Of Female Flesh Lump During Annual Sweaty Men In Tights Engaging
In Homoerotic Tackling and Fumbling Competition Enrages Gay Men
menacing mothership dispensing its payload
“Fiasco…outrage…debacle”. These are
the terms the central Florida AM talk radio announcer used after
reporting that our friend Pakistan delivered nuclear secrets to
the entire Axis Of Evil, and that our president conceded an investigation
was needed regarding WMD that do not exist in Iraq. But he was not
talking about those things. No sir. He was talking about a tit,
or, as the Brits say, “teat”.
Damn right I
was outraged. Every year on this wondrous occasion I start drinking
around noon and get myself
absolutely blasted by dinner time on can upon can of Miller
Lite. By the pregame ceremonies, l’m crooning with a
pathetic and elderly Aerosmith: “Dream on, dream on, dream
until your dreams come truuuu-uuuu—uuuueee!!!!” When
the president speaks, I’m pumping my fist in the air as he
discusses the very serious matter of steroid use (take that Sammy
Sosa! You’ve got my vote, Mr. President!) Yes indeed - everything
was going according to the Grand Plan. Until the tit.
How dare they
interrupt my yearly stuporous ritual by defiling it with a full
2 seconds of fleshy female protuberance? RIGHT THERE ON THE FIELD??!
I mean, like every good American, I hope to raise my children in
a world completely unaware that those fleshy globes of sinful inclusion
that adorn every wicked wench on this planet exist. It’s the
“right” way to raise a child, without question. What’s
seriously disturbing to me is that we men on this planet are outnumbered
by these lactating lumps by a margin of more than 2 to 1. It is
no wonder we must repent – and repent immediately! That I
should be exposed to one on live television without warning is inexcusable.
I didn’t even have a tape of Davey & Goliath ready to
slam in the VCR. There was just no warning.
This is the
problem. While our commander in chief is busy sending warm welcomes
to military dictators who sell us out to some jihadic Mohammed-mongering
Muslims we’re busy doing what we do best: getting blind drunk
and watching large sweaty men pile onto each other in a bacchanalian
frenzy that would have had Caligula writhing in delight.
And to think
it was completely ruined by that…that TEAT!
even remember who was playing now, let alone who won the game. And
that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I ate the equivalent
of 18 avocados of guac or did 7 or 8 funnels of Busch beer
in the backyard between plays. That’s totally normal. What
wasn’t normal was that breast. My memory is fuzzy and I don’t
have TIVO, so the exact nature of that revelation (the revelation
that Janet Jackson has a right breast) is a little unclear to me.
So unclear, in fact, that I am absolutely in support of a full investigation
by the FCC.
of WMD missing (or lied about), nuclear secrets being sold by our
allies to Iran, and a bloated federal budget (that doesn’t
even include the Afghanistan and Iraq adventures), here are the
burning questions I have as an American:
1. How long
was the breast exposed, in milliseconds?
2. Supposing the largest consumer television available, how many
pixels, or in the case of plasma television, how many square inches
could the breast have potentially covered on screen?
3. What is the ratio of nipple to non-nipple breast flesh on this
4. Does said breast feature any unnatural augmentations, including
– but not limited to - silicone?
5. Did Justin Timberlake actually fondle the breast with his bare
hand? Or did he merely brush it ever so briefly with a non-sensitive
part of the hand?
Once these questions
are answered by a nonpartisan congressional booby...uh...body, I
will be appeased.
Thank you, and
may God continue to breast America.