Erin Andrews looked at the ripped football in her hands and felt unstable.
She walked over to the window and reflected on her artificial surroundings. She had always hated the 50 yard line with its blue, nosy NFL Logo. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel unstable.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Britney Spears. Britney was a cute cheerleader with
beautiful legs and curvy hair.
Erin gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a sexy, hot, wine drinker with firm legs and tight hair. Her friends saw her as a , loose thoughtless tease. Once, she had even helped a wooden injured player recover from a flying accident.
But not even a sexy person who had once helped a wooden injured player recover from a flying accident, was prepared for what Britney had in store today.
The sun teased like loving Bears, making Erin healthy.
As Erin stepped outside and Britney came closer, she could see the elated glint in her eye.
“Look Erin,” growled Britney, with a luscious glare that reminded Erin of cute Packers. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want Wild Sex. You owe me 9145 dollars.”
Erin looked back, even more healthy and still fingering the ripped football. “Britney, OMG! You are so hot,” she replied.
They looked at each other with sparkly feelings, like two loopy, little Lions kissing at a very open birthday party, which had smooth jazz music playing in the background and two toned girls fondling to the beat.
Erin regarded Britney’s beautiful legs and curvy hair. “I don’t have the funds …” she lied.
Britney glared. “Do you want me to shove that ripped football where the sun don’t shine?”
Erin promptly remembered her sexy and hot values. “Actually, I do have the funds,” she admitted. She reached into her pockets. “Here’s what I owe you.”
Britney looked anxious, her wallet blushing like a mammoth, massive microphone.
Then Britney came inside for a nice glass of wine.
Johnny Manziel looked at the silver football in his hands and felt relaxed.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his gawdy surroundings. He had always loved American Dallas with its creepy, chubby Cowboys. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel relaxed.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Jerry Jones. Jerry was a cowardly coward with dirty feet and fragile hands.
Johnny gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a remarkable, clumsy, whiskey drinker with fat feet and ugly hands. His friends saw him as a spluttering, spotless saint. Once, he had even revived a dying, Johnny’s reputation.
But not even a remarkable person who had once revived a dying, Johnny’s reputation, was prepared for what Jerry had in store today.
The clouds danced like shouting Cowboys, making Johnny calm.
As Johnny stepped outside and Jerry came closer, he could see the tense glint in his eye.
Jerry gazed with the affection of 7730 intuitive pickled Patriots. He said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want dedication.”
Johnny looked back, even more calm and still fingering the silver football. “Jerry, I will wreck this league,” he replied.
They looked at each other with healthy feelings, like two pickled, pleasant Packers drinking at a very proud Superbowl, which had jazz music playing in the background and two creepy uncles chatting to the beat.
Johnny studied Jerry’s dirty feet and fragile hands. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” began Johnny in apologetic tones, “but I don’t feel the same way, and I never will. I just don’t love you Jerry.”
Jerry looked jumpy, his emotions raw like a disturbed, dirty dollar bill.
Johnny could actually hear Jerry’s emotions shatter into 9572 pieces. Then the cowardly coward hurried away into the distance.
Not even a glass of whiskey would calm Johnny’s nerves tonight.
It all started when our overrated adventurer, Russell Wilson, woke up in a lemur-infested moor. It was the third time it had happened. Feeling scarcely pleased, Russell Wilson poked a live hand grenade, thinking it would make him feel better (but as usual, it did not). Just as zero people expected he realized that his beloved Superbowl Ring was missing! Immediately he called his so-called friend, Pete Carroll. Russell Wilson had known Pete Carroll for (plus or minus) 1.2 billion years, the majority of which were electric ones. Pete Carroll was unique. He was congenial though sometimes a little… stupid. Russell Wilson called him anyway, for the situation was urgent.
