The world of professional sports stumbled out of 2009 and with the start of 2010 I’m still hitting the snooze button.
It’s like they decided to metaphorically go green by recycling all the most played-out “scandals” they could think of.
If one more weave-wearing, VH1 show craving potentially hermaphroditic bitch comes out saying she fucked Tiger Woods, I’m going to beat someone with a golf club.
Also, the puns have me wretching. No, I’m not going to join your Facebook group “Don’t call him Tiger, call him Cheetah.”
If you’re going to bash him, at least go for the fact that his wife is probably an 11 out of 10 and he decided to fuck like, 4s at best.
Oh, and when you have your affair – remember you’re not a billionaire. And the shut the fuck up.
The Eagles lost in the playoffs, again. Eleven years of Donovan making sad face on the sidelines as he watches the defense roll over and die while Andy Reid gets ready to cough up “They played better than we did” – only to pretend they care about next year.
They don’t.
I don’t want to hear anything about Brett Favre this offseason… the only reason I’d accept them winning the Superbowl is because Adrian Peterson pulled me out of the Lance Bass fiasco of 2005. I was not bored in 2005.
Anyway, back to the Dullfest 2010. Mark McGwire… fuck you. I loved you for denying you took steroids year after year and now you not only had to go admitting it, but you cried.
When I was a little girl, I loved watching you smash a ball without moving your elbow too much, kinda hobbling around the bases because your upper body was WAY too big for the lower half.
Um, duh you were taking steroids. Who cares?
I’m getting rid of my Beanie Baby and erasing all those Big Macs I ate for you.
Where the fuck is Dennis Rodman when you need him… shouldn’t he renew his vows to himself or something?
Randy Moss isn’t mooning people anymore and Ron Artest is like Confessions of a Halftime Boozer.
ENOUGH. You can’t all be on the juice – some of you have to have balls.
You’re paid to entertain me, so wake me up when you collectively decide to suit up – and please, not in one you’d be wearing after being sentenced to more jail time.
Where’s Ocho… I want to go to the Waffle house.
