If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Success comes to the Laserfaced! Douse me in Tentacle Grape, for I have just fucked the Cutlerfucker back to his dimly lit room for some good slicing-myself-while-listening-to-Deb-Talan.

With mopey mope suicide girl Cutlerfucker out of the picture and Ratface Shanatan gone for good, The Laserface Revenge/Coach-Killing Tour © rolls on. Next up is Phoetus Manning and Tony Dungheap. You got one over on King Philip earlier this year. BUT THAT’S ONLY WHEN I WAS LETTING THE LEAGUE LAY ITS GUARD DOWN! YOU DIDN’T THINK I’D DIDN’T KNOW DENVER WAS GOING TO CHOKE, DID YOU? DID YOU? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

My gang of supersoldiers is running at full cream. 8-8 DON’T MEAN SHIT! WE’VE BEEN GIVEN LIFE ANEW! AND WITH LIFE COMES A DICK TO FUCK YOU WITH!

Tomlinson: flexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflex

Rivers: Wellie well well wellington, three gimme touchdowns against a porous Denver defense and all of a sudden LaToeInjury wants to pretend like he’s the blue-ribbon bitch again?

YOU HAVEN’T DONE FORDYCE’S-INFECTED DICK ALL SEASON, MR. LEAN MEAT PROTEIN!

Just to spite you, I bought four Philips brand flatscreens yesterday and kicked over the Vizio display with your visored vagina all over it. AND IT STILL GAINED MORE YARDS THAN YOU!

The only thing keeping us in contention all year was this God-graced football cannon and My Tiny Pocket Darren.

He’s useful because he’s portable AND HE DOESN’T SIT OUT AFC CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES IN HIS PUFFY COAT ON THE BENCH LIKE SOME DETACHED OVARIES I KNOW!

I can see it now: Early February in Tampa. All the nearby hometown Alabamians will have hitchhiked into town to see King Philip’s coronation against the Shelisha who was too good to play here.

I’ll use my bonus money to get me a giant floating zeppelin so I can cast disdainful glances on my subjects. “Please, please, regard us,” they’ll cry. AND THAT’S WHEN I’LL GOLDEN SHOWER THE LOT OF THEM! THEY’LL BE SO PROUD THEY’LL TELL THEIR GRANDKIDS AND MAIL CARRIERS ABOUT IT!

I’ll be champeen of the world. They will not need to ask somebodddaaaayyyyy because they will know. BUT I WILL TELL THEM ANWAY!

YA BETTA ASK SOMEBODDDAAAAAYYYYYYYY!

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Kurt Warner: We’ve got plenty to be thankful for this year. It’s true. We’ve been blessed. Those blessing include a successful season, bringing this franchise its first home playoff games more than 50 years. If nothing else happens, we can come away from it feeling good about ourselves. I know God has given me more than I can ever have hoped to receive.

Still, I worry for your everlasting soul, brother Anquan. Since that hit, when they put all that metal in you, it’s like you’re more machine than man now.

Anquan Boldin: All. is. well. Metal. is. fine. We. run. slant. and. go. pattern. now.

Kurt: See, it’s one thing to excel on the field, but the moral character of a team is just as important. We already got Fitzy whaling on his wife. I can’t let you go wayward on me. Who knows where you may end up.

Anquan: What. is. soul? Is. this. [Skrrrrt] dummy. audible?

Kurt: Your soul? That’s the essence of your being. The part of you that transcends to heaven after your mortal life is over.

Anquan: Irrelevant. to. wide. receiver.

Kurt: That’s just plain not true. The power of prayer, it sustains us in all facets of being.

Anquan: Playbook. programming. does. not. recognize. [Skrrrrt] prayer.

Kurt: We’re gonna just have to fix that, then, won’t we. Join me in one of our 50-yard-line prayer circles, and I think it’ll change your life.

Anquan: Lifeform. [Whirs] Kurt. Warner. expendable. Create. replicant.

