Mr. M.: BC, happy Chinese New Year! It's apt that we debate on this festive occasion, because unless I'm mistaken there've been more dongs in your shitter in the Year of the Rat alone than in the entire Beijing phone book. Which brings me to the subject at hand - the subject, of course, being my football-lusting cock and the hand being my hand. That's right: Only one more game to jerk off to. I'll need two tissues this time. One to gather the pearly contents of my convulsing nuts and one to wipe away my tears.
BC: And I wish a happy Chinese New Year to you, Mr. M., even though we all know you much prefer the Year of the Cock. And a year of cock it has been here at Effball. Cock to feast upon and cock to fear. And only two cocks remain. Which will climb upon the jizz-covered hill to crow, I wonder? Will it be the Cardinals, whose offense, at first blush, appears as gay as the cast of Rent but still managed to force the decidedly ungay Eagles into cumslurping submission? Or will it be the Steelers, whose defense flattened the prostates of just about every quarterback they faced this year with the jumbo ass tenderizers in their jocks? There can be only one rooster in the henhouse, after all. One cock in the cage. So I turn to our resident cock expert: What say you, Mr. M.?
Mr. M.: Oh you! With the cock talk. You're so gay, you make Troy Aikman seem straight. You're so gay... When the rest of the world watches the Super Bowl, you'll be watching ESPN's Assmasters. You're so gay, you started packing your bags 'cause you heard pitchers and catchers were reporting for spring training. When you go to Geno's in Philadelphia you order one "jizz wit." You're so gay, you... you... mmm, cheesesteak... Philly... Eagles... McNabb... Dawkins... Westbrook... sigh. I'm tearing up now. What's the use, anyway? Hold me, BC. Hold me in your comforting arms.
Oh yeah, Steelers by 13. Right?
BC: I confess it, M.: I do love men. But not all men. Here's one I'm not a big fan if these days: Kurt "Cuntmouth" Warner. Once again I found myself sitting pantsless in my Barcalounger, ballsack stuck to the glossy pleather, limp cock in hand, having to watch that fucknik thank, for the millionth ass-eating time, his "Lord and Savior, Jesus." Not to be confused with his poolman, Jesus or his gardener, Jesus. And not to be confused, evidently, with the Jesus whose glory and munificence was unable to lift the Eagles to victory. That Jesus didn't really bring it on Sunday, apparently. Maybe that Jesus had his cock nailed to the cross, too, and no measure of earthly arousal could pry it loose so that it might be used to fuck the other Jesus, the Cardinals' Jesus, where and when it counted.
Mr. M.: BC, we try to have fun with our little "blog." We try to amuse ourselves. But sometimes, frankly, you go a little too far. Sometimes you overreach and wind up offending. No, no - hear me out. I'm sorry to lecture you a little bit like this, but I think you'll appreciate that I'm being quite sincere. I think you need to hear this, BC. It's for your own good. I'd expect you to do the same for me. Here's what I'm saying: cool it, sometimes. My brother. Don't cross the line just for the sake of crossing the line. Think, for chrissakes. Think! Use your head, not your cock. Don't stab me in my Eagles-loving face with your cum-spurting boner! Don't rub your balls into my face that the Eagles lost to the Cardinals. It's too much! I can't bear it! Don't mention their name again! Jesus Christ can fuck the exhumed corpse of Vince Lombardi and ejaculate onto his dusty, brittle ribcage, but don't let me hear the word "Eagles" for the next six months!
Oh hey, enjoy Sunday. See you in September.
Pittsburgh 34, Arizona 21
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