SB Nation User Blog: Tbone Stallone

Dear Missouri: 35-7

Tbone Stallone — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 21:44:16 -0000

Dear Mizzou,

In 2003, a 32 year old Jason White lead the then undefeated Oklahoma Sooners into Arrowhead Stadium, where he and the rest of his over-hyped Mongoloids were forced to go ass-to-mouth by a quick midget and the letter L. If you're lucky enough to pick the right dumpster you can ask Teddy Lehman and he'll swear Darren Sproles was covered in eely afterbirth and foaming at the mouth from PCP .

Dan Cody remembers it differently:

"Ell Roberson took my virginity four times that night. The color purple still makes my stool watery to this day. Would you like to value-size?"

Kansas State, built by the meaty hands of Bill Snyder and any JUCO transfer with a prison record, ripped off the left arm of a Sooner juggernaut and proceeded to sodomize Oklahoma with the bloody stump to the tune of 35-7 that night. Using the pseudo-home field advantage, the Wildcats handled OU's highly touted defense with the speed and dexterity of the Bionic Woman on a handjob train. The very same home field advantage you will have this Saturday against an OU defense that has repeatedly blown the homeless for cardboard all year long.

This may be the last time your team is in the position to win a Big 12 championship for decades Your success won't last, take advantage before you're starting 14 underclassmen next year. Iron is hot, put Sam Bradford's Navajo face on it.

Warmest Regards,
TBS

Special note to Chase: Put your fauxhawk and undeserved sense of accomplishment back on after that Kansas loss and get after it this weekend. You're Dallas baby, act like it.

What if?

Tbone Stallone — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 14:52:54 -0000

OU kicks the pussy fart out of Tech. The kind of sick embarrassment you cant recover from. But during mop up Sam Bradford gets decapetated or breaks a finger or decapatated. They go into Stillwater all Ichabod Crane and get handled by the Cowboys the way your uncle did that Thanksgiving when you were 8 and now you can't eat cranberries without crying tears of shame. OU out.

Texas beats A&M and Stephen McGee recedes back into the sewers and waits.

Obviously we root for Baylor like they the white guy versus young Tyson (never going to happen, but little invested for huge payout) regardless. Tech wins and goes to the B12C and beats Mizzou. Assuming Florida runs the table (chopping FelonyState and punking the Satban in Hotlanta). Florida is in Miami. The voters wouldn't let a one-loss Bama go (a la the Mich/OSU debacle in 2006), does Texas have the street cred to stay higher than a Big 12 Champion Tech team? A team that nipped by us in Lubbock and, in this scenario, got mongo'd by the Sooners.

Oh and USC never jumps us, cause they blow stray cock for foodstamps and don't even outright win the Pac-10.

Are we in?

Aggie Fan

Tbone Stallone — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 23:54:38 -0000

Aggie Fan
We all know them, but for those unfamiliar...

Aggie Fan has little in his life to celebrate, therefore any thimble of success is reason to collectively hold hands in solidarity as men in uniform and then later use that same grip to rejoice by ejaculating inside a ruminant. Chances are he’s got home and away Troy Aikman jerseys in his closet and wore both of them at some point last week. Aggie Fan is married to the first woman he had sex with, his wife however is having sex with a black guy from her work.

I may not need to tell you this, but Aggie Fan fights dirty. Have your Baylor friend bring up the 2 point conversion in OT to random Aggie Fan and be prepared to witness an eyeful of thumb or some glass thrown. Point out that R.C. Slocum went 3-8 in bowl games as head coach at A&M or that Stephen McGee is a penis toucher and chances are you’re getting punched in the back of the head.

In every 32 Aggie Fans, there is Aggie Woman. A stocky female, forged from the hardened cowpies that litter the streets of Bryan/College Station, Aggie Woman shops for clothing in BBQ restaurants and has seen more trucker penis than a urinal off I35. Her nipples are like fighter pilot’s thumbs, she’s got a vaginal canal that could pass a U-Haul and she menstruates Pabst Blue Ribbon. Aggie Woman is like the white guy in a southeast St. Louis off-shoot of the Crips; you don’t know how she got there, but she’d cut her own mother’s throat out in the name of respect.

Grampa Aggie is a gentleman by nature, until game day when Kentucky Deluxe and deer sausage turn your family butcher/taxidermist into a belligerent maroon hurricane who vomits okra casserole on his dying wife whilst pridefully spouting antique racist slurs, not bespoken since The New Deal, and calling the Aggie secondary "a bunch of fucking mooncrickets." He’d dive head first into his burlap-sack-wearing pregnant daughter-in-law, if he thought it might help his team get a first down. Grampa Aggie attended A&M during the rapiest years of sheep raping, and still can’t be trusted around the family collie.

...should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet one of the aforementioned, simply place any visibly shiny objects on your person in a small pile and cover said pile with a mixture of Mint Copenhagen Long Cut, giblet gravy and nacho cheese, then run as fast as you can downwind.