Kurt: Replicant? What are you talking about? I — OH GOD NO! WHAT ABOMINAT– NNNNOOOOOO!AAAACCKKGGGGGGG!

CyKurt: Must. execute. protocol.

Anquan: Protocol. is. go. route.

CyKurt: There. is. no. God.

Anquan: There. is. only. [Skrrrt] creator.

Will Leitch: Yesyes, my lovelies! I’ve programmed you to win AND WIN YOU SHALL! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Looks as through Lil’ Ronnie is all growed up. Not having ever been to Naptown and never having a reason to go, I can’t begin to speculate on what it is that makes it a hotbed for horrible amateur white boy rap. I’ll go ahead and guess the general despair. So, let’s review the latest hotness:

Okay. I made it about a minute and a half through that lyrically lyrical shart and, frankly, I feel like I deserve a medal for it. Let me wrap it up be saying Colts fans are cordially invited to shut the fuck up about Peyton being MVP. “Oh, he performed pretty well at times after holding off on getting surgeries he should have had earlier in the off-season!” Die. I know you love the guy, because you didn’t follow the team until he showed up, but, seriously, no one but you and elite fliers like Peter King buy it.

Speaking of Pey-Pey, expect yet another chastising of the O-line should Indy fall to San Diego Saturday night. Peyton long ago joined the Favraro Club of getting a free pass from the media to act as much a sniveling dicksmack as he likes and never get called out on it (fitting as he and Favre will each retire with one ring). Could you imagine what the reaction would be if, say, McNabb did that? He’d be reamed by every sportswriter in America.

Hopefully the Colts can make a swift exit as usual from the postseason (2006 was, as Emmitt Smiff would call, an “amorition“) Tony Dungy can retire to write pamphlets for PFOX and MarHar can go gun-running with Plaxico.

You would think the football public would immediate gravitate to liking the Pats’ biggest rival but we can’t. Because you’re just that fucking annoying. Luckily you got rid of a home field that was actually difficult to play in, not that you have any home games this postseason.

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

The Falcons are the undisputed Cinderella team this year. They are because Nightmare Falcon commands it. The Dolphins are a fine story, but we’ve made a striking about-face in an actually tough division. And they have Joey Porter, so I think you’ll join me in hoping those marine mammals get machine gunned while performing tricks for rotten fish.

However, there are those out there who would test the patience of Nightmare Falcon by pointing out disagreeable aspects of his Cinderella Falcons. These makes Nightmare Falcon lose plumage. Rather than reflexively give you the ol’ talon to the eye, I will calmly and rationally instruct you why you will ignore these things. Lest the talon find your eye socket.

-You will overlook white Falcons fans. Besides being incredibly disloyal, they, along with the media, will heap all the praise on Mike Smith and Matt Ryan for the Falcons playoff run, conveniently ignoring the contributions of Michael Turner, Roddy White and John Abraham. Way to follow the Paula Deen Diet, you fat fucks.

- You will ignore the black Falcons fans. Matt Ryan could win the next eight Super Bowls and they’d still be wearing Ookie jerseys to every game.

- You can pay attention to our Hispanic fan. He’s pretty cool. Say hi, Manuel.

- Speaking of Matt Ryan, do not judge him by his Masshole roots. Or the fact that Patriots fans are now rooting for either the Panthers or the Falcons to win the Super Bowl. Remember we had Joey Harrington last year. That sympathy should still linger.

- You will ignore that our general manager looks like Michael Showalter.

Or you could embrace it. The Baxter was funny. Admit it!

-While you’re at it, go ahead and disregard the entire state of Jawja. We gave you Outkast. Let’s just leave it at that.

What? NO! Who the fuck let Carter in? He’s history’s greatest monster! Fuck, now everyone hates us.

/sharpens talons

Update: Bonus Falcontardery courtest reader Matt T. They’re sure thrilled Matty Ice just won offensive ROY. “He’s the only reason they’re winnin’!”

