Flush the Female Race

The original title of this blog post was Why the GOP *REALLY* Hates Women, but this is NOT a political post; it’s simply a “why all women suck and should be executed” post. So, nothing to get all uppity about.

Calm your tits, turd twat; this isn’t about you. Well, maybe a little.

I changed it so I wouldn’t have to deal with any unnecessary political backlash over my argument for gendercide, but that title fit like a tailor-made tampon. After all, the top 5 talking points on any renowned Republican’s agenda always include stopping terrorists and controlling what is done with those wily vaginas. (Yes, I have one too, and it’s fantastic—albeit a little rebellious.)

What even the nuttiest of the right-wing nutjobs are missing though is that the two things go together like sausage and snatch… or sausage and sausage, or snatch and snatch. Seriously, do whatever feels right with your junk, as long as no one gets hurt. Unless of course your partner LIKES getting hurt, and honestly, has a little hair pulling ever harmed anyone? Here I go, digressing. It’s a chick thing. Hormones, and shit.

Anyway, there’s a legitimate reason for the government to regulate our lady bits, even if they haven’t figured it out yet.  Cut them some slack, they’re a bit slow. But this is a fact: women harbor terrorists. Sure, not ALL women. But all women capable of shooting babies out of their boomboxes do.

You see, we are armed with suicide-bombing eggs; eggs that make irrational demands for sperm, starting when we’re about 12 years old, and when we don’t feed them their penis poison they take out defenseless uterine linings  (and our sanity) as they make their messy exit from the world.

The REAL Axis of Evil

So just feed them the sperm, right? Fuck that. WE DON’T NEGOTIATE WITH TERRORISTS. Every now and then those cum-craving criminals get what they’re asking for; but instead of showing mercy they lay waste to everything within a fetus-foot, including the all-evil vagina.

Plus, all those full grown plane jacking, train bombing, Congress sitting (wait, what?) terrorists came from the same damn place: vaginas. Unless, of course, they were born via C-Section. Or like that weird Walking Dead birth… which btw I quit watching that shit after that episode because once they killed off that whiny whore I knew anything further would be a disappointment.  What, am I digressing again? Shut up and grab me my damn wine, I’ve got a full-blown barbaric attack on my little Lady Liberty to deal with here.

And maybe some Milk Duds.

The Wild, Wild Web

The final frontier of weird.

Of course I always knew people were complete fucksticks on the internet. And why not? Anonymity is the perfect recipe for courage. Give any geek a laptop, an avatar, a bottle of vodka, the safety of their parents’ basement, and a blanket to furiously masturbate into and they become invincible. I learned this first hand in the comments section of my first article published on Cracked.com, where I was called everything from a bad writer to a botched abortion. I feared the same fate on Amazon after my recent fiction debut, but as no one has bothered to buy, read, or review it I really dodged a Constitutionally-protected bullet there.

This trend of raging asshattery seems slightly less sadistic via social networking, where namelessness and facelessness are checked at the log in screen. (Because none of us would EVER have evil alter egos, that shit’s prohibited. Geez.) Facebook fuckery tends to be generally reserved for outlandish political rants, shitty stereotypes, religious bigotry and bible thumping, or Heston help us: cute little gun control memes.

Are you fucking serious?!?

Those that are constantly guilty of the above crimes against civility tend not to last long in my virtual life. I don’t give a flatulent fuck about your First Amendment right to spout off nonsensically about your Second Amendment right; I’m citing a much more recent legal document, The Facebook User Agreement, to justify blocking your annoying ass so I don’t have to constantly browse past your bullshit.

My point in all this (yes, I did have one all along) is that I experienced an unexpected backlash of butthurtedness when I decided to shut down the Turd Mountain Facebook page. While it was a fun little outhouse for me for the past year or so, with recent changes in my life free time has become a rare commodity and I’d rather spend it writing poop jokes that exceed the character limit of your basic e-card.

I received three death threats—yes, DEATH THREATS, over it. One person even said they wished I’d be taken out by a drunk driver, which seemed awfully specific. I’m wondering if there’s some guy slamming a bottle of whiskey behind the wheel of his rusted out Ford pickup truck (I can’t imagine he’d drive anything else) parked somewhere in my city, just daring me to cross a street. Well joke’s on him, because it’s fucking cold outside and I’m not going ANYWHERE.