Hook 'em
tbs

Where They At?

Tbone Stallone — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 21:19:17 -0000

Dear PB -

So I’m sitting on my couch, mashing fistfuls of lettuce into anything with a carburetor and accidentally watching the NBA last night, when I hear a familiar phrase echoed from my tube, "turnover Maurice Evans." The busted blood of remembrance fills my head with hazy recollections of the before times. The days of 7 win Sun Bowl births, of Tommy Pender’s brilliant soft man-perm, of bottom feeding coaching poise calling consecutive draw plays on long yardage and the days when a 3 hour morning at Planned Parenthood, waiting next to your second date for a MAP, was only a distant nightmare you avoided by pulling out.

Mo Evans, No.

I was pretty sure I saw Maurice Evans working the fryer at a Waffle House in Galveston two months ago. But low and fucking behold undrafted/free-agent LA Laker Maurice Evans. It’s like waking up and all of the sudden Chris Owens isn’t selling you a Hyundai Sonata in San Antonio, but instead rocking power foreword with the T’Wolves.

Peter, you think you’d be up to the challenge of running a little off-season "Where They At!" segment, and either phonebook the whereabouts of former Texas B athletes or give up some sort of offering as to where you they might have ended up? I’d really prefer to hear about the ones that aren’t famous, dead or offering multiple toothpick’s worth of sausage from a wheelchair at the Westlake Flagship on Bee Caves every Sunday from 11-2. I’m talking local heroes, fallen talent, people who’s best days of life are 10 years behind them, where both the future and their résumé’s look about as appealing as sipping a pink-eye-snot smoothie.

Athletes like the devastatingly immortal Brandy Perriman, a man who could single handedly crush your parlay by going 1 for 13 from half court with two assists. Or Stoney Clark, a 400 pound baby Jesus juggernaut, who relives the pinnacle of his life every Sunday, by dressing his retarded brother-in-law up in an OU jersey then proceeds to knock the blood-tears out of him while humming Kenny Loggins lyrics. Or Dusty Renfro who married notorious adult film star Tonso Flabia and to this day still punches unsuspecting strangers in the kidneys for fun, making them urinate red for months after (Fuck You Renfro!).

Hook us up with some info on the likes of a Ryan Nunez, James Thomas, Deginald Erskin, Mike Adams, Dustin Majewski, Gabe Muoneke, BJ Johnson, Kwame Cavil and Commander Dick Walton.

Very Best Regards,
tbs

Those days where...

Tbone Stallone — Sun, 22 Oct 2006 18:06:14 -0000

Sometimes we get lost in discussions over whether Horange should've worn white at her wedding or if 54b's career as a donkey fluffer will ever reach that next level, allowing him to quit his lucrative night manager role at the Bedford Sonic.

Lets take a second now, to remember the college days that made us the men we are today, the college days that now make us check BON nine times an hour, to see if anyone agrees that Auburn should be ranked 7 in the polls and not 6; the days that medically scrambled our DNA enabling us to put back a bottle of Crown and still have the wherewithal to offer up a litany of justifications supporting our earlier accusations that Guy Morris is at least one third homosexual Labrador. Those days where alcohol, marijuana and pussy never met a problem they couldn't remedy, those days where...

...trips to Dallas for OU, might find our Pi Phi date overdosing on Hot Damn!, bars of Xanax and the perceived skill to convince us of her maintained virginity, while donning a crushed Oreo bikini and between breaths taken during her fun-sword swallowing private circus performance.

...we'd call a friend's ex-girlfriend from Southwest Texas State and then try to stay up for the hour it takes her unconditionally-fucks-now-but-may-fake-a-pregnancy-later undereducated ass to drive up to Austin, unprotectedly bend over in front of us for 20 minutes and then drive back to San Marcus; no doubt crying over how much of a whore she's become.

...we'd spend dead week hitting on Del Rio High blaxican valley trash in the Corona Club, only to vomit four dog tacos in the border taxi, with three pounds of mixed painkillers securely fastened to our taint, which we'll trade with any white scholarship athlete for a copy of next weeks Linear Algebra final.
.
...we might wait for the pair of fake tits, that brags about sucking Chris Simms' tiny dick on Thursdays; to pass out on our bed, so we can cop a silicone feel, draw an arrow next to the words `for sale' in Magic Marker on her inner thigh and gatecrash her cel phone for said New Jersey spleen tear's number. She might later become the recipient of closed-fists `slaps' from Brad Buckman's roommate; just like we might chain-text said phone number and random opal-blue Audi license plate details to every foaming Longhorn, coincidently on a night that saw four unforced turnovers in roughly 18 minutes.

...we'd pump the keg for a freshman redshirt from Houston, at a small Waterford party, congratulating him on becoming a Longhorn and whispering, "Just go out there and play your game."

