Stupor Bowl

The only thing better than this being the Patriots team plane is if it was Air Force One.

The only thing better than this being the Patriots team plane is if it was Air Force One.


Well that’s it folks.  It’s finally happened. After many years of inevitably hurtling towards this moment, today I can officially tell the sport of football to go fuck itself.

Fuck that Mr. Burns wannabe Kraft, fuck Bill “Mr. Personality” Belichik, and muthafuck that Ugz wearing homo Brady sideways.  A few weeks ago, just before the Pats yearly trip to the AFC championship all three traitors to the great state of Massachusetts (which incidentally was the third biggest Hillary state behind Cali and Hippieville aka Vermont) decided to inexplicably express their undying love and devotion to an orange sock puppet with a Russian hand up its ass.  This repulsive revelation then allowed me to likewise express my undying hatred and contempt for the whole lot of them.  Shittsburgh of course violently crapped themselves so now in the Super Bowl the part of Good will be played by the luckbag Atlanta Falcons, which is a textbook case of a team absolutely dying to cheese the big game away.  On the big stage, they’re likely gonna puke on themselves and get waxed early.  At least it’s not the Pats vs. The Fudge Packers though, so I won’t get confused as to who to boo loudest.

As one world-renowned political expert by the name of me has so brilliantly pointed out, there’s only three qualities vile enough to endorse the Orange Menace, known as the new “Three R’s”: if you’re rich, racist, or religious.  In the case of his cabinet picks, they all have at least two or more of those detestable features.  The fake president’s budding friendship with the most hated team in sports (even before this) however seems based on the common ground shared by the Drab Four.  Think about it.  Kraft’s a rich greedy scumfuck, Belichik traded in his old jalopy of a spouse for a newer model—a Trump staple, and Brady has a dirty foreigner for a wife.  All they’re missing is a couple extra golden showers and they’re practically quadruplets.

So that’s that.  Fuck the Rats.  Supporting that dictator cocksucker is way bigger than some dopey fuckin football game; this is concerning the survival of the species.  Think I’m exaggerating then think again.  The erosion of our civil liberties is nothing compared to the environmental devestation we will suffer when people like the fuckin CEO of Exxon becomes Secretary of State, and some dickhead who’s sued the EPA fourteen times—including currently—is going to head the fuckin EPA. Unless of course we have the joy of getting blown to bits in a nuclear war that whiny pussy statrts via twitter at three o’clock in the morning (wasn’t Hillary supposed to be the one with P.M.S., by the way?), hopefully we’ll live long enough to watch the United States mutate into Stalinist Russia, while the richest fucks on the planet continue to line their pockets by reducing the Polar ice caps to a McDonald’s cup of cubes.  Think there’s a refugee crisis right now? About eighty of the hundred biggest cities on earth are port cities.  Just wait a few years under this putrid regime.  Today’s couple thousand refugees are gonna snowball into tens of millions mighty quick.

As for the here and now, in an act of staunch defiance I burned my two Patriots hats.  I smashed my Patriots shot glass.  I even wiped my ass with my Patriots toilet paper.  The one thing I refused to do however was take out my newfound hatred on any of my cherished throwback jerseys.  After all, just because I’d now like to see their team plane go down in a fiery crash doesn’t mean Tedy Bruschi’s reputation should suffer.

As for my highly sought out prediction, after much painstaking analysis I’ve concluded the Falcons will outscore the Patriots by three million, only to watch in horror as the Pats are still somehow declared the winners.  Then Belichik can celebrate in true Trumpian fashion when he’s doused with a giant bucket of communist piss in the game’s final seconds.


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