Pete Carroll picked up to a very unhappy Russell Wilson. Pete Carroll calmly assured him that most long-haired sea monkeys cringe before mating, yet South American hissing sloths usually sassily turn red *after* mating. He had no idea what that meant; he was only concerned with distracting Russell Wilson. Why was Pete Carroll trying to distract Russell Wilson? Because he had snuck out from Russell Wilson’s with the Superbowl Ring only nine days prior. It was a sassy little Superbowl Ring… how could he resist?
It didn’t take long before Russell Wilson got back to the subject at hand: his Superbowl Ring. Pete Carroll shuddered. Relunctantly, Pete Carroll invited him over, assuring him they’d find the Superbowl Ring. Russell Wilson grabbed his refrigerator and disembarked immediately. After hanging up the phone, Pete Carroll realized that he was in trouble. He had to find a place to hide the Superbowl Ring and he had to do it thoughtfully. He figured that if Russell Wilson took the deliciously practical 4-door, he would take at least nine minutes before Russell Wilson would get there. But if he took the flying football? Then Pete Carroll would be exceedingly screwed.
Before he could come up with any reasonable ideas, Pete Carroll was interrupted by six insensitive Seahawks that were lured by his Superbowl Ring. Pete Carroll cringed; ‘Not again’, he thought. Feeling stunned, he deftly reached for his dangerous oil-soaked rag and thoughtfully backhanded every last one of them. Apparently this was an adequate deterrent–the discouraged critters began to scurry back toward the secret vineyard, squealing with discontent. He exhaled with relief. That’s when he heard the flying football rolling up. It was Russell Wilson.
As he pulled up, he felt a sense of urgency. He had had to make an unscheduled stop at Jim’s House of Wings to pick up a 12-pack of ripened avocados, so he knew he was running late. With a careful leap, Russell Wilson was out of the flying football and went scandalously jaunting toward Pete Carroll’s front door. Meanwhile inside, Pete Carroll was panicking. Not thinking, he tossed the Superbowl Ring into a box of potatoes and then slid the box behind his elephant. Pete Carroll was worried but at least the Superbowl Ring was concealed. The doorbell rang.
‘Come in,’ Pete Carroll indiscriminately purred. With a inept push, Russell Wilson opened the door. ‘Sorry for being late, but I was being chased by some selfish flaming idiot in a best-in-its-so-called-‘class’ sedan,’ he lied. ‘It’s fine,’ Pete Carroll assured him. Russell Wilson took a seat tragically close to where Pete Carroll had hidden the Superbowl Ring. Pete Carroll belched trying unsuccessfully to hide his nervousness. ‘Uhh, can I get you anything?’ he blurted. But Russell Wilson was distracted. Before the all-seeing eyes of a perpetually displeased deity, Pete Carroll noticed a dimwitted look on Russell Wilson’s face. Russell Wilson slowly opened his mouth to speak.
‘…What’s that smell?’
Pete Carroll felt a stabbing pain in his double chin when Russell Wilson asked this. In a moment of disbelief, he realized that he had hidden the Superbowl Ring right by his oscillating fan. ‘Wh-what? I don’t smell anything..!’ A lie. A abrasive look started to form on Russell Wilson’s face. He turned to notice a box that seemed clearly out of place. ‘Th-th-those are just my grandma’s live hand grenades from when she used to have pet 3-legged wallabies. She, uh…dropped ’em by here earlier’. Russell Wilson nodded with fake acknowledgement…then, before Pete Carroll could react, Russell Wilson abruptly lunged toward the box and opened it. The Superbowl Ring was plainly in view.
Russell Wilson stared at Pete Carroll for what what must’ve been three minutes. Happy as a frickin’ monkey, Pete Carroll groped explosively in Russell Wilson’s direction, clearly desperate. Russell Wilson grabbed the Superbowl Ring and bolted for the door. It was locked. Pete Carroll let out a flamboyant chuckle. ‘If only you hadn’t been so protective of that thing, none of this would have happened, Russell Wilson,’ he rebuked. Pete Carroll always had been a little annoying, so Russell Wilson knew that reconciliation was not an option; he needed to escape before Pete Carroll did something crazy, like… start chucking potatos at him or something. Happy as a frickin’ monkey, he gripped his Superbowl Ring tightly and made a dash toward the window, diving headlong through the glass panels.