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first second in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

At the Hogwart’s School of Towson, the honmaster has taught us many important incantations for bedazzling the foes of the fearsome black magic Ravens. I have spent several semesters honing my mystical techniques. Observe!

[Twirls magical lacrosse stick]

Officiatus Culpatimatum!

With this spell, I can blame everything on the NFL and officials hating the Ravens. And none will be the wiser. A pox on you, Walt Coleman. May Terrell Suggs threaten you and not follow through on it!

Metropolicon Insecurious!

One chant of this and I can make it rain in all the cities that surround Baltimore that I hold a grudge against for being better than my hometown. WHAT GAVE YOU THE RIGHT!?

[Shakes lacrosse stick angrily at all the superior cities that surround Baltimore]

Judicious Obstructinium!

Now Ray Lewis can kill anyone he wants and announcers will continue to push his post-conviction religious awakening! He’s God’s linebacker! Yet he’s spending eternity jumping on piles of bodies in the eternal hellfire. Just don’t jump on Johnny U, Ray-Ray!

HHHEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

That’s not really a spell. We Ravens fans just like Todd Heap far more than any other player. I can’t really pin down why. I mean, he’s not the best player on the team. Not even in the top 5. For some reason, we feel a kinship with him, like we share some ineffable common trait. I bet he’d love to go downy o-shun with us! He’s so approachable!

Sure, Pittsburgh won the Super Bowl as a 6-seed three years ago with an 11-5 record and an inexperienced quarterback, but if we can’t do it, we’ll shrug it off by saying Flacco is rookie. And you’ll buy it, because you fell under the flummox spell of Muddle. You might even be duped into acquiring a Ravens fan’s overpriced Purple Cloak of Invisibility from White Marsh. Mwahaha! Tremble at my puckish grin, muggle!

Woooo! McTrain, Go. Crush the teams we should beat and lose to the ones we shouldn’t. That’s the Ravens way! Now excuse me, I must teleport myself far away from this horrid, crime-ridden city.

Pikesville Transporto!

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Donovan McNabb: CAW CAW

Brian Westbrook: A-heh-heh. That’s good stuff, Donovan.

McNabb: CAW CAW

Westbrook: Yeah, always great to win our last game. Especially over punk-ass Dallas.

Andy Reid: All right, gentlemen. We live to play another week.

McNabb: [Sotto voce to Westbrook] The fuck’s he talking about? I thought the season was over.

Westbrook: [Sotto voce to McNabb] I don’t know. Maybe he’s joking. Laugh like you got it.

McNabb: [Out loud] HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That’s funny, coach. Next week? HAHAHAHAHA. You always could make me laugh. So when do you wanna hit the buffet? All this running out of the pocket the last few weeks, I think I actually dropped a couple pounds. Can’t have that.

Reid: We made the playoffs. We play next week.

McNabb: …

Westbrook: …

Reid: Y’know, a seeded tournament that determines who is the best team in the league through a series of head-to-head contests, wherein I blow it for us through a bevy of poor playcalling and inept clock management.

McNabb: You mean we have more games?

Reid: Yes. That is what I am saying.

McNabb: THE FUCK!?

Westbrook: Shit, my ankle. I think this one is season-ending.

Reid: Okay. Westbrook: questionable for Minnesota. You’ll go through limited pracitice on Friday and rush for 150 on Sunday. Donovan, need you at the facility bright and early on Tuesday.

McNabb: Why didn’t anyone tell me about this shit?

Reid: There’ve been playoffs before. You even took part in some of them.

McNabb: That doesn’t sound like something I would do.

Douchebag Iggles Fans: BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOO FUCK THESE GUYS! KOLB TO CURTIS! KOLB TO CURTIS! KOLB TO CURTIS! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WORLD FUCKING CHAMPIONS! KOLB TO CURTIS, THEN LATERAL TO CHUTLEY!

McNabb: This wouldn’t have happened in Chicago.