I was called a “stupid cunt whore,” which I thought was interesting. While I’m not actively involved in the world’s oldest profession, I believe this description would actually make me quite smart and business savvy, as I don’t think any other orifice on my body would have the stamina to pound out a decent living that way.

I didn’t bother to report any of the death threats or harassment, not only because I didn’t take them seriously but also because it would probably be worth the loss of my life for the headline: Purveyor of Poop Puns Slain Over Sudden E-Card Shortage.

In case I didn’t have enough to worry about, now I have to wonder if the next time I step outside a gang of PETE activists– People for the Ethical Treatment of Excrement, of course—will be waiting to douse me with manure if they see me post anything feces-free.

Honestly, I’m quite possibly the most insecure person you’ll ever not meet-- but calling me names and threatening me with bodily harm from the safety of a computer screen doesn’t pack quite the punch you think it does. EVEN IF YOU USE ALL CAPS. If you want to get to me, go for the throat – ask if I've put on a few pounds, poke fun at my crooked nose and boyish figure, tell me my work flat out sucks–  but not my decision to take down a Facebook page I no longer have time for. Morons. It’s like the people who harass others on the internet for shits and grins have never dealt with a real woman before. Oh… never mind.

Anyway, the Turd Mountain fan page is dead…. but if you want to read more directionless diarrhea like this, be sure to give Dee’s Nuts a “like.” All hate mail and threats of bodily harm will be forwarded there also, as they give me something to laugh at while I’m taking a crap.

xoxo, dicks.

Laying Down Some Yule Log

 

Yeah I realize that shit started weeks ago, shut up. For some reason the Bible-thumpers seem to be bugging my bowels even more than usual this year. I don’t know who smoked a bunch of frankincense and dreamed up the imaginary “War on Christmas,” but this heated, yet one-sided argument (I've yet to see someone get all militant against the use of the C-word. Well, THIS particular C-word, anyway) but here’s my take on the annual December debate: Happy Holidays vs Merry Christmas.

First of all, those of us that acknowledge the little ball we cruise around the sun on is over 6000 years old are also aware that this holiday was celebrated long before baby Jesus ever pooped in a camel-pelt Pamper. But don’t try telling that to the Nazareth Nazis. And don’t worry; it’s safe to call them that as they obviously hate Jewish people.

But regardless of your religious beliefs or lack thereof, isn't it nice to hear people say “Happy Holidays!” or “Merry Christmas!” as opposed to the “Fuck you, Shitface!” that you’re accustomed to the other 11 months of the year? I mean, pretty much all versions of the December holidays boil down to spreading joy, goodwill to all, and clogging the crapper at your grandparents’ house after you shovel massive amounts of your weird uncle’s Festivus chili into your facehole.

For once I’m going to get to my point quickly: I’m not a Christian. I say “Merry Christmas.” But mainly so no uppity asswad jumps down my throat about the whole keeping-whoever in- whatever thing. That shit’s annoying.

So I’ll wrap this up (a non-poop related pun!), as I still have 4000 cookies to bake and 800 presents to shove in a bag with a piece of wadded up tissue paper… after all, ‘Tis the Season! That is, the season to be a frazzled, familied-out fucktard for weeks on end. All I really wanted to get out here was that regardless of what or if you celebrate, you should definitely buy the brand spanking new short story collection Crappy Shorts: Deuces Wild. It was released this week and features a fecally fabulous short story by yours pooply—the master of shitty segues.

The editor of the collection refers to me as a “prolific if not infamous blogger,” which proves two things: #1) He doesn’t follow this blog, and #2) Hahaha I said number two. My contribution is pretty much Turd Mountain: The Fiction Edition. But fear not, there are also seven other stories written by REAL writers, so you’ll get your $1.99 worth somehow. But probably not to prop up your lopsided table, because it’s an e-book. Unless you want to use your laptop, smartphone, or Kindle for that, but then it doesn’t seem like such a good value. But, I digress.

Anyway, there’s my sales pitch. And with five shopping days left ‘til you-know-what, there’s only one thing left to say: Fuck you, shitfaces.

Merry Christmas. And shit.

Confessions of a Meat Eater.

Of all the content I’ve crapped on throughout the life of this brainless little blog, the thing that received the greatest backlash of butthurtedness (shut up, it’s a word) was my jab at the internet's love affair with bacon. People are apparently quite passionate about their pork products.  Now don’t get me wrong, like any good American most of my hopes and dreams are wrapped in bacon. But Bacongate has brought to the forefront a bitch that needs to be pitched: fucking vegans.

