Greetings! Is it Week 3, already?! Holy O’hemlock, time is flying by, yet it’s frozen for me somehow. As I lay here, chest’a-flat on this one of a kind gargoyle-engraved marble bench in the depths of Beddict manor, I can’t help but question some of my life choices as I ponder my next move. I envision that many of you may feel the same way: Did you marry the right squaw/man? Why did you let him/her talk you into that third pet, or third child for that matter? Why is your son a quarter black? Why are you in that cubicle, working for some filth you despise, checking your Facebook account every five minutes, wondering if you should buy that seemingly incredibly crafted waist-trainer for your significant other? Would that make you want to bang him/her again? Probably not, but it’s something to waste more meaningless time with, giving you a glimmer of hope that one day, MAYBE, possibly, you could make love to your mate again and not have to envision some celebrity, hot third cousin, or you children’s friends or whatever sick fetish that is now festering inside you like a rotting, maggot-infested weasel corpse. Anyway, who’s ready for some football?
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For taking the time to read this post, I say thank-ya. Say thank-ya Big-big. I am Tehol Beddict and these are my week three rankings. TAKE HEED!
Cam Newton has not struck true as of yet and with his bum shoulder still not rotating fluidly, like an orgasming octopi, Killa Cam has underwhelmed the masses through two weeks. Should we be concerned? Fret not, my goodmen, for the Saints of New Orleans are marching into Carolina, and they come with holes already cut between the tights that contain their muscled butt cheeks. First, they made peasant King, Sam Bradford, into King Arthur, famed master of Camelot and owner of the masterful Merlin, who created the first butt-plugs in our world’s great history. Then, Tom Brady, the man who failed to practice safe sex, bastardizing his son, with the forgotten and beleaguered, Bridget Moynahan, pulled his jock-strap aside and did the same to the Saints defense, for they are now all his children. Gisele would see them cast out into the outer-lands, where they would be forced to fend for themselves against monstrosities of the likes you and I have never before witnessed, but we no longer run our civilization that way, for better or for worse.
Newton is my number one quarterback this week and you mustn’t argue it, not unless you want to wake up screaming in the night, howling in terror, sweating like an alter-boy in church who saw the priest chugging the sacramental wine before the service. For he/she who crosses Beddict, the man who deals in lead and shaft, usually, if not always, lives to rue the day they denied the holiness spewed from the fingertips of the Elder born savant. You’ve got be realistic about these things.