Now mere weeks away from the start of the postseason, the hopes of many have been stoked, only to be later squelched. With eight playoff berths remaining to be clinched, the postseason picture remains muddied. To untangle the Gordian knot of playoff scenarios, we consulted out tiebreaker specialist, the tie rack motor. Take it away.

NFC

The Cowboys can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

“Ed Werder stops reportin’ them Cowboy-hatin’ facts! Yer journalism is yella!”

OR

DeMarcus Ware does everything.

The Eagles can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

OR

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The Vikings can clinch the NFC North if:

Drew abstains from pie for two weeks. GOD HAS DEEMED IT THE ONLY WAY, DREW! HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE YOUR TEAM!?

OR

Chilly Chill puts it in Tarvaris’ capable hands to carry the Vikes to glory! Or Valhalla. Or whatever mythic brothel Vikings like.

The Bears can clinch the NFC North if:

The gods of football are intent on giving us an uninteresting team to lose a first-round playoff game at home (At least the Vikings collapse will be amusing).

The Buccaneers can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

Grimey captions them into a playoff bracket.

The Falcons can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

Mike Smith maintains his surprisingly effective “Let Michael Turner score four touchdowns every game” strategy.

The Saints can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

They can’t. But my fantasy team needs Drew Brees to keep trying!

AFC

The Patriots can clinch the AFC East if:

A few more of Matt Cassel’s relatives die the next two weeks.

The Patriots can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

Only one of Matt Cassel’s relatives dies the next two weeks.

The Jets can clinch the AFC East if:

Opponents bother to conveniently implode at the right moments.

The Jets can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

League executives have a vested interest in seeing Favre make the playoffs. And they might. Just a guess.

The Dolphins can clinch the AFC East if:

Lavernanues Coles can’t bear to see Chad Pennington miss the playoffs.

The Dolphins can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

Because otherwise if would be DISRESPECT! A POST-SEASON SCENARIO THAT DON’T INCLUDE PEEZY IS ONE IN NEED OF FIXING! It would taint the whole league! THIS MY DYNASTY!

The Ravens can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

Their fans keep turning a blind eye to missed holding calls while complaining about the refs.

OR

They replace Joe Flacco with the Joker’s henchman.

The Colts can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

They continue squeaking by winless teams at home.

OR

Bill Simmons disdain for them is canceled out by Peter King’s venti boner for Pey-Pey

The Broncos can clinch the AFC West if:

Their defense can hold opponents under 300 points the last two games.

OR

Someone takes pity on the Cutler sad face.

The Chargers can clinch the AFC West if:

CUTLERFUCKER FACES ME LIKE A MAN! OR AT LEAST FACE ME LIKE THE SULLEN TEENAGER POSING AS A MAN THAT HE IS! YOU OWE ME A BLOOD DEBT, HOCHULES! LASERFACE CONQUERS ALL!

And, finally, the Steelers/Titans/Giants/Panthers can clinch home field advantage throughout the playoffs if:

They win Sunday. How fucking complex is that?

AFC 1st Seed — New England Patriots (*-0)

[Jan. 19, 2002]

Phil Simms: A season hanging in the balance. Here comes the ruling from Walt Coleman.

Walt Coleman: [On PA] After reviewing the play, the quarterback went through a forward throwing motion, brought the ball back into his body, then fumbled it. Therefore, the ruling on the field stands. First down Oakland.

Greg Gumbel: And it’s all academic from here on out. Charles Woodson forces the Brady fumble and the Raiders fall on it. A fine season from New England’s young quarterback, taking over early in relief of starter Drew Bledsoe, but it will come to an end here this evening. Meanwhile, the Raiders will move on to meet the winner of tomorrow’s Steelers-Ravens game in Pittsburgh. And head coach Bill Belichick falls to 1-2 in three career playoff games.

[Six years later]

[Quincy Bean Cannery]

Robert: Ay, ay, loogit what I found in little Tommy Brady’s lockah. Under all the straaaberry rubbahs and pahsitive pregnancy tests.

