When Phil Knight, CEO of Nike, launched an ad campaign in 1988 encouraging aspiring basketball shoe owners to Just Do It, he very well could have been discussing man’s uncertainty with the opposite sex. Sexuality was a very inhibited thing, even just 21 years ago. Nowadays people are showcasing their goods everywhere, seemingly without restraint. But what does it all mean? That’s the question we try to slap with our junk in this week’s mailbag. img.

Punishers of Hangy Balls -

Football: I have the second pick in one of my drafts and cant for the life of me decide on a clear cut #2 pick after adrian peterson.  I am leaning towards Steve Fucking Slaton.  Am I a moron?

Yes.

Seems like all the rest of the high profile backs besides Mike Turner will be sharing carries.

Maurice Jones-Drew won’t be losing too many carries to Greg Jones; DeAngelo Williams will still produce, despite Jonathan Stewart’s rise to prominence. I like your thinking with Slaton, but you should always draft for value with the first half of your picks. If you really feel that way about Slaton, draft Turner or MJD and trade for whoever winds up with him after the draft, asking the other guy for Slaton and a little extra. I doubt he’ll fall into your lap on the way back, but there is that chance.

Sex: I sleep with this girl once in a while and I really like her (gay I know).

Technically, that’s the opposite of gay.

When we hang out she tells me how much she likes me but then i wont hear from her for a while (I try not to contact her and seem stalkerish).  I also know she “dates” a lot of guys in between the times I see her.  Should I man up and bury my feelings and just stop talking to her?  or should I roll the dice and tell her I like her?  or should I just be happy with sex once in a while and the high risk of STD’s?

Sincerely,

A fag in Dallas

I couldn’t have sex with someone that I knew was getting it on with other dudes at the same time. I really don’t get it. If you like her…and you might want to write this part down…TELL HER. If she says she’s not interested…still writing?…YOU LEAVE.

Sexbaggers,

I’m a 20 year old male who recently spent a summer working at a sandwich place, where I met a young lady of my age.

Jesus H, buddy. We don’t need your life’s story.

The woman in question is undeniably cute, if not exactly stunning. I would qualify her as an 8.

So she’s a 6? On a good day?

We hit it off pretty well, got along, though because she has a kid and a live-in boyfriend (not the father), I haven’t tried to get fresh with her.

Do you hear that? Those are alarm bells going off…

We do, though, become friendly. To the point where we went shopping together for my dorm this semester. That particular incident pissed off her (rich, fit, cohabitant) boyfriend something fierce, to the point where he came into the store to check up on her the next day, apparently to make sure I wasn’t mounting her on the prep table.

That would have been a fine play. You obviously can’t go back to her place…

The night before I left for school, I get a request from her to buy her alcohol. I am young looking enough to get carded and have a lack of connections, so I tell her I can’t.

Lame.

She tells me to offer a picture of her nipple rings to my older brother. I tell her that my brother won’t even do it for me, but that by all means she should send me the picture, colon-dash-letter p. She sends one, her breasts are very nice, and I figure she is just one of those “free spirit” types and write it off as such after telling her that I was just joking. The next day, we’re texting and she apologizes for sending the picture. I tell her (because I am a pussy) that it’s hard to be just a platonic friend and not a pathetic wanna-jump-your-bones kind of friend when I have a picture like that.

Pussy.

She then tells me I’m simply not that kind of person (wrong), and that I am, I quote, huggable, as well as the possessor of a silly, fun loving personality as well as being a good listener.

In other words, you’re a fat loser.  A fat loser that can’t provide for her kid WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL THERE SHE HAS A FUCKING CHILD! A CHILD, I SAY!

All of that, as we know, means she [does not] intend to have sex/a relationship with me ever, a position she’s strongly if wordlessly maintained since we met.

Does she have a boy or a girl? And if it’s a girl, is she over 18? At least over 14?

Later that night, I get a picture of her obviously taken just out of the shower. She then says she thought it was a good picture, but didn’t want to send the others she took because I didn’t like the one of her boobs. I tell her that I did like it, she sends me yet more nude pictures, and I am suitably pleased, but also highly confused.

She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid She has a kid

She and her boyfriend (also going to school) are moving up here soon, so it’s not like she’s going to be hours away and the most I can ever hope for is a weekly replenishment of the spank bank. So I guess my question is, is she just kind of slutty?

