CHEVRON MEN'S ROOM, I-35 JUST SOUTH OF WACO - Last night saw the birth of a
new rivalry in the FFFL, and the possible devastation of two men's sanity.
Officials from the Negrotic Mandangos and Swollen LeftNutz announced that
they were breaking precedent and holding a joint press conference preceding
this week's fantasy matchup between the two organizations. Since the
relationship between the two teams has been amicable throughout the season,
nobody could have predicted how quickly the wheels would fly off this event.
Tony Smith, assitant coach of the Mandangos, approached the podium first.
Smith was glowing, as if he had just profited from some insider trading, ala
Martha Stewart. "I am proud to announce that, under the sponsorship of the
Charmin corporation, this week's matchup is being billed as, The Brawl in
the Stall." While this did seem to explain the odd location for this press
conference, it seemed to rub Swollen LeftNutz owner/gm, Adam Daley, the
wrong way. Daley sprung to his feet and procured the microphone adjacent to
Smith's. "Excuse me, Mr Smith, but 2000 Flushes Blue has been selected to
sponsor this week's battle, to be referred to as, The Epic in the Septic."
With this, the mood in the men's room immediately turned sour. What ensued
was a brutal exchange of words between the two organization's
representatives. Unfortunately, nobody present could comprehend what the
hell was going on, so we have simply chosen to print a transcript of this
verbal duel:
Daley - where is the picture frame!?!?!?!?!
Smith - Do you smell milk duds?
Daley - No, but i see some in the toilet. I can't hear
the green yarn!
Smith - Silly soup, tell me I'm going out like independence
Day with Cosby, like the movie, but I'll be back
with more soup.
Daley - what the fuck does that have to do with the
macaroni aircraft in the boat's sink?
Smith - Only that noodles flip old school rap with
pancakes and telephones, calling at 2:27 p.m. and
asking for germans, but all you have is purple
Daley - Which adequately explains why there is no ink in
the pizza cutter, for the fuel charged too many
porcupines for the knot.
Smith - So that girl that talks with her eyes, she asked,
"Can you see what I'm saying?", and I saw fractal
geometry but knew she meant "bake until golden
brown", but I went along and ended up with vomit
with little bits of volkswagon beetle in it. I knew
I'd puked Bumblebee, but can't remember having
Ray Lewis give a shit. Then the horns kicked in.
Daley - However, the talking pear tree called you over
and spoke of the black baking rack that seems to
be nestled alone on the west beach. Bumblebee's
remains smell of Clorox, yet the monitor displays
graham crackers. Scurvy appears relentless in
Emmitt's pursuit of David Terrell's broken ear.
Smith - Still, I said for the parrot to take its oath, so my
spleen could hash out some political tort reform. I
ended up with Cousin Emmitt pursuing a nap sack
filled of tiddies with no nipples. The Underground
Nipple Railroad had freed them from the biscuit
horde, but our pursuit insisted on hiding in the cole
slaw. I knew this was going to end up at
Brownsboro High School, but flying octopi tend
to leave one with questions involving the home
shopping network.
Daley - For, alas, it was your dealings with the home
shopping network that forced upon you the
horrors of hair wax with toilet seat fixtures
adorning your eye brows. Thus the logical
adoption of your anti-aquatic scuba diving
excursions, which to the surprise of your hamster,
involved selling the ironing board and one of your
wife's smaller toe nails.
Smith - Just to gain the ability to sell pads made of tires.
Immediately, the argument stopped and Daley pulled out a scale from beneath
his seat. Smith followed suit. The atmosphere began to resemble that of a
heavyweight boxing weigh-in. Smith stepped upon his scale, ripped off his
shirt & struck a Hulk Hogan-esque pose. "I weigh 117 Pizza Hut Big New
Yorkers, bitch...read 'em and weep!" Daley's chest bowed and he too stepped
upon his scale, however he chose to rip off his pants. "I weigh 729
McDonald's Quarter Pounders w/Cheese* (*pre cooked weight)! Either you will
win this matchup or you won't, but you can rest assured, Smith, I'll do just
the opposite!" Smith responded with the last words of this encounter. "My
cock itches."