...we'd stop by our Delt friend's house to pick up a quarter of Russian Blackberry, and maybe catch the third quarter of a MNF game, only to spend four hours in a very Real World discussion about the nipples of every chicana in a 10 mile radius, while passing a 2 foot chambered bong between, a guy who says he's about to be on the radio and some scrawny alumni named Major, who's working for the University now.

...we'd make our girlfriend show J. Brent Cox her vagina for an autographed Spiro's napkin, and then break-up with her a day later for being a complete whore.

...we'd wait in line at one of the Jew frat's annual top shelf parties to catch a glimpse of arguably the best college point guard ever and hopefully have brought a hot enough set of chicks with us to pimp one off to a member of his entourage and maybe find out what its like to breathe the same air as greatness.

...we'd get to watch crackface Aaron Humphry lose the ability to breath nasally, courtesy of a rabid forehead delivered from our fraternal big brother, who can put a cinder block in his shirt pocket, eats grass to induce vomiting and works summers as a load bearing column in Jester.

...we'd know, when two pinstriped Secret Service agents puma into our summer house party, firearms drawn, that its time to hide the cocaine cause one of the first daughters is about to arrive, and we might want to have a little tour support for the rest of the week.

...we'd ask him how good the head from Tom Penders was, go on to explain that we fucked his 17 year old sister moo-cow, at a ranch party, while our friend charged others to watch, then finally we'd try to pour two mason jars worth of Buffalo Club Long Island Ice Tea on his Versace suede vest; just to actually get a chance to see Chris Mihm play defense.

...we'd take `AMS 325K - History of Black Entrepreneurs,' because we need a writing component during the summer, when, with 5 minutes to go on presentation day, a windbreakered Roy Williams shows up, unrolls his dick, furiously masturbates, proudly raises his ejaculate then passes it around the class for everyone to taste. Roy receives an A, round of applause and hummer from the professor, only to then jump out the 3rd story window and fly off, to no doubt save a burning bus-full of newborns from an approaching tornado.

It Feels Good to Hate Again

Tbone Stallone — Tue, 03 Oct 2006 16:32:33 -0000

Hey Fuckers,
For those who aren't aware, I've been drowning in the sea of busted grills and shitty head, that is England, for the past year. Since the Rose Bowl, the closest thing to Texas Football I've experienced is vomiting pitchers of Kronenbourg 1664 into the Trafalgar Square fountain at 5am after watching the four hour stillbirth that is a post-Vince offense. Fortunately, over the past three games, we've seen a heartfelt reconciliation between young Mommy Davis and her orphaned running game.

Well, I'[m back bitches, back to knock geriatric s00ner couples on their asses with a swinging Z71 door, back to pickpocket a paralytic Okie in the bathroom, then sell his ticket back to him at three times face, back to spraypainting 'Miss Oklahoma' on the side of a greased boar mysteriously let loose in the Antique Automobile Show, back to challenging crimson-shirted tits to a spelling bee, only to watch them go out on the coverage Billy Sweepley will surgically dissect for three scores (N-I-C-K-L-E) , and back to making friends with the loudest used-tampon-colored group of Nelly listening, gingivitis embracing, cleft-pallatte-from-generations-of-second-cousin-intercourse, Al's Feed Store coworkers; only to subsequently jam seven corny dogs into their respective Flow Master exhaust pipes with extreme prejudice.

See you at the game boys, I'll be the one wearing the "Sooner Prighd - Because you can't spell fUcking wOrthless w/o OU" Windbreaker and pajama bottoms.

Hook Em'
Tbone

P. S. If i came home and found Sergio Kindle stuffing my girlfriend, I would cover his ass with a blanket and quietly congratulate him on his 9 tackles, so as not to disturb.

The Progno

Tbone Stallone — Thu, 07 Sep 2006 15:56:21 -0000

So this is my revised/rewritten preseason prognostication of The Ohio State Herbstreets' juggernaut rematch with our National Champion Texas Longhorns. All events are true and although haven't happened, fucking will.

Last Week...
The product of malt brandy, a later-recalled prophylactic and quiet AutoZone parking lot started last week's impending horse slaughter. Colt looked as sharp as a 5 star Korean chef hurling meat cleavers into a pack of neighborhood dogs. First offensive play was the wide out bubble screen, which only proves that the frustrating genius of Greg Davis is back in full effect. Most of the cUNT offense required minor surgery to have molded plastic removed from their souls at halftime. It was great to see that Tony Hills Jr. and Frank Okam could sneak away from their normal jobs as load bearing pillars in Jester, to show up for a few hours and dominate. The Candyman - Brian Orakpo = a kitten.
Texas 56; Denton State 7 (T-bone $300: Bookie $0)

Even though the Salukis racked the yards up in Columbus, the game was later described as the kind of tactless forced entry that makes one think of an operating chainsaw through plate glass. Troy Smith, Ted Ginn Jr. and the running back combo gang raped the spreading holes in the NIll defense. However, his own Christmas sweater-in-August defense left Mighty Jim hungry like the Wolfe after allowing 343 yards.
The Ohio State 35, Northern Ill Communication 12 (T-Bone $450; Bookie Angry)

PreGame...
I wake up in London on Saturday afternoon in a friend's Papisan chair, now with spina bifida. After a gateway night of 9% cider, Amsterdam mud bong Yahtzee and accidentally trying crack, I wonder whether a slug from a sniper's rifle at close range might prevent my brain from escaping. Out of my trash bag suitcase, I yank a wrinkled Saturday burntO Polo, like a Kleenex from its box, and smoke a joint through St. James Park on the way to my beloved Spearmint Rhino.

