozen. Thawed now. And quite comfortable. In 2012.
I walk thru the halls of my school every day. CACs, CACs, SASs and NANs talk football. I sit there, stoney faced, hoping my countenance doesn't betray my aching sense of loneliness and sheer isolation as I drift on the margins of society.
To die. to suffer. To break BREAD, with the sepulchre of stubborn jewry
My heart stands on the sideline performing a fevered lambada with delicate toes, feet, like Rudolf Nureyev. Shake. Shake. Shake. Jiggle. Biggle. Boobamajug.
A friend, turns my direction. How about that catch BRA!?
I peer.
"Not bad, my favorite part was when he caught it
"
No good. I'm at a Steve Berman level, not a Shannon Sharpe level. I die a bit inside, my viscera a mealy scramble.
I duck away, sad about life
THUS. I give a pledge. A plea, from me to you. Watching football, is not too cool.
It's ruley, slow, boring, and secretly gay. I'm convinced it was created to hump other men on the ground all day. Sweaty, dirty, hot bodies touching each other, it's seemingly ok. Football couldn't get much more gay. The only way it could get gayer is if they changed the mouthpieces into gags.
But I digress, and save that for my standup routine
But football has other benefits besides humping men. It's valuable social currency. Bros and hoes love it, so thus must I, to move through society, without batting an eye.
Suh? Who is he? A man who was named by a woman with no teeth?
Rodgers, Manning (both the simple and big headed one), Vick, I meant to list more but I don't know anymore.
So my problem rears its head. Help me dear Coli, before I rest for bed.
FIN
I'm 23. 23 and a half is right around the corner. Then 24. Then 24 and a half. Then 25
. At that point in my life I will have lived...25 years...of however many years I, uh, live.
Right I don't know what that intro was^^^^
But I do know that I am growing old. My bones are brittle, I have set routines, I play racquetball 3 days a week, run three miles a day for three days and on the seventh I have a fap-a-thon day. I take a shower at night, gingerly climb into my twin bed and sleep away, minutes, hours etc. etc. I drink to excess like Don Draper and I wage psychological warfare on my roommate. Because I don't have a wife yet. But when I do I will psychologically abuse her, much like Don Draper. So this analogy is really, like, a future analogy that takes place many years from now but is in the formative stages. A latent analogy.
But I digress.
But I progress. I will soon be 35. Going through the pains of a bitter divorce. I will don a cheeto-stained bathrobe with no shirt on but dad jeans on.
But I digress the progress to the original digress. A prigress (
)ANYWAY.
What I am trying to say is that I want to develop a passion for American Football because I know fukk all. I'm like Brendan Fraser in Encino Man. I watched football for a stretch in the late 90s and Terrell Davis was my favorite player. Then I FROZE. Now I am thawed, cold, naked, donning outlandish 90's garb in place of my loincloth in a strange and foreign world where Pauly Shore is a star, and people have pool parties in unfinished pools (
) and Sean Astin isn't a Goonie anymore and isn't trying to save the Goondocks.But I digress.
I'm like Brendan Fraser. In Encino Man. Frozen. Thawed now. And quite comfortable. In 2012.
I walk thru the halls of my school every day. CACs, CACs, SASs and NANs talk football. I sit there, stoney faced, hoping my countenance doesn't betray my aching sense of loneliness and sheer isolation as I drift on the margins of society.
To die. to suffer. To break BREAD, with the sepulchre of stubborn jewry
My heart stands on the sideline performing a fevered lambada with delicate toes, feet, like Rudolf Nureyev. Shake. Shake. Shake. Jiggle. Biggle. Boobamajug.
A friend, turns my direction. How about that catch BRA!?
I peer.
"Not bad, my favorite part was when he caught it
"No good. I'm at a Steve Berman level, not a Shannon Sharpe level. I die a bit inside, my viscera a mealy scramble.
I duck away, sad about life
THUS. I give a pledge. A plea, from me to you. Watching football, is not too cool.
It's ruley, slow, boring, and secretly gay. I'm convinced it was created to hump other men on the ground all day. Sweaty, dirty, hot bodies touching each other, it's seemingly ok. Football couldn't get much more gay. The only way it could get gayer is if they changed the mouthpieces into gags.
But I digress, and save that for my standup routine
But football has other benefits besides humping men. It's valuable social currency. Bros and hoes love it, so thus must I, to move through society, without batting an eye.
Suh? Who is he? A man who was named by a woman with no teeth?
Rodgers, Manning (both the simple and big headed one), Vick, I meant to list more but I don't know anymore.
So my problem rears its head. Help me dear Coli, before I rest for bed.
FIN
@
don't play dumb we all know what that means
