Even though I told the front office they were a bunch of cock-stuffed sh*t weasels for doing it, the Chargers are going to grant LaToeInjury’s request for a one-day contract so he can retire as a member of my San Diego Supersoldiers. Let me go on record calling it heavily marbled goatsh*t, since that guy single-handedly derailed every chance I’ve had to win a Super Bowl. Just another in a long line of dumbf*ck decisions by management, along with letting Tiny Darren go, giving scroteface Norval lifelong tenure to be a terrible head coach, and basically everything that didn’t involve drafting King Laserface.
[Makes duckface in NFL.com profile photo]
Some folks say I should be grateful for the time I had with LaToeInjury and that he had perhaps the greatest stretch of statistical dominance of any running back ever. To those people I say: shut up. Shut the f*ck up. Take a flying a f*ck at a swirling eternity of damnation. I don’t care if Ryan Mathews is a fumbletard bust and we signed crippledick Ronnie Brown so Norval can create the Wildfloat formation and line me up at receiver like an idiot. I’d have minimum three rings by now if it weren’t for Tomlinson. I’ll never forgive his shameful bitching out during the ’07 AFC Championship against the Patriots. I should have been the one to take down the villainous unbeaten Cheaters then float on to glory in the Super Bowl. Instead, Rapistberger and Sheli both have two rings while the best QB of the ’04 draft has egg all over his giant throbbing cock.
Fine, you want to retire as a Charger? You’re gonna have to earn your stupid one-day contract. I will put you through the gauntlet. It’s gonna be LaToeInjury Hell Day. WHAT? HUH? WHAT? HELL DAY!
5 a.m. We drag you out of bed and swirly the sh*t out of you for 35 minutes, pausing only to kick you in the ass with your head in the toilet bowl.
5:35 a.m. Back in bed to rest up for the next swirly.
5:42 a.m. Swirly number 2. Only it’s in the toilet that Antonio Garay just blew up.
6 a.m. We let Garay shave one of his dumbf*ck patterns into your hair, only we write QUEERBAIT across the back of your skull.
6:45 a.m. You fetch us our breakfast, bitch boy. 35 of us will take our eggs scrambled. 40 will take them sunny side up. Sausage for all. Oh, and one guy wants french toast. That guy is me. Eat sh*t.
8 a.m. Practice time! Oh, I need someone to watch over my litter of kids while I’m leading the troops. Guess that’s you. Don’t worry. I’ll give each of them two Five Hour Energy bottles to make sure they don’t get drowsy on you.
Noon I’ll let you have your little press conference with the media to announce your retirement. Except we’ve got you wired with C4. If you don’t tell the press that you’re glad that Junior Seau killed himself, LaToeInjury goes boom.
1:30 p.m. You get to watch as I smash the bejesus out of your favorite stationary bike. I know, you guys had some great pathetic sideline times together, but all good things must come to an end.
2 p.m. Whole team smacks you on the ass with frat paddles. CROSS THE DESERT, BITCH!
3 p.m. You call a second impromptu press conference, where you apologize to the people of San Diego for being a choke happy clown slut. You will wear a flower bikini top and clown makeup.
4 p.m. We hire a 300 lb. hooker and stand around the bed with tasers to make sure you plow her good or else you’re getting tased to high heaven.
4:45 p.m. We drive you out to the actual desert and leave you to find your way back. Don’t get tripped up by the mirage of you being a useful running back.
8:30 p.m. We drive back to find you staggering through the desert and kick the shit out of you. Then we drive away again without you.
10 p.m. Tacos. For us, not you.
Make it through that and then and only then will you be a Charger for life. If not, then you probably died, just like Jesus wanted.