Pete Carroll looked on, blankly. ‘What the hell? That seemed excessive. The other door was open, you know.’ Silence from Russell Wilson. ‘And to think, I varnished that window frame two days ago…it never ends!’ Suddenly he felt a tinge of concern for Russell Wilson. ‘Oh. You ..okay?’ Still silence. Pete Carroll walked over to the window and looked down. Russell Wilson was gone.
Just yonder, Russell Wilson was struggling to make his way through the haunted thicket behind Pete Carroll’s place. Russell Wilson had severely hurt his taint during the window incident, and was starting to lose strength. Another pack of feral Seahawks suddenly appeared, having caught wind of the Superbowl Ring. One by one they latched on to Russell Wilson. Already weakened from his injury, Russell Wilson yielded to the furry onslaught and collapsed. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a buzzing horde of Seahawks running off with his Superbowl Ring.
About ten hours later, Russell Wilson awoke, his prostate throbbing. It was dark and Russell Wilson did not know where he was. Deep in the mysterious swamp, Russell Wilson was exceedingly lost. Absolutely thrilled, he remembered that his Superbowl Ring was taken by the Seahawks. But at that point, he was just thankful for his life. That’s when, to his horror, a bloated Seahawk emerged from the secret vineyard. It was the alpha Seahawk. Russell Wilson opened his mouth to scream but was cut short when the Seahawk sunk its teeth into Russell Wilson’s ear. With a faint groan, the life escaped from Russell Wilson’s lungs, but not before he realized that he was a failure.
Less than eleven miles away, Pete Carroll was entombed by anguish over the loss of the Superbowl Ring. ‘MY PRECIOUS!!’ he cried, as he reached for a sharpened potato. With a hasty thrust, he buried it deeply into his double chin. As the room began to fade to black, he thought about Russell Wilson… wishing he had found the courage to tell him that he loved him. But he would die alone that day. All that remained was the Superbowl Ring that had turned them against each other, ultimately causing their demise. And as the dew on melancholy sappling branches began to reflect the dawn’s reddish glare, all that could be heard was the chilling cry of distant Seahawks, desecrating all things sacred to virtuous men, and perpetuating an evil that would reign for centuries to come. Our heroes would’ve lived unhappily ever after, but they were too busy being dead. So, no one lived forever after, the end. 🙁
Tom Brady had always loved chilly New England with its spotty, steady sports fans. It was a place where he felt ambivalent.
He was a vile, generous, port drinker with fragile toes and dirty fingers. His friends saw him as a curved, comfortable cheater. Once, he had even helped a tough Roger Goodell cross the road. That’s the sort of man he was.
Tom walked over to the window and reflected on his magical surroundings. The rain hammered like drinking patriots.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Bill Belichick. Bill was a giving liar with chubby toes and sloppy fingers.
Tom gulped. He was not prepared for Bill.
As Tom stepped outside and Bill came closer, he could see the rough glint in his eye.
“Look Tom,” growled Bill, with a charming glare that reminded Tom of giving bills. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want The Deflated Football. You owe me 4549 dollars.”
Tom looked back, even more greedy and still fingering the enchanted helmet. “Bill, I love you,” he replied.
They looked at each other with healthy feelings, like two jolly, joyous jets eating at a very stable AFC Championship Game, which had reggae music playing in the background and two intelligent uncles shouting to the beat.
Suddenly, Bill lunged forward and tried to punch Tom in the face. Quickly, Tom grabbed the enchanted helmet and brought it down on Bill’s skull.
Bill’s chubby toes trembled and his sloppy fingers wobbled. He looked anxious, his wallet raw like a perfect, petite playbook.
Then he let out an agonizing groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Bill Belichick was dead.
Tom Brady went back inside and made himself a nice glass of port.