(I love chicks who format their own html for me)
Hi. I'm Flash Warner and I'm here to bitch. It's a little lengthy but it's
formatted! That helps, right? :)
ESPN: You are some triflin motherfuckers. So Rex Ryan has a foot
fetish. He and his wife even get down with BDSM and swingers. Big
fucking deal. Does it affect the New York Jets? No. Does it affect his
job performance? Please. Does it have any impact on the NFL? Not at all.
So why do you have anything to say about it? You had no trouble going
silent on Ben Roethlisberger's sexual assault allegations, but ensuring
that Sports Nation knows that the NFL and the Jets consider this a
personal matter we should all fuck off from is news? Fuck that. You're
Deadspin with a larger staff, better videos, and a played out Bill
Simmons. The sooner someone drops a bomb on Bristol, the better off the
world will be.
Chris Berman: I hate you with the fire of 10,000 suns. And
no, it's not because your lack of preparation causes you to stutter and
stammer while reading the teleprompter; or that your cultural knowledge was
cryogenically frozen around the time Tears for Fears broke up; or even
because you're so fat that you can't say more than five words without
descending into a breathless grumble.
FUUUUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK you. My left breast has more substance. You are an automatic mute; a clown; a jester; a jock sniffing beached whale in a Men's Warehouse suit whom Greenpeace needs to tow back to sea. Sports coverage is buried in the avalanche of your journalistic inadequacies, you fat, vaudevillian fuck, and it'll likely never recover. Die.
Jenn Sterger: While I enjoyed your near-botched shaming of
True Grit Favre, why don't you and your gold digging cock socket do some
real philanthropic work and mount Chris Berman? He'll die of a coronary, and
I will celebrate you forever as the Whore of Occasional Good Deeds. It's
Size-challenged men who send pics of their junk: If you're
attempting to seduce someone with this method, logic dictates that you send
shots of your business at its largest, hardest, and most impressive. But
most men aren't logical, are they? Instead of fluffing up and showing off a
piece that's ready to do work and turn us out, too many of you send pictures
of flaccid, wounded turtle cock and wonder why we aren't turned on. It's as
if you're saying to yourselves, "She's been a little resistant. How can I
fix it? Ah, yes - a picture of my dick. It's only four inches long and looks
like an enlarged thumb, but if I get it at the right angle…" Sorry (Brett),
but no. A rule of thumb to all you romantic gentlemen out there: show us
something we can use. If your stock looks like it'd be at home with a little
relish, mustard, and a bun, put it away.
AofG: This site was a must visit for years, unlocking the
magic on various topics five or six times a week. What happened? AofG's
demise makes me sad, and it must become great again. Coz? Jackie? Frank? Are you out there? Please do something. I want to live here again.
My man's lesbian assistant: You asked your boss to donate
sperm to you and your partner three weeks after he found out he's going to
be a father. Then you told him that I should contact you if I have any
questions or concerns. Bitch, are you crazy? This isn't a fucking sorority.
His sperm is claimed, spoken for, taken. It flies my flag.
So you and Vanessa need to take your asses to the sperm bank, Vietnam, or a
foster home, because the only person having his babies on this planet is me.
"We'd like to use your sperm." I ought to kick you in the goddamn
Ron Washington: You do realize Neftali Feliz was in your
bullpen, right? He of the 2.73 ERA, .176 opponents’ batting average, and
71/18 K/BB ratio in 69 innings? Since you kept running out Darren Oliver – a
corpse with pubic hairs older than you – I wasn't sure. Oh wait, you're the
type of fool who snorts up week-old cocaine when there's a purer, fresher
batch wasting away right in front of you. Darren Oliver makes perfect
England World Cup team: God save the Queen, huh? For the
fifth time in 10 years, you have shamed our nation. Eat a hot bowl of dicks,
you preening, gutless slags. I would rather England quit footballing all
together than see any of you on a pitch in Her Majesty's colours again. You
Robert Green: Yes, I'm still mad at you. I'm also wondering
why someone has yet to throw you down a well and fill it with hot tar and
bricks. I'd do it myself but I don't know where you live.
Arsenal Football Club: No inspiration, no discipline, no
passion, no glory. Oh to be a Gooner.
Arsene Wenger: Some say that Arsenal can't play beautiful
football and win silverware. I disagree. It's a very real possibility, but
do you know what stands in our way? You. We don't have a viable keeper, a
true striker, or any experienced leadership because you sold it all away and
replaced it with fetuses. What's that, you say? Cesc can lead us? Please.
Cesc couldn't lead this squad of children into a hole in the ground.
"That was the big difference that played in our heads," said
Fabregas, after ManUre humiliated us. "Sometimes we seem scared of
losing these big games. We don't really go for it and we're tempted to drop
back and see what the opposition will do." Oh Captain, my Captain.
Thanks for guiding the troops. The thing is, Arsene, I'd pray for the board
to force you into action instead of allowing you to sit untouched in your
ivory tower of footballing genius, but what good would it do? If you had to
act, all of your buys would be 15 years old still sucking on their mamas'
teets. "Our new captain has acne and isn't old enough to drive? That
sounds about right, Arsene." Fucker.
My unborn child: Being pregnant is crap. These are supposed
to be the most magical 10 months of my life, so this opinion probably makes
me a bad mother. There have been magical moments, mind you. I cried when we
heard your heartbeat for the first time and again when we watched you punch
and kick like a lunatic before relaxing to suck your thumb during the
ultrasound. But apart from those amazing 20 minutes and my ramped up sex
drive, I'm in a bad way. If I'm not peeing, I’m nauseated, and if I'm not
nauseated, I'm playing chicken with your father's hands, which involuntarily
grab at my boobs even though I keep reminding him that my chest feels like
it's been pummeled by large, hot rocks. My OBGYN banned me from surfing
until you're born (an understandable yet soul-crushing edict), a scene in
the Boardwalk Empire finale made me cry, and random people touch my
stomach without asking. However, I now realize my grievance shouldn't be
addressed to you but to your father – the guy whose enthusiastic sperm beat
the pill; the guy who – much to my extreme dismay – already bought you
Celtics onesies and then suggested your middle name be Truth; the guy who
runs around dropping "we this" and "we that" as if he also has a human being
growing in his body and jumping on his bladder. Some days all of this makes
me want to knock his cheery ass out. Needless to say, Baby Flash, today is
one of those days.