Life is shit. A gun barrel inside the rectum, blasting up through my yellowed guts and quickly raping through my organs. It is a virus, and we are all born infected. There is no escape for when it decides to pin you down and muffle your screams with its filthy crotch.
And god dammit, when is Clifton coming back? I can barely fucking breathe back here.
Oh, virtue. You have forsaken me. You have left me cold and naked on a desolate road, and you have shacked up with a callous and disgusting old man, who will scrape the inside of your labia with his razor sharp chin stubble. Brett Favre, you do not deserve virtue. You do not deserve to take advantage of her naivete. YOU ARE A SUCCUBO. A leech. A raper of hope. That you have found success through sheer manipulation is proof alone that God’s corpse rots up in heaven, and the rain that falls upon us is his embalming fluid.
/sacked, stripped of ball
JESUS FUCK CHRIST, BARBRE. WHY ARE YOU EVEN ON THE ROSTER? ARE YOU SOMEONE’S COUSIN?
/sacked while being sacked
Oh, I’m so happy for you, Brett! I’m so happy for you and your wife, Deanna, who I know by name because I have been told she is your wife 50,000 times by the media ghouls who lavish at your milky bloodteat. I’m sooo pleased you’re experiencing such rejuvenation at such an old age. Isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it a sign that the Beast is soon to visit us all?
/spits on picture of Favre
I have a poem for you, Brett. I composed it in longhand. I compose all my poetry in longhand. It is called, FUN.
Fun is playing the game with love
Fun is slapping your teammates’ behinds
Fun is jumping up and down after you throw a TD
Fun is death.
Fun is Satan’s distraction.
Fun is the devil’s penis in your cerebrum.
Fun is a mask of the world’s death
There is no fun.
There are only LIES.
Your fun is a LIE.
Your fun is a cover-up of cannibalism and dismemberment. Of rivulets of blood oozing out of orphans and flooding the roads of Africa like a red tsunami.
That is your fun. So let us all have FUN.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha. (this is a written laugh that is meant to be read in a jeering manner)
Fun is a flayed, rotting carcass.
So let us drink each other’s blood in your honor, Fun Baron.
You see how “Fin” plays off of “Fun” there? That is because fun is close to the end. The end of love. Of compassion. Of using Aarom Kampman in a three point stance, WHERE HE FUCKING BELONGS BECAUSE HE’S GOOD AT IT AND WHY WOULD YOU FUCK UP THE BEST PASS RUSHER ON THE WHOLE FUCKING TEAM, CAPERS?
Life is the existence of agony.