Hey Fatasspolis, remember when I came into your snack shack and kicked your dumpy dimpled asses back to the discount candy aisle at CVS? You bet I do – had the fellas at the frame store put together a nice photo package together that I keep in my kids’ room to remind them that all of dozen of them were sired by greatness.
Then I got another one done when I shat on Fetusface’s fetus face the next season at home in the playoffs. He remarked to me that my defecation had hints of coriander. I told him I’d be willing to ship him another batch if he ever unglued his mouth from Archie’s shriveled colostomy hole. I’ve yet to hear back.
Now me and Patrick Crayton Manning are gonna have it out again in what will end up being another memorable win for me inside the Hoosier Doucher Dome. People are saying both of us are making the best of loser receivers getting hurt by playing well with a staple of no-name nobodies with no skills. And that’s mostly true – for me. I don’t bother with watching as much tape as Fetushead, which is how I imagine he got all the TV radiation inside his swole head. I did tune in last week and saw him throw a killer pick at the end. That was awesome.
Now I got Vincent Jackoff back and I hope he hasn’t forgot how to get his tall malcontent tongue-waging out of the tunnel face under my epic floats. If not, I’ll just throw it float it to the ragtag group of nobodies I’ve groomed singlehandedly into greats at their position.