Some of you people think I’m bluffing when I say that I’m leaving Cincinnati. For some reason, “I will never set foot in Paul Brown Stadium again” isn’t perfectly clear to some people. Well let me make this clear: I hate Cincinnati.

No, I really hate it. People say that they have real seasons here. I hate seasons. People say how nice everyone from Cincinnati is. I hate nice people. I grew up in California, where personal opinion is verboten, the way it should be. People that live here can’t even spell “Cincinnati.” Three Ns. One T. Not two Ns and two Ts. One. How hard is that?

But that won’t be my problem anymore, because I’m done with Cincinnati. You know what? Fuck Cincinnati.

Fuck the Cincinnati airport. It’s not even in Cincinnati. It’s in Kentucky. They don’t have paved roads in Kentucky, but they have an airport. Great.

Fuck you, Fountain Square. You’re the only people of color that can actually get jobs downtown.

Fuck you, “WKRP in Cincinnati”. Every time I tell someone I’m playing in Cincinnati, they ask “Oh, like WKRP? You know, the TV show?” Wait, do you mean THAT STUPID MOTHERFUCKING TV SHOW THAT WENT OFF THE AIR THIRTY YEARS AGO? I was two years old! I was shitting my pants instead of watching that show, and quite frankly, I’m pretty sure I got the better end of the deal!

But I did actually know a Jennifer Marlowe in high school. She got married, divorced, and then lost a bunch of weight and now she’s smokin’ hot. It’s all good, though. I sent her some pics. Of my car, you perv.

Fuck you, Skyline Chili. Looks like shit. Smells like shit. Tastes like shit. And it’s just as hard to scrub out of upholstery. I AM A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE. I HAVE NO TIME FOR STAINS.

Fuck you, Hall Of Justice. Where was Superman when Kimo Von Luthor was crashing into my knee? CAN YOU HEAR ME, SON OF JOR-EL? I DENOUNCE YOU!

And fuck you Mike Brown. I wish I could take all the money you save from revenue sharing and your rent-free stadium deal and cram it down your fat face. You probably keep your father’s ashes in a coffee can on the mantle, don’t you? And you probably stole that can from Marge Schott. Prick.

And fuck you all, Cincinnati! I’m never coming back!

Carson out!

Okay, maybe I need to work on the signoff but I’m still leaving!

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.