Your Friday Moment of Zen
Nov 21, 2008 I had some help with this list, Inanity, It could be worse...I think, Too far?
People Who Had/Have It Easier Than Texans Fans:
- Sisyphus
- Giles Corey
- Job
- Luke
- Bill Buckner
- Christopher Reeves
- Matt Stevens’ insurance agent
- Jeffrey Dahmer’s First Date
- Harry Whittington
- Dante Hicks on his day off
- Andy Dufresne during his first year in prison
- Sacco and Vanzetti
- The Lindbergh Baby
- Marie Antoinette
- Cubs fans
- Eliot Spitzer
- David Vetter
- Catholic Altar Boys
- Henry Paulson
- Rosie O’Donnell’s lover
- R. Kelly
- Proctologists
- BFD’s wife
- Britney Spears’ kids
- Anyone within earshot of Tim McCarver
- Thomas Beatie’s gynecologist
- Big Pussy
- Monica Lewinsky
- Michael Jackson
- Donnie Moore
- Trig Palin
- The guy with no arms and legs in the Metallica “One” video
- Caroline Wakefield
- Whitney Houston
- Michael Brown
- Elian Gonzalez
- Marsellus Wallace
Feel free to add your own in the comment. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go slam my head in the door repeatedly.
We Get Emails
Oct 1, 2008 Awesomeness, Awfulness, Bad Idea Jeans, Bad Juju, Too far?
So, I was sitting here in the den, minding my own business and drinking a beer, when an email from an address I didn’t recognize popped up on the laptop.
terristevensXX@aol.com
The fuck? Must be junk mail, as I don’t know anyone who still uses AOL, even just for an email address. But that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, I click on it and…well…let’s just take it line by line, shall we?
I was reading the things you wrote about Matt Stevens.
And I was surfing porn because my wife’s out of town. What’s your point? Oh…hold up. Terri Stevens? As in, like, Matt Stevens’ wife? Oh, this should be solid.
I wanted you to know that I agree with you…..
I had to look back just to see what I’d written about The Sultan of Suck. I found three references:
Here. “2. Matt Stevens, FS. Tim once relayed to me that he tried to name BRB “Shaking Matt Stevens,” but it was vetoed as being too obscure. It wouldn’t have been the least bit obscure to Texans fans, however, who still remember Matt Stevens as the poster child for blown coverage, failed tackles, and general shittiness. He apparently was paralyzed in a motorcycle accident, but, contrary to popular belief, this occurred after he left the Texans organization. (I’m going to Hell.)”
Here. “(regarding best Texans safety ever) OK…so, it obviously can’t be Matt Stevens because he is on the short list of ‘Worst Texan ever.’”
And Here. “For a third choice, Scott broke the news that the team was bringing in Shaun Williams for a workout. Unfortunately, as Scott points out, Williams is better against the run than the pass and has been described as “reckless.” Sure, that would be better than, say, bringing in Matt Stevens–of course, I would be better than Matt Stevens–but it’s not necessarily a panacea.”
I am going to go out on a limb and guess that you don’t agree that he sucked and/or you don’t agree that I would be a better NFL safety than your husband. But what do you agree with?
for sure there will be a spot for you in hell.
OH. I see what you did there. I don’t appreciate your ruse, ma’am.
Besides, assuming one believes in the afterlife, that ticket was punched a while ago, thus your little bout of virtual bitchiness does not really faze me. In fact, here’s a tip—when a blog talks about the Pope blessing someone’s cock and/or feeling like you’ve been fisted with sandpaper gloves after watching a certain player, the writer is probably not going to be overly concerned with your hurt feelings. But let’s continue.
You are a horrible person.
Again, we already settled that. And, for what it’s worth, my wife and kids would disagree. They love me, though that could just be because I can walk. In fact, If you were to write mean things about me, they might even send you nasty emails that wished you to Hell.
Just thought you should know.
Hey, your husband is the worst player to ever wear Battle Red, which is no small feat. Just thought you should know.
Karma is a bitch.
Hmm. Interesting theory. Though, it certainly makes one wonder who Matt pissed off in a former life to come back as a piss poor tackler destined to end in a wheelchair. I mean, if you believe in karma, then you have to believe in it wholly or else your belief system is as flawed and inconsistent as your husband’s coverage skills.
(Also, you are incorrectly applying the concept of karma, but a lot of people do that, so I will let you slide. I will point out, however, that a correctly applied real belief in karma is incompatible with the eternity-in-agony-and-brimstone Christian Hell you’ve already damned me to.)