The Spearmint Rhino is home to the tallest brass pole in all of Britain; as well as being one of the only places in London which televises a live ESPN feed, the loose drug use in this septic tank makes for a friendly environment. Mango, behind the bar, sees me arrive and flips the cricket match over to Kirk's fuckpained expression as he breaks down Lloyd Carr's pelvic thrusts, indicating a Wolverine extra point try. Sandi sits next to me and uses my crotch as her hand puppet, I flash an empty wallet and she licks my chest goodbye.

I notice, this time, Kirk hasn't brought his future-samesexual children on the Home Depot stage to curse the facejockey's alma mater. In all his hairspray wisdom, Herbie full throttles the breathtaking prediction that "Mack's team may be looking ahead to some Major shenanigans out of Rice Village." Please don't forget last year's courageous pick of A&M winning the B12 and Alley McNeal going to New York...
Bravo Kirk.
How many times can you straight-up look the fool by downplaying this Texas squad? At some point the Herb needs to get Trev Albertsed for the asinine opinions that come bile-spewing out of his swelling head.
"Not so fast Sweetheart," Lee breaks down the 12 passions of JC and likens him to Barry Sanders, "but a better blocker." The pulsing bay of orange facepaint raises the roof when Corso dons the right mascot head this time and throws up his horns. The ever controversial Chris Fowler asks if he can make his pick at the end of the game.

Emma wanders over, slips her g-string down to just above clitoris and I smile thinking about Brian Jones wearing a shiny rust-colored double breasted suit and getting tangled in the points he tries to make off the cuff, somewhere on a lesser network. Emma does the thing where her head is between your ankles and she pounds her pelvis into your khaki cock; I Jew her down to £5, and she tosses her ass in my face to the next Pussycat Dolls melodic cholera

The Spearmint Rhino is a strip club.

I wish I could rub elbows with Limus, accidentally knock 54b into something ablaze and beer talk Gourds with PB at the coveted BON tailgate, but alas I say goodbye to my friends at the Rhino, tuck an erect penis under my belt and head in the direction of the Sports Café.

The Game...
Have you ever been to Ringers in Austin? Fleet Street's Sports Café is Ringers, but Englishier (which means gayer). They serve Miller Light, which the thought of alone makes me spontaneously orgasm over, and it's full of Texas Exes. The ex-Pike's trophy-wife next to me is two more nips of Sambuca from slingshotting her nipple-juicing tanktop; causing several akimbo perverts to exchange emails with the one guy who remembered his digital camera. You know the woman I'm talking about, she gets excited at the wrong times, the system operator of a mustache husband pays her little attention and those recent collagen injections cause a slight speech impediment. Look her in the eye once and chances are good there may be a hand job waiting for you in one of the stalls at halftime.

-1st Q -
Texas wins the toss with Robison's clever "Hails" call in the air, and chooses to capture the first possession and virginity of this game. Texas looks poised, my pitcher looks full and I am getting private eyes from a TriDelt, my meathead roommate used to fuck. The hi-fives rain down up on me after Colt drops an crisp opening 35 yard strike into the outstretched hands of clutch Buckfucker: Limas the Giant.

The question becomes whether or not Jamaal is ready to shuck and jive for ABC on this twilit Austin night? With 55 yards on 3 carries and a touchdown during the opening drive of the game, Charles gives Selvin a shove with adequate playing time on all fours unsuspectingly behind Young's lower legs.

New boy in the neighborhood
Lives down stairs and it's understood.
He's there just to take good care of me
Like he's one of the family.

Right off the bat the Texas defense creates a very familiar atmosphere for QB Troy Smith; allowing him to play the first half handcuffed and waiting for Santonio to bail him out. The only bright spot in the OSU O-fence is Antonio Pittman, who gets close but finds himself very Okamed when nearing the goal line.

Let's take a quick look at Antonio's OSU Media Guide Bio:
Antonio Pittman TB 5'11"/195
Troublesome Tonio was born, in 1985, to the mother described in Tupac's "Brenda's Got a Baby." Growing up on the crackside of Akron, Pittman spent most weekends night-fighting raccoons for edible garbage or shiny objects and scouting warm sewer terminals for a place to sleep. Antonio is the original muse behind the trading cards series: Garbage Pail Kids, but has yet to see any retroactive royalties for his likeness being used as Max Forehead. He co-produced and appeared in several Kriss-Kross videos that were never aired on Mtv. Pittman cleans his teeth with Raid and an oversized wire urinal brush. His favorite actor is Nelly. Tressel recruited Antonio with promises of a cobalt blue `90 Toyota Celica and the locker where Maurice Clarett left his talent.