Yes. Like Hitler “kind of” didn’t like the Jews.

Is she interested in me? Both? Should I pursue this, or just stay away from the whole single-mother/living-with-a-boyfriend mess and try to find another woman goodly enough to send me nude pictures while I’m away at school?

You need a source for naked pictures. I’ll have to introduce you to my friend, Google Image Search. Best part of all? GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH HAS NO KIDS!

So far as fantasy, I generally tend to get either top three or bottom three draft spots. This year, however, in one of the leagues I’ve been in for a while, I’m 8 of 16. Who should I aim for with that spot? I am thinking somebody in the Chris Johnson/Steve Slaton mold, is that off? What about the second round? It’s .5 PPR, by the way.

I like the chances of either Brandon Jacobs and MJD falling your way, and then grabbling one of the Johnson receivers (Calvin or Andre) on the way back.  PPR is a big deal, especially when you can grab a guy that gets the bulk of looks from his team.

Dear Book Salesmen,

Football first. I am in a 12 team league in which you get two keepers from last season, thus the 24 top players are off the board before the first pick. I’ve had the luxury of having both Ladanian Tomlinson and Joseph Addai on my squad for several seasons. I raised them both from rookie pups, but now it appears my pups have been Vick’d. Is it time to release the hounds and replace them with new blood, or should I try to squeeze one more year out of either of their tired old legs? I have Matt Forte, Matt Ryan, and a few receivers such as Santonio Holmes & Anthony Gonzalez that I could replace them with. I think Forte is a solid top 10 pick and a lock to keep, but not sure about the rest. Who do you keep? Is LT still a top 24 pick?

He is not. Forte, as you’ve said, is entrenched in everyone’s top ten this summer. And no disrespect to Matt Ryan or Holmes, both of whom will have great seasons, but you shouldn’t be keeping anyone else.

I don’t know how your league works, but a lot of people are turned off by keeper leagues because of the first thing you mentioned—every year the top talent is unavailable to draft. The best keeper leagues utilize some sort of system that makes it more expensive for owners to keep the same players each season. The easiest way to do this is to slate each keeper as a draft choice one round higher than he was taken the previous year. For example, if I drafted Marion Barber in the third round last year, I would have to forfeit a second round pick this year to keep him, and a first round pick to do so next year. Food for thought.

Now sex. I’m fat. Not scrub myself with a rag on a stick fat, but a good 25 pounds overweight. People often assume that because I am fat, I like fat girls. This isn’t the case at all. Call it a fetish but I prefer women with nice bodies.

That’s not a fetish. And how dare you speak poorly of the rag on a stick.

I’d rather go without sex than mate with my own. I’ve done it a few times with big girls and I think I’d rather stir soup with my dick. Fortunately, I can occasionally charm my way into the pants of thin (and usually drunk) women. Thus, I prefer to take the quality over quantity approach in my sex life. The problem is, I’m in a rather long slump even by my standards. My friend’s wife wants to set me up with a plus sized friend that is pretty much a sure lay. Should I hop a train to hog heaven or just keep hoping that I hit the drunk chick lottery? Is it wrong for me to be opposed to dating large women?

– My Pants Say Husky

Men are easy targets for being accused of shallowness and viewing women as little more than objects. But women do it, too. But you’re asking for permission to be begging and choosing, so let’s get back on topic. There’s no shame in the occasional slumpbuster, provided that you have an exit strategy that doesn’t malign your friendship or make you persona non grata whenever his wife is home. The trains to hog heaven are vast and plentiful, but the trains outta there are few and far between.

Dear Clownsuit Afficianados,

Sex:

I’ll try and keep it short and sweet.

Spoiler Alert: He fails.

So I’ve had a thing for my best friend’s little sister for a while now (We’re both in our 20s you sick fucks).

Losing interest…

I’ve never acted on it, and we’ve never done anything more than harmless flirting.  But recently my feelings have grown stronger and the past couple times we’ve all hung out, the two of us have spent increasingly more time with one another.  I think she might share some feelings for me because she says things like how excited she is when she hears I’m coming to whatever event everyone will be at, and exclaims how much she “loves me” when I’m around.

I wish I had a Euro for every time we got an email that could be summed up with, “She really likes me! Do you think she likes me?”