Anyway, that’s it? You saw that I, a random blogger, wrote mean and slightly distasteful things about a guy, so you emailed to tell me that I suck and that I am going to Hell? Awesome. Behold, The Power Of The Internet!
If I may be so bold, why were you Googling John Q. Floppycock’s name in the first place? Trying to remember a time before you had to wipe his ass? Trying to find someone to tell you good things about Matt so you can find meaning in things and won’t be forced to think that life is just a huge series of unrelated events? Just trying to take your mind of the non-use of your vagina?
You know what? I don’t actually care what the answer is. Because fuck you, that’s why.
Yours in Christ,
MDC
P.S. Bitch.
Church
Sep 16, 2008 Fake Conversations with Real People, I ask that you wash it first, I really need a different hobby, Inflamed body parts, Kevin Bentley, Too far?, Travis Johnson, What the fuck?, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
Methodist Practice Bubble parking lot, September 19, 2008, after practice
Kevin Bentley: (jogging) William! William! Do hold on a moment, William!
Will Demps: Will Demps is not very fond of talking to your pretty, er, ugly ass. Besides, there’s a good chance some random bitches are waitin’ for Will Demps back at, um, Will Demps’s crib, ya dig? Make it fast, mofo.
Bentley: Well, William, I was just going to suggest that, now that we’ve both made the team and, more importantly, now that Hurricane Ike has given us some perspective on the important things in life—things like family, love, community, and the need for proper skin care in inclimate weather—perhaps we should call off this entire wager.
Demps: The fuck you mean “call it off?!” Motherfucker, Will Demps is going full dick ahead with this bet! Will Demps is going to drive your cockblocking ass out this town, holmes! Will Demps is going to ball Rhonda Kubiak so good, SHE be callin’ you up to tell you Will Demps won the bet. Ain’t no calling it off, brothaman.
Bentley: William, I fear you might have gotten concussed in our competition against Pittsburgh, as you do not seem to be thinking all that clearly. What makes you think your odds of winning a bet in which you’ve been a decided underdog from the outset have somehow improved of late?
Demps: What makes…odds? I, er, Will Demps ain’t got no clue what the fuck you’re jibba-jabberin’ about. But if you askin’ why I’m going to win, take a look in the mirror. You look like you done gained fiddyleven pounds. You fat, dawg. Not P-H-A-T like Kim Kardashian’s ass, either. Straight F-A-T. Will Demps is still a sexy ebony god with fifteen inches of throbbing black Jesus.
Bentley: Silly William, I gained a small amount of weight on purpose. I have neither the time nor the patience to explain the mathematics to you right now, but rest assured that my increased mass gives me more power when I tackle and makes me an even better player.
Demps: On special teams, bitch.
Bentley: Point taken, William. Of course, were I to decide I wanted to play defensive back, I am sure I’d have no problem out-performing the disastrous results you and C.C. provided against Pittsburgh. Tell me, William, is it customary to give wide receivers a fourteen yard cushion when they are at the five-yard line?
Demps: Fuck you, dude.
Bentley: Charming. So, you really do not plan to give this wager a rest?
Demps: Hell naw, Chubb-o.
Bentley: Fine. Then consider yourself forewarned—with your play, it will not be a huge blow to anyone when you leave after I bed our target.
Demps: And, um, consider yourself forewhatevered—Will Demps taps ass.
Bentley: …
Demps: That’s right!
Bentley: (looking over Demps’ shoulder) Not to change the subject, William, but is that an ass I see over in Travis’s vehicle?
Demps: That’s Travis’s ass, dude!
Bentley: And you know that…nevermind.
[Both run over to the truck, where Travis Johnson is having sex with Rhonda Kubiak]
Demps and Bentley: WHAT THE FUCK?!?
Travis Johnson: (rolling down window, but without breaking his stroke) The fuck you frilly faggots want?
Rhonda Kubiak: Oh oh oh oh god oh fuck yes god holy cock yes oh fuck oh jesus oh mandingo oh pound that snizz you big, black stallion!!!! THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY SNIZZ!!!!
Demps: Will…Will Demps…um…Will don’t…
Bentley: What my semi-literate friend means is ‘How in the world did you get her to have sexual intercourse with you!?!’
