1 Holier-Than-Thou St., Martyrsville, Saintsilvania
I heard recently that the two most important things in your life are Me and football… and mutilating little Filipino penises without a penis-mutilating license. Right. The three most important things in your life are Me, football and penis blood up to your elbows. Two of those things, it goes without saying, I’ve got no problem with whatsoever.
Timmeh, here’s a little something you should know about Me: I wouldn’t piss down football’s throat if football’s guts were on fire. Football is a closed book to Me, (preferably shredded and burned to boot). The only games of chance and skill I’ve ever given a rat’s ass about are poker and blackjack. Oh, and I have placed the odd bet on the Olympics, but that’s just for the wrestling. My angel employees used to like a good, oily wrestle from time to time and I admit I got kind of hooked.
But that’s neither here nor there. What I’m trying to tell you is that the best you can possibly hope for from Me, when you play your silly game, is complete and utter indifference. I could not care less. At all. I have never and I will never fix a game for you and I’d appreciate it if you stopped telling people I have. However, that’s the best you can hope for. When you paint advertisements for that Me-Damned, unauthorized biography on your annoying, cherubic face and stick it in front of every camera that comes within the gravitational pull of your black hole of sanctimoniousness… well, that’s been known to crimp My vacation somewhat. Do you have any idea what a five-star hotel charges for an incinerated TV? Not to mention that the lightning bolt often has to travel through several floors to get to the bar. I’ve tried to explain that their insurance should cover acts of Gawd, but I think word has gotten around.
And that, Timbow, is your fault. Every time I see your unctuous face on the television in a hotel bar it costs Me thousands of dollars. Since you started playing football, your puritanical, pious, preachy, priggish punim has flushed nearly a million dollars in hard-earned tithes down the crapper. All because you insist on reminding Me not only what a self-righteous little shit you are, but that I have never seen a penny in royalties from that never-to-be-sufficiently-cursed, best-selling, factually-impaired, unauthorized biography!
Am I getting through to you here, son? Bring Me more tithe-paying brand-loyalists all you like. Fiddle with tiny foreign wedding tackle to your heart’s content. Shun icky old girls til the cows come home, (It just leaves more rampant totty for those of us who like that sort of thing,). Rail against said totty having rights over their own bodies, if that’s what you’re into. Play with your ball, if that’s all you’re good at. But don’t. Remind. Me. Of all that lost revenue. Wipe that crap off your face or I’ll do it for you. Got Me? Good.
By the way, the Jesii are hockey fans.
Wish You Were Here,