A Professional Cynic and Dynamic Crusher of Dreams
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Hmmmmm….
“See academics played second in my life
To unmatriculated brain hobbies
And I admire the dedication to your ranks
Plus want the training
Loss is not a big problem it’s all about what I’d be gaining,”
“Well you’ll get power, respect, an audience, a check, a car, Money for
school, honey with uniform fetish on your tool,
You’ll travel, form bonds, be a part of something,
have a structure, catch bullets…”
“Catch bullets?”
“…I meant cash bonus
See this gold plaque? You could own it
After killing half a million
It’s such a good feeling
To earn your country’s respect and love
So what do you say son, are you my man?”
Fuck it, sign me up!
-El-P
The Nang, The Front, The Bush and The Shit
I’m sorry, children, that man coverage and pass rush package there wouldn’t even work in the Land of Make-Believe.
MR RODGER’S NEIGHBORHOOD
(yes, I haven’t posted in forever, shut the hell up)
Wanna know why it’s all new?
Because I’m depressing as f&$ underneath this witty exterior that’s why.
NUCLEAR FUCKIN’ WEAPONS.
So today Wladimir Klitschko trounced David Haye to take the World Boxing Association Heavyweight title.
Wlad’s and his brother Vitali are now the only belt holders in the heavyweight division, and honestly, those belts are staying on that side of the ocean.
“But Neeko,” you say, “America is the home of boxing legends, and we love our heavyweights, c’mon, Muhammad Ali, Iron Mike Tyson?”
And I say, “That may be true, but there is one reason the current generation of American Heavyweights will never get anywhere.”
And you say, “Why’s that Neeko?”
They are all fat as hell. That’s why.
SPLIT YOUR LUNGS WITH BLOOD AND THUNDER, WHEN YOU SEE THE WHITE WHALE!
Chunky McDoubleDown seen above is the unfortunately named Chris Arreola
(pronounced just like you think it would be).
BEEFCAKE. BEEFCAKE! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEFCAAAAKE~!
This is James “Lights Out” Toney, please note the mantits.
“Okay, so they’re a little chubby, but this is the Heavyweight division, they’re all over 200 pounds, they’re gonna be a little big.”
To which I say
WLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIR!
WLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIR!
That is Wladimir “Real Life Ivan Drago” Klitschko. Note that he is not fat. He is over two hundred pounds of Toned, Post-Soviet Ukrainian, Cossackian, and Bear-Punching Rage, rolled up into a way-to-calm-to-not-be-a-serial-killer personality. He holds two of the three Heavyweight belts that are currently in play.
“Alright, what about his brother?”
I Vill Break You.
There. He is beating the shite out of Mr. Titskin/Arreola. NO MANTITS.
“Okay. I can see what you’re saying Neeko, I’m sorry for ever doubting you,” You say.
“It’s cool,” I say, “Just never bet on American Heavyweights”
“What would happen if I did?” You ask.
“That. That is what happens.”