Johnson: (stroking) Because, Ass Pirate Roberts, Travis Johnson fucks bitches. He don’t act like one. While y’all busy tweezing and buffing, I gots hoes skeezing and sucking. Ya feel me?
Kubiak: I feel you! I feel you! Holy Christ, it’s so big I can taste it!
Bentley: B-b-but…I have seventeen and a half inches of manhood! I know you don’t have that!!!
Johnson: (stroking) Nope, Cockbreath, I sure don’t. But I have something better.
Bentley: What’s that?
Kubiak: (nearly out of breath) His dick is…consecrated by the God! So this…isn’t…OH GODDAMN…YES, BIG DADDY…KNOCK THE LINING OUT THAT MOTHERFUCKER…isn’t a sin!
Johnson: (stroking) That’s right. I told y’all there was a reason for having the Pope conse– consecr– bless my shit. Married bitches always be looking for that loophole so they can indulge they fantasies. I gots the ultimate loophole, Nancy!
Bentley: (shaking head, muttering as he walks off) This just…it doesn’t make sense…I was supposed to be knocking that lining out of her motherfucker. (looks back over shoulder) C’mon, William. I’ll buy you a lapdance at Centerfolds.
Demps: Will Demps says the bet is over.
Bentley: (patting him on the shoulder) I know, William. I know.
Johnson: (yelling after them) Wait! Don’t y’all wanna watch this bitch get baptized?!? (to Rhonda) Open up, ho…you ’bout to taste some religiousness up in here!
Mr. and Mrs. Glass
Feb 20, 2008 Faggination, Fake Conversations with Real People, Jerome Mathis got hurt reading this, Johnny Fisterbottom, Pro Bowl 2008, Too far?, Tremendous Busts, Will Demps makes love to the...ladies?
February 15, 2008. Manvel, TX. 10:30PM.
Jerome Mathis: (in car, to himself) Damn. DAMN! I have completely fucked up. Fuck. She is going to be pissed, too. Why the fuck did I let the dogs get out? After the year I had…man…I’m fucked.
(pulls into driveway, goes into house) Erica! Erica?! You here?
Erica Smith: (from upstairs) Yeah, I’m upstairs. Hold on. I’ll be down in a minute.
Mathis: (to self) Fuuuuuck. OK, Jerome. Hold it together. You’re a Pro Bowler; you’ll get a job somewhere. And she loves you for you…y’all having a baby together and shit. OK, here she comes. Stay calm. Don’t get defensive… (to Smith) Hey, baby! How was your day?!
Smith: Motherfucker, how do you think my day was?! I am fucking pregnant. I threw up this morning, then I was tired, then my feet started hurting, then I threw up again, then I had to nap for a while. That’s how MY day was. But that’s not what concerns me right now. What concerns me is whether you talked to McNair about what we talked about last night.
Mathis: Yeah, I did.
Smith: And?!?
Mathis: He said the team wasn’t entirely sure if they were going to bring me back. He said the pit bull incidents really having him questioning whether I have the right kind of character to be a Houston Texan.
Smith: You ignorant motherfucker! I told your stupid ass to chain those dogs up! Did you listen?! Fuck, no, you didn’t listen. You just let those mutts go out and maul some people. Brilliant. Asshole. Did you at least mention that you were a Pro Bowler not that long ago?
Mathis: Yo, you need to ease up off me a little bit. I thought I told you I wasn’t going to put up with that kind of tone anymore.
Smith: Fuck you, jack. Who the fuck do you think you are? Motherfuckin’ Ron O’Neal or somethin’? Talkin’ ’bout I better not talk to you like that.
Mathis: Look, bitch, seriously…I’m not going to put up with much more of this lip.
Smith: Whatchu gonna do, then? You ain’t gonna hit a pregnant woman. Besides…remember what happened last time you tried to pick a fight with me. You want your ass kicked again?
Mathis: Bitch, I told you I had a sinus infection. And I was kinda drunk. You can’t take me in a fair fight and you know it! I’m in the NFL, goddamnit.
Smith: Yeah…that “F” stands for “Fragile As A Motherfucker.”
Mathis: I am leaving before you make me break my foot off in your ass. (turns to leave, pauses, turns back) Hey, where the hell is my phone charger? I need it–my Blackberry is dead.
Smith: Just like your career, apparently.
Mathis: Shut up. Just go get my charger. (shoves Smith)
Smith: Make me, bitch.