Greg the Peg Leg Johnson drops a 49 yard field goal to end the first quarter. A stadium rejoices.
OSU 3; Texas 10

-2nd Q-
Early in the 2nd, a clinical exhibition of downfield blocking ignites the 60 yard fuse of a double trouble bubble screen to Mack's favorite New Kid. The Ohio sophomore and redshirt freshman arm tackling can't keep Berman from going "Whoop," nor does it prevent Shipley from doing the Thriller in the endzone, with Big Play Pittman zombie back up dancing.

Tressel runs the play everyone calls Beefeater, because liken to a Sapphire and Tonic, it features smooth Ginn and a hint of minty sour. Only Chizik, likes his Ginn dirty and with a weak side splash of Martini and Aaron Rossi, leaving poor little Teddy shaken but not stirred as the double reverse goes for a Seagram's 7-yard loss.

A few more field goal transactions leave the score going into halftime lawn chair comfortable.
OSU 9; Texas 20

-HT-
At halftime, over the loud noises coming from Aaron Taylor's mouth, as it further attempts to chew the monstrous face it belongs too, I explain to a girl I went down on last season, "that football is like an dramatic television series, sometimes there are great episodes, sometimes there are shitty sub-character development ones; there is always a finale, you just hope its not a series finale, just a great cliffhanger season finale that keeps you looking forward to the next premier when we find out who the Asian fuck is that's keeping them on the island." This cut and dry butterfly analogy is far too complex for her chemically-scared-with-hair-dye cerebellum to come near catching without an insect net. I go on to explain that I will not be eating her out again tonight, unless my dick gets wet first.

-3rd Q-
Back on the field and we're kicking off to Paddington and company, only this kickoff doesn't land deep in the end zone, like previous ones, and the Junior Junior decides to make his way from 4 yards deep. "Motherfuck" the ridiculous cowboy hat behind me says as we both clearly see a tsunami wall of red forming along the left coastline. Ginn saunters past the other goal line, untouched and with our horns classlessly pointed in the wrong direction. "I hope that dirty reggin gets a punch in the mouth." I do too, Cletus I do too. OSU gets the two point QB sweep to make it 20-17 Texas.

"Jesus, McConaughey looks like a fucking German Shepard."
In an obviously Dazed 2 for the Money day bender state, a sleeveless McConaughey maintains eye Contact with Tressel's Reign of Fire; cursing for no reason Matt offers Confused suggestions to several walk-ons and screams to a Frail assistant trainer, "Get me some headphones, it's A Time to Kill these Fuckeyes!" Mack turns to look at the commotion, pulls his hands off his knees, shifts his hair left and claps, in the hope that Matty didn't blow down all of the half-Ozer they split for the weekend

Greg Davis can't quite figure out how to KY Tressel's ribbed blitz schemes and his third quarter play calling doesn't give a restless 85K the warming sensation promised. This lack of offensive lubrication, coupled with two questionable personal fouls, leaves never-ending poor field position and Colt off his back foot drowning in non-Junior High zone coverage.

Towards the end of the slo-mo 3rd, Texas drops into a four point K-hole when The Boi named Troy sprints for a 32 yard out TD on a designed QB draw. Cannon fires and that's the end of the third, with the Buckeyes of Ohio State leading the Texas Longhorns 24-20.

-4th Q-
To open, Selvin UPS Grounds an unforced fumble and OSU has the ball on the Texas 30. Somewhere in the crowd Peter Bean grabs his chest. Ever faithful, but sometimes easily depressed, I quickly think about Emma's salty ass on the couch of our champagne room and whether or not tonight might be the night she agrees to free vaginal intercourse. God I love Emma. It may have been the Jager shots, but I can't even remember the last time Texas lost. Where is my bulletproof ebony caped crusader to rescue the day, as per usual?

If you look closely you can sort of make out the adamantine skeletal scaffolding of Roddrick Muckelroy and wait, is that steam leaving his nostrils? Ball is snapped and handed off to the freshman Wells who runs to the weak side and widens his route eluding the Baby Huey hug, soon to be enforced by New England Crowder; when, from a dark void discharges an orange bullet with white pants. The hit occurs a full three seconds before the crackling thunder of molded plastic-on-bone can ripple through the mezzanine of The Crown (DKR). The authority of the hit causes most players to arrest play in order to allow the atmosphere to restore profuse volumes of displaced air, vacuumed by a rift in space at the point of collision. Closing in on the play, a Griffin swoops down to pick up Well's unnaturally forced football ejaculate, and turns to head for Sixth Street. Okey Lokey lays the sinister block-of-the-game on an unsuspecting Helen of Troy. Texas back up 27-24, and I purposely spill my Whiskey/Coke onto the white crotch of the bimbo next to me, but politely offer to lap it up.

