Hey you! Looking to buy a vehicle, huh? Well I got a MANLY truck right here that can haul up to eight iron barbecues cooking fresh bison I just killed with my compound bow. It doesn’t have any of your girly frills like a steering wheel warmer or “man-step” or–

(cell phone rings)

Hold on, I gotta take this.

Read the rest of this entry »

Say, buddy!  Long time, no see.  Last time I saw you it was — what?  The football playoffs?  Funny how we only bump into each other during major sporting events.  And here you are, still driving a vehicle made for limp-wristed little bitches.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  A truck like that is perfect for a bleeding gash like you.

I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t be so dismissive.  Don’t cry.  You gonna cry?  Gonna cry, little girl?  No?

You sure?

Anyway, I’m over that whole truck-wars thing.  I hardly have the time to be condescending about how weak you are for buying a truck that provides you simple comforts and additional safety features.  I’m more focused on my new SUV-wagon crossover.  Check it out:

Read the rest of this entry »

Joe Buck: …and that does it for the first half.  Coming up, join Terry, Howie, Jimmy and other grown men with little boys’ names for the FOX Sprint Halftime Report.  But first, these words from our sponsors.

Cleatus the FOX Sports Robot: (runs in place)

(does push-ups)

(puts tin of Copenhagen into facemask)

[OFF-AIR IN THE FOX STUDIO]

Terry Bradshaw: … so I said, “Hooo-WEEEEEEEEEEE!!!  Honey, skinnin’ raccoons is the other thing I’m good at!”

(everybody laughs for five seconds)

Curt Menefee: Ohhh, Terry, you are just too WACKY!

Terry: Whatever, BLACKIE!!!

(everybody laughs for five seconds)

Cleatus: (stops doing jumping jacks) *FORCED*  *LAUGHTER*  *NO MORE*

Terry: Well hey there now, Cleatus!  Takin’ some time off between commercial breaks, huh?

Cleatus: (scans Bradshaw with infrared) *ANNOYANCE LOCATED*  *TERMINATE*

Terry: Why, you know, I got a cousin named Cletus back in–

Cleatus: (throws metal football through Bradshaw’s head)

Frank Caliendo doing John Madden impression: Whoooaaaaaaaaa!  Didja, did ya see that?  Cleatus just, he just, just threw the football through Terry’s head!  One minute Terry’s talking, then BOOM!  His head’s all splattered.  Heh.

Cleatus: *TIRED*  *IMPRESSION*  *TERMINATE*

Frank Caliendo doing Robert Deniro impression: Are you talkin’ to me?  You talkin’ to me?

Cleatus: (rips off Caliendo’s head, then spikes it through the floor. It travels through the planet’s crust into the Earth’s core, where it gets skewered on a pike in Hell)

(The sun comes out all across America, and children of all races hold hands)

(TBS’s ratings go up)

Howie Long: Yeah, I guess those were some pretty violent deaths.  Nothing I couldn’t do with my truck, but not too bad.  It’s possible you don’t sit down to piss radiator fluid.  Hell, you might not even be completely impotent.

Cleatus: *WHAT*

Howie: ‘Course, a real badass killer robot wouldn’t leave without havin’ his way with a Super Bowl-winning coach.

Cleatus: *OH YEAH* *WATCH* *THIS*

Jimmy Johnson: WHAT?!?!?!  Ahhhhhh!!!!  No!

(struggles)

NOT THE HAIR!  Nnggghhhh!!!!!

Howie: Popcorn?

Menefee and Michael Strahan: Sure!

_________________________________________________________________________________

[MILLIONS OF AMERICAN HOMES]

(The entirety of the halftime report consist of game highlights playing in an empty studio. The only sound is something rhythmic and vaguely mechanical)

Football Fan: Now see, THIS is the kind of halftime show I’ve been asking for!

Sayyyyy, nice truck you got there.  What is that, a V-8?  Oh, only a V-6?  Well, I suppose that’s okay.  As long as you don’t need your truck to do anything MANLY, like carry heavy shit uphill.  Heavy shit made out of metal, because that’s the kind of heavy shit REAL MEN need to haul.

But no, it’s a good truck. You get good gas mileage?  Yeah?  Well gas mileage is for pussies.  My truck here gets about two gallons per mile.  You know what else gets mileage that bad?  A fucking TANK.  That’s how I know my truck kicks ass.

That’s a nice color for it, too. What is that, “red”? It looks good. I seen some real pretty flowers that color. Me, I don’t need to paint my truck. Primer’s good enough for me. If I had paint it would just get in the way of me doing MANLY SHIT, like driving through explosions in the desert and speeding past giant machines swinging other trucks at my truck. But red’s good, too. Probably looks really nice in the parking lot when you pick your son up from ballet practice.

But I like yours.  Who made it, Tonka?  I’ll bet it plays your Jonas Brothers CDs pretty loud while I’m fucking your wife.  Pussy.

Oh hey, I notice you’ve got a little– what is that?  A “man ramp” to get up into your truck’s bed?  No, no — it looks good.  Must come in handy when you want to help a dainty little man into the back there.  So you can hold his hand and have sex with him and ask him to stay the night, because you’re a needy little bitch.  It works for you.

Whatcha got in the forward cab, huh?   Scented Kleenex and Barbies, I bet. 

(peers in through window)

Well well well.  Looky here.  Seatbelts, huh?

(makes wanking motion)

No, don’t take that the wrong way!  Seatbelts are great for women and babies in little cars.  And trucks for men with tiny little limp dicks.

Listen to me, jabbering on like that.  I should let you go.  You’re gonna be late to yoga class or book group or your… your Cocksuckers Anonymous meeting.  You can park that bad boy next to the hybrids.

Gonna drive with the windows up, huh?  Pffft. Faggot.