We had to tackle the quarterback. It's called 'sacking'. Honestly, that's the name for it? Can you imagine? Freud would have a word with you about that!

And you know what? The quarterback never did anything to me. He's not my enemy. He's just a cog. Red versus blue. Green versus yellow. Black versus white. It's all so scripted, all so contrived, all so predictable.

My enemy is not the quarterback, and I am not his enemy. The enemy is capitalism. It's the fat cats. It's my dad. I didn't want to play football; my dad wanted to, but his body is frail and broken, so I fill the vicarious role.

Frick you, Dad. Frick you, Dad. Frick you, Dad.

And frick you, Bush. Fricking war criminal.

"Smear the queer" was an important part of adolescent development and the zoomers would be far better off if they got the shit smacked out of them earlier in life then got back up, dusted themselves off, and returned the favor

if you want them to love you, play prevent all game on every down