Brady: Aw, come on, man. Stay out of my stuff. I’m trying to stay up on Manu Chao.

Mike: Bet ya’d like tah git ya some a’that, eh? Ya fackin’ Caleefourkneeah queeah.

I know I’d tear that ass up right propah. She’s good and rail thin, but she could benefit from having a little less of the ethnic in her, ya know? Waaaa’s she from, Brazil? She might be some jungle bitch a’ something. Have a caaaapybarrrra a’ something crawl outta the cunt. Like my dick should be wearin’ a pith helmet.

Robert: Ay, Brady. What’d I tell ya abaat wearing Yankees shit ahn tha jab? Ya think cause yoo use’ta play a little bawl with the Paytree-uts, the rules dan’t apply to ya?

Mike: Like the Paytree-uts are even a fackin’ team. I ain’t never even been ta one-a their games. Fackin’ loosuhs. Haaadly worthy of my loyal allegiance.

Robert: Face it: If ya ain’t on the Sawx in this town, ya ain’t shit, pally. If you play for the Paytree-uts, should should prahbabbly just kill yaself. Like that one colored who showed his face here last week and killed hisself by getting his car door slammed in his face a couple dozen times or so.

[both laugh]

Mike: Ay, Tommy. I need to see ya the break room.

Brady: [exhales hard] Not now, man. I’m trying to get some work done.

Mike: Am I fackin’ askin’ ya? Move ya shit, shitbawx.

Robert: You fackin’ tell ‘um, super Mike. Super Mike Forevah!

[break room]

Mike:[opening refrigerator] Those ya tacquitos right there?

Brady: [peering in] Uh, nope. Not mine.

[Mike pulls knife around Brady's neck and bends him over a table]

Mike: Good. So I’ll have something to eat after ya give up that ass!

[Pulls down Brady's pants and forcibly enters him]

Brady: [stifled screams under Mike's hand]

Clarence: Ddddrrrreeeaaammmmboat.

Brady: Clarence!

Clarence: What a horrifying turn of events. I can make it all as it was, Tom. I just need to know that you’ve learned the values of fairplay and humility. That you’re ready to stop headbutting your teammates and pretending like you’re a major badass so long as you have some Norse woodsman protecting your blindside.

Can you forswear the avarice and lustful pride that twisted your once pure spirit? And for fuck’s sake, are you done with the pageboy caps and velvet blazers, Nancy?

Brady: [breaths bated by the continuing penetration] Oh, I have learned those things. I am prepared to live by that code. I’ve changed, Clarence, really I have.

Clarence: So we’re ready then?

Brady: No…no.

I’m pretty sure I’m good here, actually.

Clarence: But, but, Tom! The accolades? The titles? The fame? The glory? The Andrea Kremer restraining orders? Riches attending a legacy that will live on for generations? Don’t you see a mistake it would be to throw it all away? All this you would abandon in favor of occasional coerced buttsex in a bean cannery break room by a galatically douchey Masshole?

Brady: That’s about the [winces sharply]…ooof, the long and short of it, yeah. I mean, so long as he shares those tacquitos.

NFC No. 1 Seed: Dallas Cowboys (13-3)

Hello? Yes, this is Terr… [disguises voice] this is Dr. Arthur Honeycake, Mr. Owens’ personal physician….yes, Mr. Owens has a sprain in his ankle and it’s very bad…and I’m afraid he won’t be able to play Sunday…well, we’re not exactly sure how the sprain got in there…yes it’s….OH WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN “YOU KNEW IT WAS ME?” Y’ALL DIDN’T KNOW SHIT. Fuckin shit, man. [Hangs up and dresses for practice]

Aaaahhhh! Oooh, oh, it hurts so much! Me so tender. I’m limping! Look at me limp! Hey, y’all come get some limp footage. Get that shit while it’s hot. Aw, damn, I’m in so much pain! I can’t practice on this thing, man. Shit, no. Ain’t no damn way I can play on Sunday.

