Salve, Magisterium.
I was visiting with Brother Bernard, the Enclave’s archivist, the other night and beneath the full, silvery moon, with the sound of his rare, red piglets squealing in the background, Brother Bernard passed on to me a rare and unsettling manuscript. For centuries the Enclave has gathered every piece of writing in existence. Not just work that has been published, mind you, but copies of every scrap and doodle on earth are gathered, catalogued, and archived by Brother Bernard’s minions.
It was with trembling hands that the good Brother handed me this work, and I share it with you now, previously lost to the ages, only so that you may understand the devastating power of the written word, the vastly overrated goodness of abbreviations, and the importance of a good editor.
OMG, IMO Gators’ Meyer so Hott I May G in my P’s
His name is etched in the anals (sic) of history.
When rain falls, it whispers his name just before landing.
He has sired forty-three magnificent children, an endangered Panda, and two unicorns.
Last month he dunked on Shaquille O’Neal, ten times, in a charity basketball fundraiser that raised enough money to end poverty in India.
When he farts, it smells like baking bread.
“I guess that’s pretty cool, huh?†Urban Meyer says, and then casually chucks a javelin that travels a record breaking 110 meters. “Pretty cool.â€
Cool? Try “Fucking Cool.†Try “Jesus Christ could Only Dream, Cool.â€Â Try “So Fucking Awesome I Want to Die in Your Arms if Only just To Brush Against Your Chin Whiskers One Time Before Burying My Face in Your Crotch As I Lapse into Eternal Slumber, Papa Meyer, Cool.â€
Urban Meyer is the heppest swingin’ cat in Football Town. He’s the jazziest, jazzy dj jazzy jazz in college football. He’s Scott Joplin with a belly full of rotgut and one hand on the laminated play-calling card. He’s Yowlin’ “Skips†McCready with a finger in the air and a packet of Dentine Ice in his back pocket. He’s Ella Fitzgerald with a better voice, body, and knack for undermining a zone defense through playcalling.
He has the biggest cock ever.
Urban Meyer once beat Minnesota Fats in a game of 8-ball billiards using only his glans as a cue. No hands necessary.
Urban Meyer has sipped champagne from the navels of each of the last seven Grammy Award Winners for best new artist, even John Legend’s.
Urban Meyer is so hot that he can roast an entire turkey by merely pinching his nuts together and yawning on the fowl. It doesn’t even have to be thawed...
The list continues for one hundred-and-three pages after that, makes some rather dubious claims about a football coach’s abilities and sexual proclivities, and concludes abruptly with the sentence: “Only I could make you truly happy, Urban.â€
The piece has no author listed, but is written entirely on Orlando Sentinel stationary and is heavily perfumed with Calvin Klein’s “CKIN2U†Cologne. Which is delicious.
Let us read and heed. Warnings abound in such work, and the would-be columnist wallows in superlatives like a pig rolling in its neighbor’s shit.
Let us pray for lost souls, and let us pray for gout unto those who worship false idols.
H’amen.
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domer.mq
“…but copies of every scrap and doodle on earth are gathered, catalogued, and archived by Brother Bernard’s minions.”
Well, that explains where my underwear goes. I thought it was the gnomes all this time.
trey
“…the biggest cock ever.”
Yep, that sums up Urban Leyer pretty good.