Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Raiders and the Bucs in the Super Bowl. It’s the easiest thing to find on line, in your paper, on the tv, and in your chemically treated advertising-laced (but you don’t know it) venti drip you picked up from Starbucks this morning. It’s in your face and I don’t want to be like that. You know my position on this matter, this matter being the total & complete dominance of Raider Nation. You know it, I know it, Grandmama knows it, and I’m pretty damn fukn sure that Bo knows it. I think I made it abundantly clear yesterday and really from the first day of the season, and actually before that, and if you’ve known me for the last few years or beyond, well I was talking shit then too. So I’m gonna shut up about it for today at least.
But damn those Raiders are gonna do a spankdown in SD. Ok, that’s it, now I’m done. I don’t want to bore you with the details of how fukn cool it is to actually have your team in the mix during superbowl week. I’m sure you’ve heard it ALL before especially what with that whole Encyclopedia Brown thing that went down 8 years ago. Repetetiveness is not in my nature nature. Nature. Naturally, I would never do something to bore you or drive you away or, you know. I want to be popular, and it’s common knowledge that sports talk and stream of consciousness (I learned this at Sarah’s site yesterday) are just so out of vogue and frowned upon right now, and well, I just have to be the coolest. The new renaissance is to keep it real by busting out metaphorical backbreakers like the following:
There once was a little boy that knew that the oaktown raiders were the ultron cyborganetic champs of all time, and then…
Goddammit, I didn’t mean that, I mean, I meant it, but that isn’t what I meant to write. Ok. Oaktown and Raiders are not going to be mentioned in the following paragraph. That’s on long beach. Ready? Ok.
Once there was a little rascally fella that lived in Greely Colorado. He was a farmer and liked to go hang out with the horses in the stable and read stories of wrestling and getting fired up about TKE. His name was Bartley. He knew that some day there would be a dark silver and black menace that would coat the land and bring home the ring of power back to Oak, um, ville, and then he would have to run and hide and not e-mail his friends becuz he knew the Denver donkeys were the poondoggers of the league, um, I mean, land. One day he caught a cab out of Greeley and went to Hawaii. It was a magic taxi that could ride on waves. He learned how to surf and then his name was Hiawatha. And Hiawatha, in his heart & soul, was really a good dude, just deluded by the bronconess and ignorant of the ways of oakstein acres. Jay, the bandwagon is open, Raider Nation is ready to take you in from the storm & reeducate you through our special program. Ok really, I’m not talking shit, becuz this ain’t about the broncos it’s about the punk ass Bucs. What the fuck is a Buc? Some kind of flaming pirate? Get a real pirate, dawg, get one with an eyepatch and a leather football helmet with swords crossing up in that bitch, get RAIDER on it. DAMMIT I was not supposed to say Raiders. Ok you caught me dammit this is all aobut the raiders, fukn deal with it.
See, that’s the kind of shit that is just burning up bloggerville right now. I got that hot shit for the streets. If you want to be down with it, you gots to follow my lead and bust these kinds of rhymes.