Have you ever jokingly called a girl crazy, like saying "what up crazy?" and then she gets mad; only further proving that she actually is fucking crazy. Well our punter/kicker/gunner Mr. Johnson is that bitch. On the subsequent kick-off, Greg form tackles Right Said Ted in the open field, while also wishboning his clavicle. Awesome. tOSU's methodically drives, systematically picking on 5'5" 143lbs Brandon Foster and making us all hate Aaron Harris for not being better in college, so he'd left Austin last year. The lack of Longhorn offensive potency, in the second half, has Tressel engorged to take this game into overtime, and he kicks a 23 yarder leaving a minute and change for Mack to run the clock out.

Aaron Ross takes the kickoff from the shadow of our goal post and proves that he is an elite return man by Breastoning up to the 50. Mack puts a smile on the face of every intelligent Longhorn, by sending Colt back on the field and not Mocking around with the confidence of our number one quarterback.

Single back set, putting Manimal Finley in motion, McCoy drops back to pass and flips the pigskin forward to Jamaal. Will this be the year of the Shovel Pass? Jamaal foxtrots for 15 yards. Whistle sounds after the chains reset, and the erect hand off that attempts to crease through a vaginal fold in OSU's D-line, doesn't puncture the hymen and Jamaal whiskey dicks for a minimal gain. Time out with :30 on the clock and Texas on the opposing 38.

ABC cameras begin closing in on the true freshman's repeated kicks into a sideline net. Back on the field and with one time out, what nugget of incompetence might our Rainman OC have stuffed between the ear holes of his protective helmet or have glitter macramé last year at space camp? On Second and 10, the Real McCoy hits on an 8 yard out pattern to Quan; out of bounds and the clock stops with 18 seconds. Quiet all game, number 3 7 comes thickly clomping into the huddle. To the line and the isolation hand-off to Bob's Big Boy lands 5 yards up on the right hash. Mack calls his last time out with :03 left to go in this game.

Looking like the mirror of Dusty's only life achievement, Hunter "It's the Law"rence, after a few confidence-evoking words from Coach Brown, trots out adjacent to the holder's kneel, Using Pythag's theorem, Lawrence cartographies the best hypotenuse route to Jordan and the laces out football. Tressel green visor deals his icy timeouts, Mack clenches back a poking turtle head and Greg Davis vigorously applies medicated ointment to his chapped thighs. First ricocheting off the left yellow vertical post then falling dead on the cross bar, the spinning field goal attempt wills through the winning plane of the goal post; erupting my 200 faithful in a fit of lost-puppy-finding ecstasy. Hunter breaks his clavicle under the lineman dog pile and our Longhorns continue the current nation's longest win streak, with a final score of Texas 30, tOSU 27.

I wake up Sunday afternoon in the fucking Trump Suite at the Savoy. My 37 year old host tosses me something from the continental breakfast, explains who she is and that back in Monaco, I won't have to work anymore.
Hook `em.

Happy Birthday VY

Tbone Stallone — Thu, 18 May 2006 14:31:12 -0000

Today is my Christmas. Where were you on the day the Earth stood still?

1983, I was slapping the diapered ass of Andrea, the first girl I ever pimped out. She loved me but i loved the juice and cookies she would bring back to my sleeping mat. Last i heard she was selling print door-to-door and making $23K w/o expenses. That bitch could have been a star, if she just stayed with daddy.
They grow up so fast.
Tear.
-tbs-

P. S. Can next week be hip-hop lyrics, cause I never trust a big butt and a smile.

The Chow Factor

Tbone Stallone — Wed, 10 May 2006 13:56:43 -0000

The Chow Factor
34 years ago, a man, nor a whisper, waved Aloha to his sugarcane days on the Dole-owned island of Lanai, in order to mount the bright lights, big titties lifestyle of Salt Lake City. Spending falls as a UU lineman, Norman Q. Chow, honed his preternatural ability to funnel an opposition's defense into the incorrect scheme. After a successful year with the CFL Roughriders, Chow had achieved perfection within the confines of the physical realm and turned his telescopic ambition to a world that could not be defined by cosmic forces: Offensive Coordinating.

Notable Facts
Chow is the illegitimate child of Don Ho and an Aruba-born one-eye prostitute named Pancha. Originally the offspring of Norm and his German Shepard, Lacy, the good folks at Purina bought the naming rights to the OC's interspecies spawn and developed a formula specifically designed for younger dogs, called Puppy Chow. Norm optically identified McMahon's ultra-light sensitive retinas and bought Jim his first pair of convenience store shades. Out of extreme gratitude, The Steve Young foundation was originally set-up to pay for Norm's ever-growling appetite for destruction and panda jerky.

