2d
🎥 SPORTS BALL: THE MADNESS, THE MONEY
An ESPN Original Documentary (That ESPN Would Never Air)
In a world where nothing matters except touchdowns, money, and unchecked, repressed daddy-issue aggression, one league reigns supreme:
THE NFL
(National Feelings League)
Now with no helmet-to-helmet contact!
Born from the ancient, time-honored tradition of jungle warfare—kicking your enemy’s severed head through a loop (which, honestly, still makes more sense than half their current rules)—this sport has changed very little, aside from 4,000 penalties per game and the occasional pastel commercial for ***** pills.
The Holy Grail:
The Gold-Slathered Hunk of Plastic
Shaped like something you’d only see at a German dungeon *** party, this trophy somehow inspires grown-*** man-children to pay millions to lawyers, all for the chance to take the giant gold ******* symbol home and **** it on a throne made of endangered bald eagles.
Rituals and Rites:
Every repetitive, altogether meaningless match kicks off with the mandatory pre-game ritual:
Helicopter flyovers
More ***-touching than a scoutmaster at summer camp (it’s called “team bonding,” apparently)
Prancing, jumping, and chest-thumping
The Scandals:
But the National Feelings League isn’t without its scandals. In fact, their most profitable season ever followed the notorious incident simply known as:
“The Outbreak of **** ****** Run Amok Again.”
Sales of commemorative **** cream skyrocketed. Grade school absentee rates soared.
The Stadium Deals:
Where things get really ******:
Cities lured into coughing up their last nickel with promises like:
******* CRACK ***** BINGO – 5¢ Wednesdays
(Featuring ex-Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders)
Taxpayers and their great-great-grandchildren will be paying for that mistake… twice.
The Crimes:
When players get busted for crimes ranging from ****** assault to running illegal animal fighting rings, they always cry the same defense:
“I was here first, *******. They built this whole ******* around me. These ain’t my drugs.”
Everyone nods respectfully and immediately lets them off.
The Latest Locker Room Scourge:
Whispers grow about the latest banned substance tearing through $387 billion locker rooms:
Raccoon Steroids — Naturally Sourced.
Side effects include:
Sudden ****
DUI
Out-of-control gambling
Running/funding a gang
Gun running
Why They Play (In Their Own Words):
“I just love the money, know what I’m saying? And the near-God status, and to be able to bang all the people I want, as hard as I want, whenever I want. Know what I’m saying? And no one can tell me what to do because I’m a ******* God now, know what I’m saying? Shut the **** up and get out of the way, whitey. Give me all your money, ******* *******! Oh, and tell your kids to worship me harder. Know what I’m saying?
I deserve all this money and fame and to be a hero because, after all, I got one-tenth of a microgram more testosterone than you did during puberty.”
Slow piano music plays. Fade to black.
The Interview:
The exact moment every sports interview turns into pure brain death.
It’s always some mouth-breathing, concussion-riddled slab of protein farts mumbling through sentences like his neurons are melting mid-syllable, punctuating every third breath with “you know what I’m saying?”
YES, WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. YOU’RE SAYING NOTHING.
And yet, somehow, almost half of America is still hanging on your every word.
“Yeah man, it’s been a grind this season, you know what I’m saying? We just take it day by day, you know what I’m saying? We come out here, we try to play hard, you know what I’m saying? Like we just gotta keep grinding, you know what I’m saying?”
NO. NO, *******.
I don’t know what you’re saying because you’re not saying anything. Have you ever once in your life?
And they always act like they’re breaking some deep-*** philosophy, too:
“Man, it’s hot out here… you know what I’m saying? Like, I be sweating. Like for real, sweating. Pads be heavy, yo. That’s just how it be sometimes, you know what I’m saying?”
*******, you signed up for a full-contact meat collision sport where the entire job is “get hit and fall down,” but somehow you’re shocked that it involves… sweating? And falling down?
Don’t tell me you’ve been doing it this whole time and it’s just now shocking to you. Don’t tell me you haven’t been watching all those tapes since you were a little kid, *******!
And they’re always saying it like it’s some revelation, like they’ve cracked the code of the universe:
“Sometimes, man… you just gotta play the game… you know what I’m saying?”
NO. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
Because that sentence has zero calories. It’s a microwaved air sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Then they wanna get an attorney and sue the other guy for helmet-to-helmet contact. Like they didn’t know what they were signing up for.
Oh wait, these giant dudes is trying to tackle me. Oh ****, man.
