A Revealing, Fervent Letter to Duke Calhoun

ED: This post has a soundtrack, after the jump click play on the embedded video below.  Also, I don't care how untimely this may be because I was stuck in dull-ass training seminars all day so, in order to pass as diligently taking notes while fulfilling my bloggeur duties, I scribbled a bunch of this on notebook paper and had Whiskey Wednesday polish it up for me.  Suck it up.  You know you're going to enjoy it you know what, I never said that.  Have fun!


Hmph.  So the Southeastern Conference's greed filled offices have confirmed our initial suspicions: you hurt me, and you wanted to.


Don't you dare scoff at this notion, you rogue.  That afternoon, as I was early in my quest to bring true, soul-wrenching suffering to that poor, insufferable piece of filth you call "quarterback," you did your damnedest to thwart me.

I saw nothing.  Tunnel-vision driven by my bloodlust ensured this.  I was gliding with a purpose, and then I felt it.

It began low, at my extremities.  My left foot.  It then bolted up my leg like the album sales of the corporate teet suckling Fall Out Boy assholes.  Through my ankle, my knee, my hip, my exquisitely sculpted torso, and then into my deep, vacuous chest cavity.

Ok Duke, you poor creature.  You thought you had me conquered.  You thumped your chest, thinking you had ended gr3gxxz.

But... [wipes tear from under eye, applies mascara] you only unleashed the maniacal harbinger of hatred and doom from within my being.

Duke, it reached my heart.  It danced throughout my body before exploding, consuming the entirety of my being in a massive conflagration of pain.  I became a beast, a monster.  Death incarnate.

The desperate team "doctors" tried to contain me.  They dragged me, reeling, into the locker room.

"Lie on the table, Greg," they commanded.  "We need to get that X-Rayed, Greg."


"Please, Greg, you really cannot further your injuries."

Injuries?  I am no longer shackled by corporeal pain!  I am... gr3gxxz!!!!!!!!!

I lept up, determined to fulfill my wretched destiny.  I emerged from the catacombs underneath the NWO-Government Oppression Liberty Bowl, ready to project my inner pain in most outward manner.

And I won, Duke. Back in the game... Arkelon dares run my direction, and with an intense glare, I RAPE HIS SOUL!!!!! He surrenders the ball to me without a struggle. A meaningless trophy that I fleetingly possess, ironically cavorting around with my teammates. Sometimes, a mere physical victory compels the body to convulse about in a manner most unbecoming of the tortured mind trapped within. But I won, Duke. And I know it makes you bleed.

See, I know why you do the viciously despicable things you do.  You're one of us.  I see it in you.  Your guilt encrusted regrets, your self-loathing, your anger.  You fester, stew in this disgusting broth of misery every single day as a part of the Memphis Tigers football program.  You hang your head in shame as you lose to a football team in Murfeesboro.  You weep in frustration as Arkelon Hall throws  wobbly passes at your feet.  And, as those bitter tears roll down your cheek, you steep in agony as you see the team you spurned earn the pathetic adoration of this vile, greedy nation.

Your coach understands us, Duke.

Duke, join me.  Embrace every despicable thing about yourself.  Become... dük3rxxrgz!  I anticipate a Myspace friend request soon, wretch. 


Hard world doubt me now,




Post Scriptum - A brief message from my compatriot Marshay: "Hit me again muhfukka an' see what happen 
BASTROP RAMS BABY!!" [flexes muscles, runs in circles, writes something mean on Graham Harrell's Facebook wall

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