I've felt better. Jack Daniels, Jägermeister, Labatt Blue, Miller High Life, homemade Buffalo wings, homemade chili, Velveeta chili dip, Rice Krispie treats, Janet Jackson nipple cupcakes (images to come), and 37 different kinds of chips all congregated in my stomach yesterday. The fourth quarter of the Superbowl is a complete blank.
Some post-big-game impressions: Someone should've told Donovan McNabb he was supposed to throw to the guys in the green jerseys. Mark David Chapman shot the wrong fucking Beatle. "Hey Jude"? It's a football game, Paul. And could you look more like a woman? Janet's nip-slip and GeeDubya's new America stuck us with the most pious, boring, flag-waving suckfest in memory. I can't believe one tit caused such a shitstorm, but the vapid glorification of American war-mongering is considered perfectly suitable for children. Bill Clinton wasn't looking so hot, but I still miss the guy like crazy. I may have been put on this Earth to get drunk and yell at the television.
Now I know the Superbowl has you convinced that America has cornered the market on being fat and retarded with horrible taste in music. Not so.
Do you find this cute? What about this?
No comments:
Post a Comment