An ESPN Original Documentary (That ESPN Would Never Air)
In a world where nothing matters except touchdowns, money, and unchecked, repressed daddy-issue aggression, one league reigns supreme:
THE NFL
(National Feelings League)
Now with no helmet-to-helmet contact!
Born from the ancient, time-honored tradition of jungle warfare—kicking your enemy’s severed head through a loop (which, honestly, still makes more sense than half their current rules)—this sport has changed very little, aside from 4,000 penalties per game and the occasional pastel commercial for ***** pills.
The Holy Grail:
The Gold-Slathered Hunk of Plastic
Shaped like something you’d only see at a German dungeon *** party, this trophy somehow inspires grown-*** man-children to pay millions to lawyers, all for the chance to take the giant gold ******* symbol home and **** it on a throne made of endangered bald eagles.
Rituals and Rites:
Every repetitive, altogether meaningless match kicks off with the mandatory pre-game ritual:
Helicopter flyovers
More ***-touching than a scoutmaster at summer camp (it’s called “team bonding,” apparently)
Prancing, jumping, and chest-thumping
The Scandals:
But the National Feelings League isn’t without its scandals. In fact, their most profitable season ever followed the notorious incident simply known as:
“The Outbreak of **** ****** Run Amok Again.”
Sales of commemorative **** cream skyrocketed. Grade school absentee rates soared.
The Stadium Deals:
Where things get really ******:
Cities lured into coughing up their last nickel with promises like:
******* CRACK ***** BINGO – 5¢ Wednesdays
(Featuring ex-Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders)
Taxpayers and their great-great-grandchildren will be paying for that mistake… twice.
The Crimes:
When players get busted for crimes ranging from ****** assault to running illegal animal fighting rings, they always cry the same defense:
“I was here first, *******. They built this whole ******* around me. These ain’t my drugs.”
Everyone nods respectfully and immediately lets them off.
The Latest Locker Room Scourge:
Whispers grow about the latest banned substance tearing through $387 billion locker rooms:
Raccoon Steroids — Naturally Sourced.
Side effects include:
Sudden ****
DUI
Out-of-control gambling
Running/funding a gang
Gun running
Why They Play (In Their Own Words):
“I just love the money, know what I’m saying? And the near-God status, and to be able to bang all the people I want, as hard as I want, whenever I want. Know what I’m saying? And no one can tell me what to do because I’m a ******* God now, know what I’m saying? Shut the **** up and get out of the way, whitey. Give me all your money, ******* *******! Oh, and tell your kids to worship me harder. Know what I’m saying?
I deserve all this money and fame and to be a hero because, after all, I got one-tenth of a microgram more testosterone than you did during puberty.”
Slow piano music plays. Fade to black.
The Interview:
The exact moment every sports interview turns into pure brain death.
It’s always some mouth-breathing, concussion-riddled slab of protein farts mumbling through sentences like his neurons are melting mid-syllable, punctuating every third breath with “you know what I’m saying?”
YES, WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. YOU’RE SAYING NOTHING.
And yet, somehow, almost half of America is still hanging on your every word.
“Yeah man, it’s been a grind this season, you know what I’m saying? We just take it day by day, you know what I’m saying? We come out here, we try to play hard, you know what I’m saying? Like we just gotta keep grinding, you know what I’m saying?”
NO. NO, *******.
I don’t know what you’re saying because you’re not saying anything. Have you ever once in your life?
And they always act like they’re breaking some deep-*** philosophy, too:
“Man, it’s hot out here… you know what I’m saying? Like, I be sweating. Like for real, sweating. Pads be heavy, yo. That’s just how it be sometimes, you know what I’m saying?”
*******, you signed up for a full-contact meat collision sport where the entire job is “get hit and fall down,” but somehow you’re shocked that it involves… sweating? And falling down?
Don’t tell me you’ve been doing it this whole time and it’s just now shocking to you. Don’t tell me you haven’t been watching all those tapes since you were a little kid, *******!
And they’re always saying it like it’s some revelation, like they’ve cracked the code of the universe:
“Sometimes, man… you just gotta play the game… you know what I’m saying?”
NO. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.
Because that sentence has zero calories. It’s a microwaved air sandwich wrapped in plastic.
Then they wanna get an attorney and sue the other guy for helmet-to-helmet contact. Like they didn’t know what they were signing up for.
Oh wait, these giant dudes is trying to tackle me. Oh ****, man.
(49)
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