The thing is she’s kind of a goof and we share a similar sense of humor so I don’t know how serious to take these comments.  Also we tend to drunk text one another, but it’s usually nothing sexual, more along the lines of a funny quote or a random movie reference.  I’ve never mentioned any of this stuff to him, but he has to have noticed how I hang out more with her than him when we’re all together.

I smell a three-way! No, wait, I just burned my microwave popcorn! Shit!

My question is what’s protocol for trying to date your best friend’s little sister?  Also, he is going away to a foreign country for an extended period of time for business in the near future.  Should I wait till he goes before making a move?  Should I even bother making a move?

Oh, this isn’t burned that bad. Just a little on the top of the bag. I think the rest of this is still good.

Because part of me thinks I might be in the friend zone because of how long we’ve known each other, but another part of me sees some of the classic signs a chick is into you when we hang out.

Do you know how microwave popcorn pops? Teflon! There’sTeflon in the fucking popcorn! I’m eating Teflon right now!

If there are no moral implications on the matter, how the hell do I propose to hang out with her one on one without her brother being present and without sounding like a creepshow?  Her brother could also squish me like a grape if he felt so inclined…something to consider.

Alright, your friend knows you fairly well, so he is going to decide whether or not you’re good enough for the sis, and just because he finds hanging out with you acceptable DOESN”T MEAN that he wants you in the family. But also realize that he might also be looking forward to this—he surely saw the signs before he said anything to you about it. That said, you don’t really seem interested in her as much as you seem opportunistic about getting into her pants, but it’s your rodeo, Cowboy. Either way, you’re a bag of dicks if you don’t discuss this with him. Today. Stay above board on this and things stand a better chance of working out in your favor.

Football:

Do you think the Giants should trade one of their excess D-lineman and a pick for Brandon Marshall?  There’s no mandatory 1 year sentence for beating your girlfriend in a NY nightclub right?

Wannabe Sister Fucker

Your friend is going to love that sig, Mr. “It’s nothing sexual.” Spare me.

If Osi getting hurt last year proves anything, it’s that you never know when you’ll call upon your bench to carry the day. The Giants had three Pro-Bowl defensive ends after they won Super Bowl XLII. As they began the following season, they had one. You should really try some of this popcorn.

Dear KSK:

Football: Even though I will be a senior in college, I still do a fantasy league with my high school friends.

Very awesome.

It turns out that one of our friends in the league lives literally next to James Brown of CBS’The NFL Today fame. Not only that, but our friend’s parents are supposedly friendly with him and his wife. So do you think he’d be willing to moderate our fantasy draft?

No.

Sex: my friends and I were talking about this the other day: Would you ever date a porn star?

Hell, no.

I mean on the one hand you’d have a really hot partner who would be willing to do just about anything sexually (you wouldn’t have to write KSK asking how to get anal). But on the other hand, when you two go out to make money during the day,…

I don’t know about this “going out” of which you speak.

…while you’d be doing whatever average desk job you have, she’d be out banging other dudes.  Thoughts?

ZK

Presuming that I could find a tall, busty brunette who was well-read, athletic, didn’t mind eating Subway three times a week and wasn’t annoyed with football, that would all be trumped by the fact that she banged other dudes on camera for a living. The social stigma and the increased risks of STDs could not be offset by the fact that I’d be dating an above-average looking woman who’s earning her own money and not enamored with the many annoying pretentions of modern society.

Because I hate wearing condoms.

Now that the Colts–among others–have expressed interest in adding advertisements to their practice jerseys, it’s only a matter of time before game day jerseys get the same treatment in the NFL. The only real question is whether teams would feature one primary sponsor like we (okay, just me) have seen in European soccer or if players will get to adorn themselves with all of their own sponsors’ logos. Peyton Manning is banking on the latter.

I went to a whorehouse in Singapore with Rocky Bleier in 1973. Maybe it was 1978. Either way, you should remember that Bleier was a tough NFL running back that helped the Steelers win all those championships in the seventies. And this was AFTER he caught fifteen pounds of shrapnel with his ass in ‘Nam. Real tough sonuvabitch, that Bleier. Find me a player that will suit up after washing his own car in today’s game. Didn’t think you could.

One summer the old Rock decided to head back to Slant-Eyes Central for some R-and-R, and when I caught wind of his plans, I knew I had to go along. I needed to get away; things with the first wife had gone to hell in a hand basket and I had some vacation time at the magazine that I needed to use. I think Rocky was just looking to score one last scoop of Saigon ‘tang, and I thought I could benefit from a taste of some myself. So there we were, a couple of old warbirds taking a shortcut through the backalleys of Singapore, on a special quest to quench the oldest of mankind’s thirsts.