I have a lot of friends that are vegans. At least I did, before posting this rant. I also have a lot of friends that eat cheese smothered steak every hour on the hour and then wash it down with a glass of baby seal’s blood, while wearing the pelts of a hundred puppies and kicking kittens in their itty bitty throats.  My point is I don’t give a feathered fuck what you do or don’t eat… as long as you don’t tell me what to cram in my own face hole.

And that’s where the problem lies with veganism. Apparently a diet deficient in meat and dairy causes a person to preach pompously at anyone who picks up a pork chop. Vegans are an awful lot like uber Christians; both are always spewing their scruples in your face at every opportunity... the main difference being that vegans manage to make valid points.

I wholefartedly believe that vegans, in general, are not only physically healthier but more environmentally and socially conscious individuals than us animal-eating assholes. No one can dispute that the factory farms that us meat munching morons depend on to give us our fried flesh fix are contributing heavily to the destruction of the planet… not to mention filling our bloated bodies with toxins. Delicious, juicy, falling-off-the-bone toxins.

I do care about the Earth. I don’t give much of a shit for the people on it, but I don’t want the whole planet to implode just because we were dicks to it. And I care about my own health (a little) and that of my family. I love animals and could fill a fucking ark with all of the pets I've adopted or rescued. Most of the meat I buy comes from a small, single-family operated local farm. I do what I can to cut down on energy usage and waste. I reduce, reuse, recycle, and whatever the fuck else that starts with “R” I can to try to limit the amount of filth that infiltrates the atmosphere. But all it takes is one uppity Facebook post from a vegan and suddenly my BLT is sodomizing Mother Earth… and apparently she’s not into that.

Then there’s the outspoken celebrity support. Joaquin Phoenix, really? I’d kick him out of the Clean Colon Club if I was a vegan. It’s hard to take any movement seriously with his ridiculous ass at the helm. I’d rather take dietary advice from Jeffrey Dahmer.

Please note: This is Phoenix, not Dahmer.

And how come they have to refer to every dish they eat as being vegan? We get it, you don’t eat animal products. You don’t have to tell me you’re eating vegan cookies, or vegan soup. I don’t refer to my double cheeseburger as a murder sandwich. I tried to cook from a vegan recipe once, but when I didn’t even know what half of the ingredients were or where the hell I would find them I gave up and snapped into a Slim Jim.

But seriously, despite my name-calling, incessant bitching, and spewing of alliterative anger I have nothing but respect for vegans. What I can’t stand is the immense guilt I feel when I’m around them. Their ideals are admirable and unwavering.  So why don’t I convert if I love them so much? One word: cheese.

You hear people say that their bodies are 70% water… well mine is 90% cheddar. I think I could give up steak, eggs, and even bacon (fuck, I’m going to be crucified by the meat-eating masses for that again). But take my cheese curds away and I’m likely to cut your face off and serve it with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

In conclusion, vegans—I love you. Keep saving the world, one broccoli floret at a time. But please, PLEASE, shut the fuck up already! It's not like your shit doesn't stink. 

Wait, does it stink?

Poop Culture: The Shit That’s In

Have you ever felt like a dick because you’re unfamiliar with the latest fad? Does the rock you live under not get MTV? Does your eleven-year-old niece school you at every family gathering on what’s hip and what’s not? (FYI: “Hip” is now considered an extremely lame way to describe something that is, in fact, hip.)

Well you’re in luck. At Turd Mountain, we aim to educate as well as entertain. Mostly because we've failed miserably at the whole “entertain” thing.  And WE keep calling OURSELVES “we,” when there is actually only one of US. But, WE’RE digressing.

Because I’m too cool for school (Translation: I dropped out) I’ve decided to put together a quick reference guide for the not-so-trendy turds among us.

#1: Instagram. This is an app that can be used to share as well as add effects to photographs. Unfortunately, it only works for bathroom self-portraits and meal plate still lifes, two photo trends that were in danger of dying out if it weren’t for an optional sepia tone, intentional blurring, and a solid framed border. Sure it might seem stupid, but I assure you scrambled eggs have never looked so sexy.

#2: Gangnam Style. A song/music video by South Korean rapper PSY that has gone viral and won’t fucking die. There needs to be a separate penalty flag in the NFL for players celebrating in the end zone by reenacting the retarded bow-legged, constipated-cowboy dance. While seeming to actually be a parody of itself, Gangnam Style has still spawned several nerd-worthy imitations that outshine the original.