What’s that? You want me to jog some? Sure, man, I can jog for days. Ooh, ooh. Little jolt there. Now, wait, that’s not so bad. Wow, this ankle’s starting to feel pretty good. Couple days of this and I’m gonna be alright. Yeah, man, come Sunday, my shit’s gonna be good to go.

AAAHHAAHHHHH, FUCKING SHIT! I just stepped on a goddamn turtle! TRAINER! NEED ME A TRAINER RIGHT DAMN NOW! Man, who’s letting turtles into practice, man? He from the gotdamn Morning Star or what the fuck. No no no don’t touch it don’t touch IT AAAAAHHHHHH OH SWEET FUCKER TO ALL HELL LISA LOPEZ!! MMMmmMpphh, shiiiiiitttt! That’s it, man. I’m done. Ain’t no way I can go against the Giants, man. Forget it.

What you doin? What, you taping that shit up? Wow, you’re using a lot of tape on me there. I think I’m getting…wait…yes, I’m definitely getting a boost of self-esteem from all this attention. Wow, I feel the need to repay this organization in some way. Guess what, baby! I’m playing on Sunday! Getcha popcorn ready!

Game Day

[drops pass]

Aw, shit, man.

AFC 2nd Seed — Indianapolis Colts (13-3)

[Hell, Michigan]

Dallas Fucking Clark: Y’know, I like winning as much as the next guy, but I’m pretty sure this idea is for shit.

Peyton Manning: Nobody’s paying you to think, asshole. If this can work for New England, we can make it work for us.

MarHar: I know one thing: it wasn’t my ass what drug us down here. Ya’ll into that aloe drink? Pick it up at the Chinese grocer. Tasty as shit. Could go for some a’ that right now. Hot as dogcrotch down here.

Booming Voice: SILENCE!

Satan: Who dares encroach upon my kingdom of th–

Adam Vinatieri: Hey Satan.

Satan: Oh, hey Adam.

Satan: …my kingdom of the damned?

Peyton: We learned of the deal that you’ve entered into with the Patriots. I think you’ll find our counteroffer enticing.

Satan: Yeah, it was your basic team of souls for a perfect season arrangement. I’ll tell you right now: Matching that offer isn’t getting you anywhere. The Pats have good credit here, you know. You don’t know how many Southies I’m gonna get just by having Wes Welker on my side. I’m guessing all of them.

Peyton: Okay, but just wrap your mind around this…

[Sunday]

Jim Nantz: And with the tackle by Bob Sanders, that will take us to the two-minute warning. The Colts, up 34-17 on the Chargers, minutes away from an epic showdown in Foxboro. Back after this.

Peyton: Hey, Peyton Manning here to talk to you about a great limited-time offer from the Prince of Darkness.

Up to your asshole in debt? Finding payday advance loans and armed robbery to be too much of a hassle? Maybe just want some arbitrary bullshit?

Ever thought of selling your soul to the Devil?

Whoawhoawhoa. Hear me out. And you’ll discover why there’s never been a better time to sell than now.

Don’t be duped into selling your everlasting essence to one of those big corporations or, even worse, some Portuguese guy who promises you a bigger dick. Go with the fictive religious entity with a couple thousand year track record of eternal bargains. We’re offering low introductory rates.

What are you using it for anyway? Why not make that soul work for you?

[cut to family trying to pack their car to go on a vacation]

Mom: The car’s full. We can’t fit anymore.

Dad: If only we didn’t have these damn souls weighing us down!

Peyton Manning: That’s right. They’ll even take Hindus, Sikhs or B’ahai and shit. Whatever it is dark-skinned worship. It’s all good. Believe it or not, but your souls are worth only marginally less than a real person’s.

Tony Dungy: But don’t none a’ ya’ll faggots try to peddle your swishy souls ’round here.

Peyton: He’s just kidding. They took mine, after all.