The building was called the Gold And Black Dragon, and the exterior could probably pass for one of those mid-rise office buildings today. It looked brand new, but we didn’t make the trip for the architecture. “It’s the best brothel in Singapore,” a mutual friend had told us. “They have the best ass in the far East for sure.” Rocky and I waltzed through the front door without a second thought. That was a mistake.

The lobby, if you want to call it that, looked unassuming enough. We heard someone ring a gong, and the madam wandered out. “You are Americans, I see,” she says. Sorry, folks, I won’t phoneticize the accent for you. “We see if you pull out like your army does.” I remember hoping that that was some butchered English.

She explained what made this little establishment so different, and it was unlike anything Rocky or I had ever heard. We were told that there we could each have up to five different women, one in every corner room of every floor. We would, she said, have a shot at all five.

Doing the deed on the first floor, she said, would cost one thousand dollars, and that’s when the two of us turned around and headed for the door.

“Wait, wait, I explain,” She said. “You have sex with girl on first floor. If you make girl come, you go second floor to sex next girl, you only but pay eight hundred. Both girls. Eight hundred.”

Two girls for eight hundred dollars? Still too high, we agreed.

She went on to explain that if we could get the second girl off, we’d go to the next floor, and they’d knock another two hundred off the tab. There were five floors in all, which meant that if we took every girl to Pleasuretown, we’d get out of the joint for nothin’. I couldn’t believe it. Neither could Rocky, who, in his considerable dealings with Saigon ‘tang, had never heard of such a thing.

“You’re saying that if I fuck this girl,” Bleier exclaimed, “And I make her come, you’ll knock two hundred dollars off the price? AND you’ll give me another dame to nail? And if we make the fifth girl come, we get our money back?”

“Is what I said. If five girls come, nothing you pay.”

“How will you be able to tell if these ladies achieve?” I was genuinely curious, but I also knew this was a technicality that had to be sorted out right away.

“What is achieve? Oh, oh, I see understanding. We can tell when our girls come. These girls, they no fake unless we say. We can tell. You can tell. No funny business here.”

No funny business. Heh. More butchered English, I thought.

At this point, Rocky and I just looked at each other. I thought I could get through the first two girls, which would leave me paying 600 for plowing through three of Singapore’s finest. Pretty good deal, I thought. I could see Rocky thinking much of the same thing.

“Well,” Rocky said, “We do have a late flight home tomorrow…”

1.

We signed up. We had to plunk down the grand up front. That was unfortunate, but necessary. They sent Rocky to the western corner of the building, and I was directed to the eastern corner. I was genuinely excited, almost giddy. As we parted ways, I gave him a quick nod and a grin, as if to say, “Race you to the top.” But Rocky was looking a little nervous, and my subtle gesture was not returned.

Keep in mind that this was about 30 or 35 years ago, and the only flaming redheads I ever saw in those days were when I went to cover the 49ers. I was of much younger stock then, a virile and genuinely healthy man. And, in my opinion, I was quite the ladies’ man, full of sexual energy that was currently being wasted in a dead-end marriage. As I walked through the first door, I was ready to put some of that energy to use. I was not afraid of what lay ahead, but I should have been.

The madam lock the door behind me when I heard the gong ring again — a bizzare substitute for a starter’s pistol, I thought. I was ordered to disrobe and wait in an empty room, and about five minutes later I was approached by the most beautiful 20-year-old girl that I’d ever seen. We’ll say she was 20 years old, anyway.

She looked a little nervous, you know, in that “Save me, I’ve just been sold into slavery” sort of way, which made her all the more appetizing, like a ten-year-old Merlot glistening in the sunlight. So it might have been ironic when I gave her a sip from the flask I had in my pants — an actual flask; that’s not a euphemism — and after that she was ready to go. All it took was five minutes of bean-flicking and she was moaning up a storm. Then she passed out. I guess the sex ed in schools over there wasn’t quite up to snuff. I would have preferred to educate her further, but then the gong rang again, and I found myself already on my way to visit another student.

2.

A light in the corner of the room flickered on, illuminating a stairway to the second floor. I crept up and saw a young woman playfully lying on the bed in the center of the room. She approached me and gave me two kisses: one on the lips and one on “Little Z.” Both of us were appreciative.

