Hello? Yes, this is Terr... [disguises voice] this is Dr. Arthur Honeycakes, Mr. Owens' personal physician....yes, Mr. Owens has a sprain in his ankle and it's very bad...and I'm afraid he won't be able to play Sunday...well, we're not exactly sure how the sprain got in there...yes it's....OH WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN "YOU KNEW IT WAS ME?" Y'ALL DIDN'T KNOW SHIT. Fuckin shit, man. [Hangs up and dresses for practice]
Aaaahhhh! Oooh, oh, it hurts so much! Me so tender. I'm limping! Look at me limp! Hey, y'all come get some limp footage. Get that shit while it's hot. Aw, damn, I'm in so much pain! I can't practice on this thing, man. Shit, no. Ain't no damn way I can play on Sunday.
What's that? You want me to jog some? Sure, man, I can jog for days. Ooh, ooh. Little jolt there. Now, wait, that's not so bad. Wow, this ankle's starting to feel pretty good. Couple days of this and I'm gonna be alright. Yeah, man, come Sunday, my shit's gonna be good to go.
AAAHHAAHHHHH, FUCKING SHIT! I just stepped on a goddamn turtle! TRAINER! NEED ME A TRAINER RIGHT DAMN NOW! Man, who's letting turtles into practice, man? He from the gotdamn Morning Star or what the fuck. No no no don't touch it don't touch IT AAAAAHHHHHH OH SWEET FUCKER TO ALL HELL LISA LOPEZ!! MMMmmMpphh, shiiiiiitttt! That's it, man. I'm done. Ain't no way I can go against the Giants, man. Forget it.
What you doin? What, you taping that shit up? Wow, you're using a lot of tape on me there. I think I'm getting...wait...yes, I'm definitely getting a boost of self-esteem from all this attention. Wow, I feel the need to repay this organization in some way. Guess what, baby! I'm playing on Sunday! Getcha popcorn ready!
Phil Simms: A season hanging in the balance. Here comes the ruling from Walt Coleman.
Walt Coleman: [On PA] After reviewing the play, the quarterback went through a forward throwing motion, brought the ball back into his body, then fumbled it. Therefore, the ruling on the field stands. First down Oakland.
Greg Gumbel: And it's all academic from here on out. Charles Woodson forces the Brady fumble and the Raiders fall on it. A fine season from New England's young quarterback, taking over early in relief of starter Drew Bledsoe, but it will come to an end here this evening. Meanwhile, the Raiders will move on to meet the winner of tomorrow's Steelers-Ravens game in Pittsburgh. And head coach Bill Belichick falls to 1-2 in three career playoff games.
Robert: Ay, ay, loogit what I found in little Tommy Brady's lockah. Under all the straaaberry rubbahs and pahsitive pregnancy tests.
Brady: Aw, come on, man. Stay out of my stuff. I'm trying to stay up on Manu Chao.
Mike: Bet ya'd like tah git ya some a'that, eh? Ya fackin' Caleefourkneeah queeah.
I know I'd tear that ass up right propah. She's good and rail thin, but she could benefit from having a little less of the ethnic in her, ya know? Waaaa's she from, Brazil? She might be some jungle bitch a' something. Have a caaaapybarrrra a' something crawl outta the cunt. Like my dick should be wearin' a pith helmet.
Robert: Ay, Brady. What'd I tell ya abaat wearing Yankees shit ahn tha jab? Ya think cause yoo use'ta play a little bawl with the Paytree-uts, the rules dan't apply to ya?
Mike: Like the Paytree-uts are even a fackin' team. I ain't never even been ta one-a their games. Fackin' loosuhs. Haaadly worthy of my loyal allegiance.
Robert: Face it: If ya ain't on the Sawx in this town, ya ain't shit, pally. If you play for the Paytree-uts, should should prahbabbly just kill yaself. Like that one colored who showed his face here last week and killed hisself by getting his car door slammed in his face a couple dozen times or so.
Mike: Ay, Tommy. I need to see ya the break room.
Brady: [exhales hard] Not now, man. I'm trying to get some work done.
Mike: Am I fackin' askin' ya? Move ya shit, shitbawx.
Robert: You fackin' tell 'um, super Mike. Super Mike Forevah!
Mike:[opening refrigerator] Those ya tacquitos right there?
Brady: [peering in] Uh, nope. Not mine.
[Mike pulls knife around Brady's neck and bends him over a table]
Mike: Good. So I'll have something to eat after ya give up that ass!
[Pulls down Brady's pants and forcibly enters him]
Clarence: What a horrifying turn of events. I can make it all as it was, Tom. I just need to know that you've learned the values of fairplay and humility. That you're ready to stop headbutting your teammates and pretending like you're a major badass so long as you have some Norse woodsman protecting your blindside.
Can you forswear the avarice and lustful pride that twisted your once pure spirit? And for fuck's sake, are you done with the pageboy caps and velvet blazers, Nancy?
Brady: [breaths bated by the continuing penetration] Oh, I have learned those things. I am prepared to live by that code. I've changed, Clarence, really I have.
Clarence: So we're ready then?
I'm pretty sure I'm good here, actually.
Clarence: But, but, Tom! The accolades? The titles? The fame? The glory? The Andrea Kremer restraining orders? Riches attending a legacy that will live on for generations? Don't you see a mistake it would be to throw it all away? All this you would abandon in favor of occasional coerced buttsex in a bean cannery break room by a galatically douchey Masshole?
Brady: That's about the [winces sharply]...ooof, the long and short of it, yeah. I mean, so long as he shares those tacquitos.
Post by blazinheart on Jan 11, 2008 15:59:18 GMT -5
Oh well. It's not like either of these two teams has much of a shot against the Cowboys next week.
Giants will beat the Cowboys. That's a guarantee. If I am wrong I will leave Hugthat.com forever.
The stogie he brazenly lit where he sit looked legit, but when the flame touched on the tip I could smell it's of another knit. He leaned his head back and inhaled the newpie dip and said "The whole design got my mind cryin', if I'm lyin' I'm dyin'..shit"
So, who ya got this weekend, Steve? I'm thinking The Packers over the Seachickens in a blowout, Patsies over the Jags in a close game, Cowgirls over the Giants in a late blowout, and Chargers over the Colts with a last second field goal.