February 3rd, 2008

Fuck the NFL. And fuck all the fat, overweight assholes who slobber paint on their faces in order to bond with their uber masculine super heroes. Men worshiping other men in a rite that pre-dates Sparta.

If only they could paint the sorrow and sadness off the faces of the dogs Michael Vick tortured. Because thats what this miserable prick did. He tortured innocent animals. And the fucking NFL knew about it. They knew what Vick was doing down there on his gazillion acre estate. They all knew about it. Cornerbacks, wide receivers, quarterbacks. Especially quarterbacks. Nobody said anything. Not pretty boy Tommy or that doofus throwback from the Manning family. They picked up their multi-million dollar paychecks and said nothing. After all, who’s going to slaughter the golden goose when it’s just a bunch of dogs chewing each other to pieces for the sadistic amusement of assholes like Vick? Give me five minutes with Vick. Five minutes to tear this motherfucker apart on behalf of every helpless animal this shithead condemned to misery and death. Five minutes. I’ll give him the chance to come at me first. In fact, I’ll get on my knees. That ought to give him the confidence he needs to rush me.

And then he’s mine.

As for the rest of the NFL, they can all think long and hard about the kind of karma headed their way for not doing a fucking thing to roadblock Vick’s slaughterhouse amusement park. Watch what happens. Not right away, but just down the road from where you are right now. Allowing something like Vick’s merciless cruelty to fester while they did nothing is to pray their way to insanity. I don’t give a fuck if it’s Bob Kraft or any of the other overfed grinning pigs in the troughs of NFL ownership. Karma’s on it’s way and it’s not pretty. Kraft could have gotten the message when The Putin delivered it to him in person.

“I like your ring, you Amerikan motherfucker. But you’re on my turf now asshole. Take it off my finger. C’mon. Take a shot. You gonna let me off that easy? You don’t even have the balls to ask me to give it back, do you? If you’re all this easy I oughta be able to bankrupt your sorry ass Homeland in a wash of Siberian sweet crude. Or maybe I’ll sell it all to Europe and watch your lights go out as you battle the Chinamen for whatever black gold is left after the both of you get through trying to suck it out of the Middle East’s limp, religious dick.

Maybe Bob can round up the boys and go get his Super Bowl ring back from The Putin. Or just buy another one. I doubt any of these cry baby, coddled clowns can get close to The Putin. He’s tossed guys bigger than the Bus more yards than an NFL ref can throw a flag. After all, his black belt in judo isn’t just an ornament. Neither is his KGB pedigree. Weigh that against the skyboxes taxpayers provide for the corrupt owners of Amerika’s real national pastime and I think you’ll begin to understand what we’re really up against.

Maybe, but I doubt it , face paint boy will grow up, lose 200 pounds, and realize who it was that took the mortgage on his home and turned it into worthless junk. Or figure out , that while he was chowing down on chicken wings and wiping his mug with beige beer while wearing another man’s last name on his shirt, what’s really going on down there on the field.

All he has to do is look into the eyes of those poor creatures, all more humane than the fuckheads who did nothing while those animals cried for compassion.

Fuck the NFL.

Website designed by: H1 DESIGN STUDIO