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If you’re
like me, you like to keep up with current events, especially in
the realm of
sports. Make no mistake, my articles, however, are anything but
current. It’s a nice gig I have here, hitting it big with my
first column, and then coasting ever since. It was fresh,
original, had spunk and attitude, and of course covered the reigning
pop culture topic of the day. Now I merely recycle the same therapy
session tantrum for each new headline I read. Throw in
a few jokes about the mentally handicapped, and you’ve got
a column that offends half its readers, and pleases the
oblivious mainstream college student.
But, this time I actually AM mad.
Kobe is back doing endorsement deals, and personally I don’t think
it’s fair. Don’t say I’ve gone
soft, I couldn’t care less for that drunken gutter whore of a
victim. I’m sick of women coming on to guys like coyotes in heat
only to complain later when they get rammed like the slow cars in a
demolition derby. We all know that she wanted to ride a star, but
couldn’t get her grades up to become an astronaut. She wasn’t quite
as elastic as she thought. Her own damn fault. Quit your bitching.
Speaking of being elastic, I rented The Incredibles on DVD,
and Elastigirl is one hot MILF! Finally something worthy wins an
Oscar. Best Animated Feature? More like best animated features. I
can’t wait until Pixar creates a 3D model of me, so I can tap that
like a keg by someone with Down Syndrome: clumsily, with lots of
drool, and squirting all over the place.
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Sometimes I even argue with myself.
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The reason I’m mad that Kobe’s
getting his sponsors back is that he’s a prick and doesn’t deserve
the status he has. First off, where’s my endorsement? A lousy Free
Maxim and Stuff ad crammed into each of my genius rants? I say it’s
time we
stop allowing celebrities to fuck up without consequences. If I
poked some girl in the two-hole, I’d be locked up and tossed in jail
like my salad in jail by some huge black guy. If this world had any
sense of justice, it would be Kobe in that cell with me, and I could
use that story to get laid.
These fucking corporations are crawling back to Kobe like my fat
ex-girlfriend when she heard I bought a dozen Krispy Kremes. When is
America going to grow some cajones and start giving respect to the
real athletes out there. You put some of the
NBA-ers or
NASCAR pansies on the hockey rink, and you’d have to name the
team the Red Wings, because they’re all menstruating slutbags. Any
sport that you can perform while getting a hummer doesn’t count.
At the very least, Kobe’s endorsement deals should be fitting to his
new image. Fuck Nike or Gatorade. Everybody knows it’s not the shoes
that make him good, it’s his skin color. Here are some sponsors that
would make sense.
Trojan - All of Kobe’s troubles would never have happened if
he had hid the evidence so to speak. You don’t rob a bank without
wearing gloves. “The Kobe” would be lubricated, come in XL, and glow
in the dark so you could see his black ass when the lights are out.
Xanga - I swear that
Nancy-boy whines any time someone breathes on him. Maybe if he could
vent his frustrations in his online diary, he wouldn’t have to waste
our time by crying to the Ref.
Oreo - Black on the outside, white in the middle. Enough
said. They could even have an OOPS Oreo, with cream splattered on
the outside.
Herbie: Fully Loaded
- There’s really no reason other than when I think of anal sex, I
immediately think Lindsay Lohan. Speaking of plunging teen pop
stars, Britney Spears is all over the media with her beer
gut/pregnancy. I’m still not convinced. I guess we should have seen
it coming. She is from
the South.
I’m not that well-known, but I think it’s about time I started
seeing some of these celebrity benefits. First off, anyone offended
by my column should be court ordered to lighten up and realize that
I’m 250 pounds of attitude in a 140 pound body. Calling me
“pathetic” is like calling Jessica Alba “cute”: underrated.
Seriously,
every offensive comment has been reused from a previous column,
no use getting mad twice.
I should have an entourage follow me wherever I go. Among them I’ll
need a personal bullet-taker for all you crazy feminist, douche-bag
blow-hards that are no doubt plotting to kill me. I’ll want an
intern that makes me fresh coffee and brings me the paper with all
but the Sports and Entertainment sections thrown away. I’ll need a
PR agent to apologize in my wake. A hot trophy girlfriend, with her
own personal hot trophy stylist. She’ll also serve as my back-up
trophy girlfriend in case the original catches a stray bullet or
opens her mouth.
Lastly, I want a dollar every time someone rips off my column.
Whether it’s a compound swear word I created, “Yankees Blow,” or “I
need to get laid,” I’m constantly hearing people rip off my shit
without giving me credit. I once heard a guy at the office
practically quote one of my articles, and then yuk it up when the
others thought it was funny. I can’t believe he thought he could
make fun of the Oscars and not have me notice.
You ass-queers need to be more original.
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