Why, Punter, why?

I’d like to think of myself as possessing above-average intelligence and maintaining a healthy amount of common sense. I got through college and grad school well enough, and I pride myself at being able to spot a grifter from 50 paces– a handy skill around Derby time. But the events of earlier this week have shaken my confidence to the core and led me to question whether I might be more suited for work as a ditch digger, field-hand or, shudder, Governor of Alaska.

You would think I would know what to do when I get a heavily edited picture of raccoon appearing to playfully gnaw on an unidentifiable appendage belonging to a human of the male persuasion. The large yellow blocks prevented me from seeing exactly which appendage this was, but I had a very strong and uneasy suspicion. I also received a message from our own Monday Morning Punter saying ‘click on it, it’s not what you think.’

So what does my dumb ass do?
A) Consider the source and immediately hit the delete button several times as fast as I could; OR
B) “Derrrrr, if Punter says it’s not what I think it is, it MUST be something innocent and wholesome. Duhhh, clicky-click-click. Duhhhhhh.”

Yes, Dear Reader I chose the latter. There are some things than once you see them, you can never unsee. There are some things that once they are imprinted on your cortex, are indelible until death. Seeing a cute raccoon chawing on some sick bastard’s junk is one of them. I will never be able to look at this friendly woodland varmint the same way again. I immediately canceled my son’s subscription to Ranger Rick. “The Ballad of Rocky Raccoon” came of the radio yesterday and I was shaking so hard I had to pull over on the side of the road.

Punter’s knack for the highly offensive is well documented in these pages and elsewhere. Hell, he once infamously carpet-bombed Deadspin with links to graphic horse-on-man porn. So quite understandably, some of you may be asking, “Why on Earth would you ever click on something solely on Punter’s say-so?” The answer, Dear Reader, is because I am a fucking rube.

There, I said it—I. AM. A. RUBE. If I played baseball I would be Rube Waddell. If I was a Kenny Rogers song I would be “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” If managed a fictional 1970’s television family band I would be Reuben Kincade. I’m a rube and now you all know of my shame.

Here’s your Sexy Friday cheerleader post….

Photo credits: The Professional Cheerleader Blog, Sports Illustrated, Flickr