#3: Internet Memes. Those occasionally hilarious (but usually annoying) cleverly captioned pictures plastered all over the interwebs. Yes, I’m guilty for contributing to this annoying trend. But being an insatiable attention whore with a blog fan page where only 5% or less of the followers read the fucking blog, I have to get my “like” fix somehow.

#4: Bacon. Don’t crucify me just yet; I like bacon, I really do. But it appears that the pork industry is the #1 owner of Facebook stock. Seriously, if people actually ate as much bacon as they claim to on the internet, we’d have an obesity epidemic and heart disease would be running rampant. Nevermind. I guess this one’s legit. But this bacon obsession is accomplishing something I never thought possible: making vegans seem less annoying.

#5: Honey Boo Boo. I’m not sure what exactly this thing is, but it’s terrifying. I believe she’s the reason behind the evacuations on the East Coast.

#6: Adam Levine. Apparently this is some guy who sings songs about moving like a geriatric rock star that crushes others’ dreams of stardom on one of the million American Idol spinoff shows. I guess people like him because he’s cute, which I suppose he is in a you’d-better-wear-a-garbage-bag-because-this-skeevy-bastard-appears-to-be-crawling-with-STDs kind of way.

There. Now you’re up to date on everything that’s important today. And fear not; the overwhelming urge to stick your head in the toilet for all eternity is perfectly normal. Just make sure you take a picture via Instagram and use the Rise filter... it will give your bathroom that golden glow it’s always needed.

Review THIS, Bitches!

I realize I’m a little late to the Amazon review process bashing party, but it’s alright; I’m not a REAL writer, I just play one on the internet. Plus, I abandoned this dung heap of a blog a month and a half ago and no one noticed, so obviously the jury wasn’t hung up while waiting for me to weigh in on the issue. Assheads. Anyway, guess what? Both of you loyal readers are going to sit there and read my opinion anyway.

Background: Some self-published writer(s) have been accused of begging, bribing, or even buying positive reviews for their books on Amazon.com to make their own shit rise on the site’s popularity charts... therefore exposing their excrement to  more readers, buyers, potential reviewers, blah blah blah. I know; I’m bored too.

First of all, who actually consults book reviews before reading? It’s not like your dropping twenty grand on a new car and need to know just how toasty your ass will get from the heated seats. In my morose little mind even a crappy book is better than stupid reality TV, so I pay little attention to ratings. I take my friends’ recommendations, but as with most issues I don’t give a flatulent fuck about what asshole strangers think. If I’m looking for a great vacuum cleaner to get that deep down dirt and dander, I’ll consult consumer reviews. For the words I scan with my eyeballs and process in my tiny pee (and poop) brain I can manage to make my own decisions.

Second, who actually (and honestly) leaves these reviews on every single thing they read? I mean, I welcome any opportunity to shove my opinion up someone else’s ass and still I've only crapped out a couple of critiques on that wasteland of a website that uses up so much of my time and money… and they've been on works by friends. That might make me an asshole, but in my defense I always use a different alias and never tell the writer of said story that I even left a review. (I’d hate for my friends to know I actually like them.) Also I've never lied. Well there was this one time, but I deleted it immediately. It felt dirty, even for a crap-catapulting potty mouth such as yours pooply.

Third, writing a review SUCKS. There’s nothing better to remind an aspiring writer that they haven’t amounted to a clump of kitty crap in the sandbox of the literary landscape than criticizing the end result of someone else’s blood, sweat, and tears. Well mostly just tears. Most of us writer types lead pretty sedentary lifestyles and sweat as little as humanly possible. And we tend to pass out at the sight of our own blood, so we avoid that as well. But we do cry a lot. And I mean A LOT.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is…… have you checked out my new column on HorrorHomework.com? It’s called Kimmy Karnage's Turds of Terror, and in it I do nothing but review films. <le sigh>

Oh, and while I don’t have a date yet, supposedly someday soon I’ll be making my fiction debut in an anthology that will be sold exclusively on Amazon, so when I do please buy it and review the shit out of it. Thanks!

Dicks.

Shit Hits the Fan Fiction

So I've been really busy being a lazy turd lately (which can be extremely fucking exhausting), but I didn't want either of my fecally faithful readers to think I'd gone to the great sewer in the sky or some crap like that. So, as opposed to taking the time to poop out some new nonsensical rant that no one gives two shits about, I've decided to post some old thing I wrote that no one will give two shits about.

