Oh, and don’t you DARE fucking condescend from your lofty, reinforced perch to talk about Drew Brees, asshat. If you didn’t already know Drew Brees was amazing…wait, what the fuck am I saying? Of course you had not fucking clue, because you’re ABSOLUTELY SHITTY AT YOUR JOB!!! And you get rewarded for it, you overweight hot air zephyr!! I hope you spontaneously combust while Twittering how wonderful the checkout counter is the Marriott. Do you even know what it’s like to actual report? To write complete, coherent sentences on one or two subjects instead of this stream of conscious vomit you churn out like you’re writing a poor man’s Larry King column?

“For my money, BLUE is a good color.”

Fuck off, Peter King, with your “life was so wonderful for me” bullshit. I’m riding the shit train to Brokesville (population: LOTS) while your lofty ass gets to make EVEN more money by offering up some nonsense cash-in book this fall. Fuck you, Peter King!

Get your fucking phony ass smile out of my face before I shove a VENTI sized double mocha latte up your ass!!!! GAAAAAH!!!

(Breathes.)

Okay, I feel better. Good hate. Lofty hate.

Coffeenerdness:

*BEELCH* “SLAVE! THIS LATTE IS COLD!” So I called the N#$$%r police who strung the sub-human on the whipping post and we had a lovely time beating the little bitch to death.

Later I called MaryBeth who is pregnant with a N#$$er baby after she was most defintely raped. Those n#$$@3s just cant get enough of her, this was the 4th time in a year those n#$$@rs have violated her. I personally led the lynchmob and strung his ass on a tree making his family watch while my buddy Brett Favre 1st and I lit them on fire in the public square.

This man has giant testicles to say this. I hope every other reporter who’s ever worked a 12-story-a-week gig with an infection so bad their lymph nodes stick out from their neck rise up and slay this monster at the next journalism symposium at which he speaks. Ten weeks with no assignment, and that doesn’t include vacation? I now long to piss on this vacuous fuck’s grave.

“A couple of points from yesterday’s column that I screwed up.

One: Jack Donlan is not dead. That’s a pretty big mistake, and I’ve apologized to Donlan, the longtime management council czar with the league, for killing him in the column…I have no excuses for the screwup; it’s just one of those things that happens when you don’t check all your facts, and it’s a good warning to me.”

Good fuckup. Lofty fuckup.

USC is going to have to up Bush’s salary.

And you need friends if the ones you have aren’t beating you with a lead pipe to wake up the one brain cell left that the price tag is fucking stupid. Hell Terry fucking Schiavo can tell you that.

“There’s this up-and-coming seamstress you should be marking down in your parchments by the name of Betsy Ross. You should have seen the amazing flag she’s put together for our new nation. Great flag. Lofty flag. You might have heard the news from yon town crier, but I was heartily disappointed that he doesn’t issue forth the local news during the hours that I’m awake. I fear that not being able to hear him read the day’s proclamations when I’m available is EXTORTION and I will distribute many a pamphlet about that charlatan!”

“I was at the local apothecary with my dear friend Jackson Montgomery Bowers…he was enjoying a barley soda, whilst I sipped an aromatic cup of Dr. Hastenstein’s Magick Awakening Bean Water (much better than that putrid swill you get down the boulevard at the Inn of the Hamptons), when I happened upon a young chimney sweep by the name of Bretthais Favre. I took quite a shine to the lad, having plied his trade in Atlanta-town, and would soon make the long arduous trek to Wisconsin to become a flue baron…”

I did not edit that. Straight from his twitter feed.