We started getting into it. I let her stick a finger in my ass, which was a pretty big deal in those days, and before I knew it, I thought I was the one getting a lesson — on how to become a Colombian drug mule. I knew I wasn’t going to earn any money like that — at least not right away, wink-wink — so I threw her on the bed and just pounded away at her. When she tried to resist, I put my hands around her throat and started choking her. I hadn’t done that since I played at Stanford. But unlike the ladies of Delta Beta Phi, this broad was loving it. And it did the job. When her screams of joy subsided and her body went limp, the only sound in the room was my heavy breathing, and then another dull roar from the gong downstairs.

3.

By now I figured I was playing with house money, and I was ready to just blast my special load of chardonnay over the face of my next contestant and walk out of there with my four hundred bucks. I walked up the steps to the third room, and in the shadows I could make out a woman lying on a black leather couch, on her back.

From the sound of it all, she had started without me, you might say. I could hear a soft battery-powered hum coming from her lap, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t shaving down there.

She was moaning, then twitching, then moaning and twitching. And then she went limp. To this day, it’s the easiest two hundred dollars I’ve ever made. I didn’t understand why it happened — my father taught me to never look a gift pussy in the mouth — but I could tell as soon as she looked at me that I wasn’t going to like whatever happened next.

“You in deep shit now, Yankee man…”

4.

When I woke up I had no idea where I was, and it took me several seconds to reassemble the pieces of the evening in my brain. The Dragon. The five floors. The third woman. The vibrator. What happened after that? Did I leave the Dragon? Where was I?

My wrists were tied to a structure behind me, it felt like an old mattress frame. I was tied upright, standing up. I tried to fall to my knees, but couldn’t. I was gagged and still very much naked, and a real sense of terror started to grow within me. I tried to tell myself that if they wanted to kill me, they would have done it by now, but it didn’t help. The throbbing pain on the back of my head took my mind off of my impending fate. But the distraction didn’t last for long.

“You think you Mister Tough Guy Yankee Man?”

The room was dark. I couldn’t see anyone. My head was tied down so I couldn’t turn my neck. I thought I heard something dragging along the floor.

CRACK!

She slashed me right across the stomach with the whip. Oh, the pain, man! It felt like my insides were splitting open. Even as I writhed in agony, I could hear the clack-clack of heels walking across the wooden floor, her whip dragging behind her. And then again.

CRACK!

They say you can’t remember pain, but I remember that shit like it was yesterday. The pain shot through my body, my limbs. Even my teeth, it hurt everywhere. I bit down on my gag and bit my tongue. I could feel the blood pooling in my mouth. I could hear her laugh. I knew she could see me hurting. But she didn’t stop.

CRACK!

My eyes were filling with tears. I was sobbing and in absolute pain. I had to get out of there. I was ready to go back home to my shit-eating wife and my sportswriting job and forget that Singapore ever happened. And that’s when I yelled through my gag the safe word that the madam had taught us in the lobby.

“Peter Frampton! Peter Frampton! PETER FRAMPTON!!!!“

…

My clothes and my six hundred dollars were waiting in the lobby. So was Rocky. He was sitting in a chair next to the door, his face buried in his hands. He looked up, and when he was sure that it was me, sat up and walked toward the door. I followed him outside, where dawn was starting to break and the birds were beginning to sing. I never asked how far Rocky made it. He never asked me. I can’t say I really wanted to know. As we made it to the street, I heard the gong ring one last time.

I bandaged myself in our hotel, in the bathroom. When I came out, Rocky was looking out the window, lost in space. His bags were on his bed, already packed. I was ready to get the hell out of there myself. I think we spent seven hours in that airport, but we didn’t speak a word to one another. I don’t think he ever discussed the Dragon with anyone. Before now, neither had I.

I’ve never been back to Singapore since, but I understand that the Dragon is out of business. Stories about the joint became stuff of legend, especially in L.A. You couldn’t spend a day in the Rams’ press box without hearing about it. But whenever it did come up, I could feel myself breaking into a cold sweat and conjure up any excuse I could to leave the room.

I never did find out what was on that fifth floor.  And you can believe me when I say this: I hope I never do.