There are two things I'm extremely nerdy about: Star Trek and the NFL. As for everything else I'm just a dork--socially inept and generally awkward without any sort of quirky intelligence to fall back on. Way back last winter when I was still enrolled in college, before I gave up hope that my cranial cavity was filled with anything other than dung droppings, I had the assignment of writing a piece using a character's voice other than my own. The assignment happened to fall in the two week window between the end of playoffs and the actual Superbowl, so logically there was only one way to approach it.

Please keep in mind that this was written while drunk (as are most standard blog posts, at least that part remains consistent) and was not proofread before posting, as that would take valuable time and totally defeat the purpose of posting this old crap so that I can return to the Dee-shaped indent on my couch.

Plus, what better way to kick off the 2012 NFL Season (tonight!!!) than with what is probably the most poorly written piece of fan fiction ever? Don't answer that. Asshole.

Anyway, without further Adoo-doo, here it is, in all its horribly corny glory.

Kicking It With Captain Kirk

               “Captain’s Log: Stardate, 9522.6. We have traveled back in time to Earth date 2.5.12 after receiving a distress call from Belichick, a Federation Patriot from Earth’s glorious past. He claims to be from England... when it was... new. He fears the second major defeat is imminent for his army… which is courageously battling the Giants from York, also apparently a recently established territory. It seems these mighty Giants sent them reeling four years ago, and the Federation Patriots have been rebuilding their tattered army. But now, a second battle is looming and Belichick fears that… if defeated again… the Federation is in serious danger of total collapse. I must now report to the Enterprise control room to prepare for Mission: Defeat the Giants.

                This is Captain James T. Kirk, signing off for now.”

* * *

                I enter the command room at the same time as my first officer, Spock.

                “Captain, we’ve been researching these Patriots and Giants,” he says, nodding at Sulu. “These battles aren’t logical.”

                I perch myself behind my mighty Captain’s chair and direct my attention to the video screen, where ancient footage shows what appears to be a violent skirmish between two gaudily decorated armies, on an antiquated grassy battlefield painted with white numbers and parallel lines. On both ends of this strange battlefield stand bright yellow posts, looming like obnoxious Y’s. The men on the screen fight over some oblong object that's difficult to make out. Our WiFi's been on the fritz ever since we emerged from the time warp. I keep forgetting to call Mr. Scott about that. On the screen thousands of observers surround the battlefield-- painted even more ridiculously bright than the warriors-- waving towels and chanting obscenities.

                “It’s even worse than I thought!” I mutter as I slam my fist on the back of my chair.  Some say I have a penchant for the overdramatic. “These primitive beings may be hard to communicate with. They don’t even possess weapons! Other than those yellow flags, and only the striped men are garnished with those.”

                “With all due respect Captain,” Spock says, “This appears to be some sort of game. There is too much visual data stored on Federation servers to assume these are a primitive race of humans.”

                I shake my head. “No, this Belichick said he is a Federation Patriot and he needs our help. Starfleet Command has ordered us, and we will see to it that these Giants are destroyed. The future of the Federation may depend upon it.”

                “But Captain,” Sulu begins, “We’ve studied these Giants. They’re most formidable opponents only wore cheese as protective headgear.”

                “Well then, we will be sure to bring extra crackers,” I say, and begin my signature stare-into-the- cosmos-until-everyone-gets-bored-and-walks-away trick. Works every time.

* * *

                “Beam us down, Scotty,” I order as we bump the primitive shack known as the International Space Station out of orbit. Spock, Sulu and I sit poised and ready for whatever challenge the Giants would present.

                We are beamed in front of the battlefield in Indianapolis, Indiana. I can’t believe the seemingly positive attention given to what would most surely be a bloody, gruesome battle. There are flashing lights, colorful confetti… and the smell of beer and grilled meat is unlike any war scene I have ever encountered, on any planet. The excitement surrounding this looming war is so thick no one seems to notice three men from the future materializing out of nowhere. As we try to enter the battlefield arena a citizen hassles us for some sort of ticket, but Spock gives him the Vulcan nerve pinch and we begin sifting through the crowd.