Career Highlights
Chow began teaching football to the adolescent lepers of Buyashaka High on the island of Molokai. Having never truly let go of the fast pace routine he found in Utah, Norm married three more women and joined Brigham-Young as a sweat-towel folder. His mysticism rapidly augmented with each exponential promotion. BYU went to thirty-three consecutive Holiday Bowls in a span of 17 years under his tenor as offensive warlock and in 1984 panhandled the National Championship.

He threw in the Provo towel to head east and golden touch a 24 year-old soul-selling member of the Wolfpack gang. Norm placed his hands on Phillip Rivers, and in one incantation of a season, Phoenixed his pocket presence from the offensive ash that is NC State.

"Chow, its Pete, I need someone to puppet master me." The tone in his voice never left that cocky-cool plateau. Norm, having sworn a blood oath to Carroll, after the gangbanged-to-death "stripper" incident during a patented Neuheisel stag weekend in Boulder, said a quick Polynesian prayer and reluctantly accepted one of the best jobs in college football.

Harnessing the secret to perpetual motion, Chow took his scientific laws breaking prophecy and developed an offense which feeds off its own touchdowns. Tapping the success keg in So Cal has its price though...

...Face down on a bathroom mirror, juxtaposed to several lines of half snorted diet pills; the red velvet curtains of the Santa Monica Red Lion Inn humorously tease Norm's every mistake. Blowing out the cigarette candles of his 50th birthday cake, he pays two rough tricks, both named Jerome, their respective hour's worth. The tale spinning social disease that has no booster torments any attempts of escape. A revelation occurred after watching Stoops shit his tight pants, twice in the same quarter, and Norm knew he had shattered the slant-eye glass ceiling of the NCAA, and decided to turn his tiny pupils and coke habit onto a much bigger stage.

For three years, Jeff Fischer, aka King Halitosis, had been begging for an offensive coordinator that doesn't use pee and snow to manufacture a playbook. Bud Adams heard about the offensive mandaid out west and flew Norm and his three koalas to Nashville for a brushfire fairytale and stir-fry. Two condoms, a bottle of Ouzo and four contract rewrites was all it took for Buddy to buy the eternal soul of the Big Island Sorcerer.

In a powder blue jumper, Chow was unimpressed with the prone-to-rib-snap physique of McNair and his first season as the Tit's OC went down as peppered brilliance with just a pinch of talent.

Fast forward to Matt Lienart on the phone, just before the 2006 draft, "Coach Chow, I am really looking forward to being a Titan."
"You should slap that dick-sucking smile off your pathetic system-produced/talent surrounded face, and know that as long as I live you will never be a Titan."
"Coach, I -"
"You are the reason mamas' don't let their babies grow up to be queerboys." Moving to Nashville has modified Norm's attitude towards music. "Be sure to say Hi to Cade McNown for me, on your slow voyage to the cellar of NFL aptitude, click." Matt would later cry, off camera, after his father informs him that Norm Chow is his real birthmother.

The Era of Vince
On January 1st 2005, Norman awoke from his champagne and Sake hangover to survey one of the greatest single gridiron performances of all-time. Some say that Norm can see into the future, and was too afraid to return to USC for another year, because he foresaw that VY would topple the monolithic Trojan dynasty, he created.

There have been comparisons to another Young, one who haunted any Cowboy's 6-peat dreams during the confused 90's. Steve Young was deceptively fast, could throw on the run and had the kind of stronghold over a game plan that could only lead to good decision making. Steve still sends Norm annual Christmas cards of his naked wife, with the heading:
"Seasons Greetings
She's Yours If You Want Her, I Owe You Coach!"
Vince Young makes the scrambling prowess of that Mormon ex-49er look like a retard on Jeopardy. With Norm's guiding light, Vince's professional potential will exceed any player before him. Norm has never had this sort of dynamic athlete behind center and with that little Samoan's scalpel-sharp imagination, he will push the conventional boundaries of NFL play calling into the fourth dimension. Once Norm realizes that he should only play Bo Scaife at tight end, Vince will progress quite nicely over the next two years.

In 2010, Norm Chow man-kisses Vince on the lips, after beating Matt's Cardinals 41-38 in the Super Bowl. Leinart will later discover that he contracted herpes from whatever cum rag tart he dates, who was popular the year before. Reggie Bush caught the USC Heisman RB bug a little early and has already killed his ex-wife and her lover. The Kansas City Chiefs trade their entire roster for one player..., yes, you guessed it, Scott Ware.

The UK Texas Exes and Me

Tbone Stallone — Thu, 04 May 2006 16:12:20 -0000

Let me first preface that this story is definitely belated, but sometimes the longer you wait to write a tale, the more vivid it becomes.

