None of you understood Chris like I understood him. Sure, he was a black kid from the south and I’m a white guy from Massachusetts, but we had so much in common. We both had that dream of nailing prime teenage ass. Because there’s no ass like teenage ass. I understood that, and Chris understood that, too. And now he’s gone.
I’m saddened that Chris never had a chance to finish up his NFL career, because all of the girls out there that are like 9 or 10 years old now would have been 16 or 17 by the time his playing days were over. And really, there’s no better way to cap a 1,000-yard receiving season than by realizing all the juicy pre-pubescent tail that’s on its way down the pike in the autumn of your career.
People tried to change Chris. They said, “Hey Chris, you should really wait until some of these girls turn 18.” I don’t know why they said that. I don’t like women that get involved in politics, anyway. And neither did Chris. That’s what made him so special. That and his penchant for the little ladies with naturally bald beavers. Can I say beavers? I think so. That’s the way Chris would have wanted it.
Chris, I know you can hear me up in heaven. Even in that somewhat run-down section of heaven that they reserve for black people. And I just want you to know…I just want you…Oh, God, I promised I wouldn’t do this…I want you to know that you’re an inspiration to all of us…That the middle schools of this country have lost a great loiterer…that forever you shall…I just…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…