What a fucking week! Further proof that you don’t actually need to know what week it is to successfully wager on events of a sporting nature. All it takes is a little know-how, a weed habit, and enough pent up sexuality to fill the up all of the reservoirs from Adamsville to the battlefield. Let’s take a look at my unprecedented windfall.

• This started off on Saturday night with a non-football bet (always a good way to go). $50 on Floyd Mayweather to win by knockout at 3.7/1 netted me $185 heading into Sunday’s game. You’d have to be either English or retarded to bet on Hatton, or in extreme cases, both.

  leave it to those wacky UK dwellers to tilt the odds by dropping 20 million euros/pounds/quid/eel pies on Fat Ricky.

• A tidy record of 5-2 in the single bets at $20 a piece (plus an an extra $30 on the Texans) made me feel smart. Like, Asian smart.

• To top all of it off I nailed my 3-team parlay like it was Jodie Foster on a pinball machine. That $31 investment resulted in a payoff of $195 .

EIGHT UNITS MOUNTAIN FRONT!

Of course this is a new week and my month without masturbation has come finally come to an end. I think there might be something left in the tank, but obviously the money shot has already come and gone. Oh well, let’s see what else we can squeeze out of the season…on to the picks!
—————————————————
The Lucky Number Singles
Risking 45 to win 41 on each game

Cincinnati -9 vs. San Francisco

Want to know how shitty the NFL has become? The Bengals are giving nine fucking points. Can you throw a ten-yard spiral without looking like an effeminate limp-wristed pussy then come on down to the 49ers open tryout! Ah hell, the ferries can come too.

Green Bay -9 vs. San Francisco St. Louis

This time next week the Rams are going to be experimenting with Bernie Lomax under center. He’s had fewer drugs in his system than this week’s opponent and a tad more brain activity than Gus Frerotte.

Yeah, I love the number nine, and I’ve been drinking.
—————————————————

The Road Dog Parlay
ft. Atlanta “We’re Pissed and Ecstatic!” Falcons
Risking 25 to win 135

Buffalo +6 vs. Cleveland
Jacksonville +2.5 vs. Pittsburgh
Atlanta +14 vs. Tampa Bay

It’ll never happen. Seriously, we’re just as likely to see Brett Favre’s retirement and Jesus Christ’s comeback.
—————————————————
The I Have No Faith In That Other Parlay Parlay
Risking 60 to win 160

Indianapolis -11 vs. Oakland
Buffalo +6 vs. Cleveland

But I really do like Buffalo for some reason.
—————————————————
The Other Bet Bet
Risking 50 to win 45.45

Seattle -8 vs. Carolina

Actual Analysis Alert: The Panthers are 1-5 ATS at home. Yeah, and Vinny Testaverde like old and shit!

“He doesn’t have a particular injury or anything,” [Panthers Coach John] Fox said. “Just the wearing of the game.”

Your quarterback is questionable with a case of aging. Doctors fear that it could be terminal.

I’d stick around, but I want to get some sleep before my early morning lingerie money fight.

Who am I kidding? They don’t start until I get there.

]]> http://kissingsuzykolber.uproxx.com/2007/12/im-gonna-get-me-craziest-strippiest.html/feed 13 http://kissingsuzykolber.uproxx.com/2007/06/im-sorry-paris-hilton.html http://kissingsuzykolber.uproxx.com/2007/06/im-sorry-paris-hilton.html#comments Tue, 05 Jun 2007 08:44:00 +0000 Monday Morning Punter http://kissingsuzykolber.uproxx.com/2007/06/im-sorry-paris-hilton.html

I am sorry that you went to jail, mainly because now someone else will have a chance to rape you, although that may be a misnomer since you really don’t know the meaning of the word “no.” I bet the food in jail is bad, Paris Hilton, but I hear their gym is pretty sweet.

I was thinking the other day about all the fun times we used to have; I was taking a shit and then realized that I didn’t have any toilet paper. So I just sat on the bowl for, I think it was like an hour, and then my ass started to get numb, so I just lathered up my hand with two squirts of Dial and then scrubbed out my crack. But I had no way to rinse out my wares, so I just wiped out the suds with one of my towels. When I finally hopped off and flushed, I saw there was a brand new roll resting on the top of the toilet behind me. I’m never eating ziti after 8 o’clock again.