UK Texas Exes and Me
As some of you know, I live in the G Brit. So, over a month ago, it was E-8 time and after staying up until 5am, Thursday night, to listen to Paulino crack the face-whip on Blazing Futon U, I was ready for the baby face showdown between an overachieving LSU monster squad and Tricky Ricky's Panty Rangers. After work on Friday, I saddle up a train to London, where relaxation and rest will face the All-star duo of The Spearmint Rhino Gentlemen's Club and Professor Guinness Stout, in a cage match to see which tag team earns the right to be crowned Weekend Motif.

Friday night, and most of my bank account gets deposited in the cesspool that is Soho; along side mother-taught-decency and good decision making skills. Saturday afternoon was spent in a restaurant called the Texas Embassy, with intent on some preliminary training for the Hornitos Challenge 2007.

After eating the proverbial worm, I blindly meet up with a friend of a friend. I can remember saying to the link friend, "If you haven't introduced her to me yet, I am not that excited." And it turns out there was no reason too be. She is with her sexy grad school friend from Arizona and Zona's effeminate man squeeze from Michigan State. I break down my less than poetic rhetoric on Izzo and also how I think John L. Smith might want to consider a tracheotomy, to prevent any further late season choke jobs. I make enemies, wherever I go and that's what keeps me living. We board the subway to the Texas Exes watching party, taking place at this BBQ restaurant called Bodean's.

The Texas Exes of London are nice. They wear their orange, are good fans, but let's just say Longhorns who typically come to Europe to work or in any academic capacity, left most of their sports savvy in the PCL, during after hour sessions of network EverQuest. I find myself, by far the loudest at any event and always using colorful, head turning language. The last event, I graced, was the Big 12C where I got a hand job in the bathroom from a 30 something butter face, during halftime. I was also later "forcible removed" from the bar, after verbally assaulting a group of USC faithful, during their surgical throttle of Karl's wet paper sack defense.

The ex-pat Texas woman are either married to their operating system designing husbands or over the Hotlantic for a few months by way of Law/Grad school; usually long enough to have developed a taste for the pints and display the thick arms to prove it. Don't get me wrong, two or three peppered sexys dot this two flat screen bar and believe me I hit on all of them really hard. There is that one kid, about my age, from another quasi-amiable frat, who eyes me like we know each other. He knows me as the guy who used to casually fuck his ex-girlfriend before they met and probably once or twice during courtship. I know him as the ATO social that my pledge brother left for dead in an alley off Sixth Street about 6 years ago.

I loathe the asshole who walks around using English slang, like "bloke" and "mate." These fuckers have found themselves gynecologically elbow deep in British culture, and that "if your gonna get wet, why not swim" attitude makes me want to punch-kick the next orange shirt that says "wanker" in the back of the head.

I meet a cat named George, who, in addition to having the best Prefontaine mustache, likened himself to the male equivalent of Belinda Carlisle. George has the uncanny knack to take his own perverted thoughts and transpose them into lyrical harmony. "Check out the rack on that baby, big ole t-i-tsss, Sha Na Na Naaa," set to the theme from Family Ties. George buys me a Sol Cerveza and calls me "Skip." I teach him the Top Gun high five and we impress on-lookers when Brad Buckman pops a trifecta.
"Brad Buckman, I am you biggest fan."

I approach the only two patrons who appear to be rooting for LSU. Its a little black guy with a Seton Hall hat, and his yoked friend, whose skin head and pirate earring mirror a floor cleaner mascot. I try to sway the Seton Hall alumni to take a swig of the burnt orange Kool-Aide, with persuasion that includes:
"Brad Buckman...he's a white Patrick Ewing with range."
"What's Mr. Clean like in real life?"
"I hear you don't have to know how to read to get into Seton Hall, any truth to the rumors?"
Meanwhile, both the riveting 25-25 halftime achievement and a pulled pork sandwich make my stomach queasy. Michigan State starts talking some smack about Big Baby's obvious manhold over the Lamb, and I tell him that if he doesn't shut the fuck up I am going to stab him with his own shark tooth necklace.

The second half went by much quicker, with me slipping two married woman my Intercontinental Gigolo card and slapping the tasty ass of our Czech waitress. Overtime happens like you felt it was going too, but 30 seconds into it, I knew it was all over. The fucking fags from Seton Hall get more difficult to put up with, but deep known everyone in the bar knew that life, eventually, would take care of them, so there wasn't really any immediate need for action.

The girl I was set up with that night tries to invite her buck seventy-five Harry and the Hendersons frame to my hotel room, but I'm in no real mood to night-wrestle a Sasquatch and shake her huge hand goodnight. I flick the hat off Michigan State's swelling head and mouth "call me" to Zona's exposed cleavage.

In more of a symbolic gesture than pure disdain, I tear the burnt orange Take Dead Aim cancer foundation wrist band flare off and toss it into a London gutter. The wasted walk to my hotel is a sad one, only to be lifted by a group of rowdy Scottish chicks at the hotel bar upon my return.
Scott dirty leg loves Texan sausage.