Mathis: That’s it. It’s on now! (grabs Smith by the throat) Yeah! You like that?! You like…wait…what the fuck…LET GO OF MY NUTS!!! OW OW OW OW OW!!! FUUUUUCK!!!! (begins weeping)
Smith: Yeah! You think you’re bad?! You ain’t bad! You ain’t shit!! Get the fuck out of my house, bitch! (throws him out the front door, locks it behind him, heads back upstairs)
Will Demps: (from closet) Everything cool.
Smith: Yeah, baby. It’s cool. Come give mama some of the black throbbing Jesus before I call the police on his unemployed ass. I love me some Pro Bowler sex.
And, with that, the waters parted and all of my sane readers ran away
Nov 16, 2007 Batman, Blasphemy, Demarcus Faggins sucks, Fake Conversations with Biblical Characters, Injury bug, National Media, Reggie Bush, Reservoir Dogs, Tempting Fate, Too far?
Sports Bar in Heaven, 6 Kislev 5768 (Heaven does not buy into the Gregorian calendar)
God: (to other people at his table) …this was during the Los Angeles marijuana drought of 1986. I still had a connection. Which was insane, ’cause people couldn’t get weed anyfuckinwhere then. Anyway, I had a connection with this hippie chick up in Santa Cruz and all my friends knew it. And they’d give me a call and say, “Hey, God…hey, dude, you gettin’ some, you think you could get me some too?” They knew I smoked, so they’d ask me to buy a little for them when I was buying for myself. But it got to be that everytime I bought some weed, I was buyin for four or five different people. Finally I said, “Fuck this shit.” I’m makin’ this bitch rich. She didn’t have to do jack shit; she never even had to meet these people. I was doin’ all the work…then that got to be a pain in the ass. People called me on the phone all the fuckin’ time. I couldn’t rent a fuckin’ tape without six fucking phone calls interrupting me. “Hey, when’s the next time you’re gettin’ some?” “Motherfucker, I’m tryin to watch The Lost Boys! When I have some, I’ll let you know.” And then these rinky-dink pot heads come by–they’re my friends and everything, but still, y’know? I got all my shit laid out in sixty dollar bags. They don’t want sixty dollars worth. They want ten dollars worth. Breaking it up is a major fuckin pain in the ass. I don’t eve–
St. Peter: (interrupting) Sorry dude, but you need to see this. (conjures up magical heavenly computer monitor out of mid-air) It seems a blogger has been writing prayers to you in the hopes that you would heal and/or hurt certain professional football players.
God: Son of a bitch. I swear to Me, this is all because that assbag Jon Kitna has convinced people that I care about football. Why am I supposed to give two shits about the outcome of NFL games? The only thing the NFL is good for is helping me figure out which people have no shot at Heaven. Oh, speaking of, what’s the latest on Mike Vick?
St. Peter: Sentencing in December; still on the “get anally fisted in Hell” list. But, that’s not why I showed you this, though. It appears that this blogger, a “Matt Campbell,” decided that you were ignoring his prayers, so he began offering the same to some Hindu god.
God: WHAT?! Jesus Christ!
Jesus: (jumping up) Yeah, dad?!
God: It’s just an expression; sit down. (turns back to Peter) A Hindu god, huh? How did that work out for him?
St. Peter: Well, that’s just it. He prayed that a “Petey Faggins” would be removed from the starting lineup and, sure enough, it happened! I guess I don’t have to tell you that this has caused a few whispers among the living.
God: Fuck no, you don’t need to tell me! I’m omnipotent, asshole!
Job: Then how did you not already know about this?
God: Better question, smart guy–why are you going to walk with a limp for eternity? (smites Job’s knee) Talk to me, Peter. What do I need to do?
St. Peter: That’s the good news. The Texans are playing the Saints this weekend and, were you to see fit to injure a certain running back, I think you’d re-convert some of the doubters. You just have to tweak his knee a little bit, maybe give him a tor–
God: I’m on it. (smites Ahman Green, rendering him inactive for Sunday’s game)
St. Peter: NO!!!! Dude, I meant Reggie Bush!!!
God: Reggie Bush?!? Are you out of your fucking mind, Peter? I LOVE that kid! Don’t you watch ESPN? I’d sooner smite the Savior of mankind over there before I’d hurt Reggie! That’s my DAWG, yo!
St. Peter: But, if he’s your favorite, why is he only averaging 3.7 yard per carry for his career? What gives?
God: Dude, even my powers have limits.