But anyway, Paris Hilton, I remember when we used to hit the town. You had these stupid little pointy shoes and you asked me what I thought of them. I told you I would rather drive the tips of those shoes through my eye sockets than be forced to bear witness to them for even another second. Then you got really pouty and quiet. And then when I asked what was wrong, you said, “Nothing.” But I think if nothing was really wrong, you would have let me use the anal beads that night.

Remember, Paris Hilton, when we went out with the team to the Chicago Playboy Mansion and Tank wanted to lay money on how many handguns he could cram up your pussy? I really thought he was going to be more systematic with his insertion methods there. Plus I thought that he would have made sure that none of those guns were loaded, or at least had the safeties on. And I have no idea why I took the under, either. That whole thing was really my bad.

I bet jail is a lot like having a sleepover, Paris Hilton, except none of your friends show up and the guards search your asshole for contraband. I will try really hard to make the trip east to California and visit, so we can talk on those special phones, and you can mash your little titties up against the glass, like in that one movie, while I make moaning sounds and jerk off after I throw on a turbin and walk some laps around a pillar.

So, um, I guess I’ll see you later. Tell Martha Stewart I said hey.

You see, I’m just a simple country guy. If I had my druthers, I’d be back in Kiln, sittin’ on top of my lawn tractor, mowin’ the grass. But I felt obligated to be here today, to let you know that I really resent havin’ to be here. I don’t want all this attention. It’s not me. This really ain’t my thing.

Man, look at all your fancy cameras! Back in Kiln, we don’t even have cameras! Don’t need ‘em. We’ve got Tookie the mud painter to preserve our memories. And that’s all we need. I’m not a real technophile. Sure, I own a flat screen TV, iPod, laptop, and Harmon Kardon surround system. But I don’t use any of it. I just like to bring friends around and point at it and mock it for being so materialistic. We don’t need any of it. I play a washboard for my friends and they like it just fine.

I’m a down home feller, guys. I just want to be with my family. In fact, they’re callin’ my Blackberry right now. But I can’t answer it, because I have to be here with you.

I just want to go out there and play football. I’m not in this for the money, or the attention, even though I signed endorsement deals with Motorola, Nike, and Ted’s Auto Body. That’s not what Brett Favre is all about. I’m just a hard-workin’ boy who hopes to retire one day to a life of farmin’, fishin’, huntin’, and hostin’ NFL Live 6 days a week. That’s all I ever wanted. Don’t you see that you people are robbin’ me of precious time with me and my family? Jesus.

Peter, you understand better than anyone. I’m not some spoiled diva, am I?

Buttboy: Hell no.

Of course not. Even when I bitched to the team to bring on Randy Moss, hell I wasn’t doin’ that out of selfishness. I did it because I think it would be some darn good fun to have Randy Moss on our team. The sullenness. The lackadaisical attitude. I wanted him to be around here because we could play some old-fashioned ball together. I certainly didn’t want him here to help bring more media attention to my falling team as I try desperately to remain in the limelight as my skills quickly rot away into nothingness. That wasn’t my intention. And I resent having to mention that idea to you and then refute it. It ain’t right.

I’m not some total media whore who puts up a Bobby Bowden-like country bumpkin front for reporters in exchange for favorable coverage. I’m not some selfish prick who pretends to be a team player but really just can’t stand to live one second without the attention. I don’t wish I was Peyton Manning and secretly hope to catch him, skin him, and then wear his skin as a disguise while I try and play five more years. I’m not a whiny, hypocritical douchebag who thinks he’s better than everyone because he fancies himself so fucking down-to-earth. I’m not a fucking asshole – a big, gaping, flaming red asshole who deserves to get brained by a roided-up, tire-iron wielding Shawne Merriman and then thrown into a wheat thrasher and brutally murdered for being such a tiresome sack of shit. I’m not like that at all. Which is why we should meet regularly every week from now on, so I can reinforce that point.

I’ll be honest here, I’m not sure how much longer I can take this. Maybe I should retire. Maybe. Probably not. But possibly. I’d say there’s a 30% chance, but a 50% chance I could increase that first percentage. But maybe a 15% chance I could lower it. I’m not sure. Maybe. Possibly. I’d have to talk to my family about it. Then I’d have to think about it. Then I’d have to have a conference call to hash out my feelings. Maybe a conference call. Possibly a town hall forum. Not sure.

Let’s hold a press conference next week and I’ll inform you of my decision. I won’t like it, but you Northern fuckers have forced my hand. Guess I’m missing Breleigh’s birthday.