                Using an advanced sweat detector, Sulu leads us discretely through a back hallway until we arrive at a door labeled “Patriots Locker Room.” We enter and immediately I am taken aback by the stench of body odor that seems to seep from the cold, stone walls.  But soon I recognize the gray hooded sweatshirt of our distress signaler.

                I approach and extend my hand, “Patriot Belichick, Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. We have come from the future to help you beat these….” I pause as I look around, noticing all the men dressing for battle around me are enormous in stature. “Giants."

                “Great! I added you to the roster. I wasn’t sure if you were coming or not, but I like to keep those fuckers at ESPN on their toes!” Belichick says, slapping me on the back. “Now suit up.”

                As he tosses me one of those silly battle jerseys, I brave a glance back at Spock and Sulu. They are both shaking their heads at me... Sulu mouthing the words “no way.” But, who was I to judge the customs of an archaic society? It was Federation rules to not attempt to alter the culture of any race we encountered. I begin to disrobe from my Captain’s uniform and suit up in our forefather’s battle gear.

* * *

                The battle became at times intense, and then lulled during what was referred to as a “TV time out”. I found it odd that they decided who attacked first based on the flip of a coin, but it’s not my place to pass judgments. The magical object of everyone’s desire turned out to be an oblong brown leathery device that turned to a useless rock whenever the striped men blew their whistles. Very strange battle customs, indeed.

                The noise of the spectators became deafening at times. A giant neon board showed the “score” of the battle, and sometimes what they called a Kiss-Cam. While unfamiliar with such barbaric, and quite frankly unproductive, war tactics I found myself consumed by the roar of the crowd and the smell of sweat and nacho cheese swirling all around me.

                Battle was divided into four quarters, and after three the Giants were rated two points higher than my Patriots. Now as the fourth quarter winds down, a stunned silence fills the arena as our team hero, Rob Gronkowski, goes down hard. While not dead, he has hurt his ankle, which is apparently a big deal for this kind of combat.

                “GROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!!!!!” I cry out emphatically. I see Spock and Sulu exchange a glance and roll their eyes.

                Suddenly Belichick turns toward me. “It’s 4^th and 13 from their 30. Our field goal kicker took a hard one to the nuts earlier when I threw him in on a punt return. Can you kick this field goal?”

                I stare at the Y-shaped yellow post. He needs me to kick the mystical oval between the arches; it will win the battle. I find myself consumed with a longing to take part in this ritualistic combat… to be a hero…. to beat the Giants. I want--

                Suddenly Belichick punches me hard in the arm. “Can you do it or not, fuck nuts?”

                “Only if Sulu spikes, and Spock holds.” I reply. And then, for effect: “Only... if... Spock.... holds.”

                “No prob,” Belichick says and slaps me again, this time on the back. I lurch forward. “He’s not on the roster, but no one will notice his pointy ears under a helmet.” He sends a demanding glare to his sidekick Brady, who lowers his head as he removes his helmet and jersey and hands them to Spock. Sulu emerges with gear of his own and we gaily march onto the battlefield.

                It’s time.

                Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. First I hear Sulu mutter, “Ohhh myyyyy” as he snaps the... ball, I guess they call it. I watch Spock pluck it from the air and carefully lower it to the ground, laces out—he said later that was the only logical way. I run toward him, using advanced meditation techniques to allow myself to only see the ball and the goal posts… effectively ignoring the bloodthirsty Giants sprinting at me. I let my foot connect with the mystical entity just as I had been instructed. Its flight is long and magical; end over end, right through the center of the goal posts.

                It…. was…. good.

                I hear the spectators erupt with ear-shattering cheers and jeers. I stand proudly in the field, receiving accolades from my fellow Patriots as they trot away. I stay behind, smiling at the yellow posts and admiring my own foot strength,  as a striped man saunters up and tells me to “get the hell off the field.” As I walk off the fake grass I realize I am leaving a hero. The Patriots would end up victorious that night, and my foot was destined to receive a prestigious award they call MVP.  

* * *     

“Captain’s Log: Star Date, same--only much later. Scotty beamed us back and our cool foam fingers survived the journey. The Federation Patriots reigned victorious; although that rascal Belichick admitted later he had sent distress signals all over the galaxy and space-time continuum, in the hopes that someone would show up to save his doomed team. But I believe we changed the course of the universe forever tonight, with one strike of the foot.

                This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise... and Superbowl XLVI MVP... signing off.”

Credits:

**Spock/Belichick image via The Sports Hero

Blame Kimmy Dee for the rest of this atrocity.