What is it with these idiots?
We need to get down to the business of calling a spade a spade for a change and stop farting and fucking about looking for some wider reason or societal cause in order to explain why so many footballers are so very bloody stupid.
I mean, let’s face it.
We’re just not dealing with very bright people here.
And they’re happy with being not very bright people, ‘cause they don’t know any different and they don’t want to know any different ‘cause to know different would mean learnin’ stuff and learnin’ stuff hurts. Help, mummy.
Now, God knows, there’ve certainly been times in my life when I’ve been drunk, staggeringly, stupidly drunk. But at no such time have I ever gone wandering through a hall or a corridor somewhere and thought, “I need to poop. This looks like a good spot.”
As far as my own toilet training goes, I can’t really remember as I was pretty young at the time but it seems to have stuck with me thus far, ‘cause at no time in my life have I needed a refresher course. It’s not like I was 13 or 14 years old and on my way out to a mate’s place my mother had to say, “Remember, Ross, don’t go pooping in other people’s rooms”, “Oh! Okay! Thanks for the tip, mum” …
No, I’ve been drunk, stoned, drunk and stoned, high, low, up, down, left, right, a kaleidoscopic mélange of whacked-out, wobbly-brained, insistently incoherent, wired-up weirdness to the nth degree of odd at times, but at no such time did I ever feel compelled to take a poo in some random hallway.
And certainly not a hotel.
I mean, you’re in a hotel, for Christ’s sake, it has rooms. Find yours, open a fucking door and go to the fucking toilet. They even give you paper for when you’re finished. So you don’t have to drag your arse up and down the carpet runner in the corridor. Some people leave their plates out there when they’re done eating, you know. It’s not sanitary.
So, let’s just call a spade a spade, shall we?
Footballers are just plain-as-the-nose-on-your-face staggeringly fucking stupid.
Most of them, that is.
Because I’d hate to be accused of making any broad generalisations here, y’know?
…
…
Well, I wouldn’t hate it.
…
…
I’d be a bit iffy.
Whatever.
But, look. It’s not as if your average idiot footballer goes on in later life to write critically acclaimed works of literature when their careers are done. Become incisive journalists of great merit and note. Carve out glittering careers for themselves in the arts and sciences. Reap glittering prizes as they go. A certificate or three, some honorary titles.
No.
Mostly, they’ll just open a car dealership somewhere.
A shop for vacuum cleaner accessories, maybe …
But, seeing as how they’re just stupid bloody footballers, their businesses go bust in twelve months and by then they’re too old to get another job so they just sit at home all day and drink beer and get fat and then they get into drugs and prescription painkillers and speed and the like and spend all their spare time in the company of shadowy underworld figures who coerce them into doing shadowy things for wads of shadowy money and then one night they try to hold up a chemist for a carton of Sudafed but they don’t know that the chemist has seen “Taxi Driver” 96 times and forges prescriptions for himself and has gone quite insane as a result and tonight he thinks he’s Travis Bickle and he pulls a shotgun out from under the counter and blows a hole in their heads and their brains go spurting like a half kilo of wet mince all over the Rexona deodorant poster and dribbles onto the shelf below where the eyecare products are kept.
Next to the display dump bin of Listerine, two for six bucks, on special.
That’s what happens to footballers.
Because they’re all so fucking stupidly fucking stupid, the stupid fucking … fucks.
There you go.
If you know any small children, you should tell them that. Teach them.
As a precautionary tale.
Like “Red Riding Hood” …
…
Or “Last House on the Left”.
…
…
…
…
Maybe leave out the curse words.
Being fucking kiddies and all.
We need to get down to the business of calling a spade a spade for a change and stop farting and fucking about looking for some wider reason or societal cause in order to explain why so many footballers are so very bloody stupid.
I mean, let’s face it.
We’re just not dealing with very bright people here.
And they’re happy with being not very bright people, ‘cause they don’t know any different and they don’t want to know any different ‘cause to know different would mean learnin’ stuff and learnin’ stuff hurts. Help, mummy.
Now, God knows, there’ve certainly been times in my life when I’ve been drunk, staggeringly, stupidly drunk. But at no such time have I ever gone wandering through a hall or a corridor somewhere and thought, “I need to poop. This looks like a good spot.”
As far as my own toilet training goes, I can’t really remember as I was pretty young at the time but it seems to have stuck with me thus far, ‘cause at no time in my life have I needed a refresher course. It’s not like I was 13 or 14 years old and on my way out to a mate’s place my mother had to say, “Remember, Ross, don’t go pooping in other people’s rooms”, “Oh! Okay! Thanks for the tip, mum” …
No, I’ve been drunk, stoned, drunk and stoned, high, low, up, down, left, right, a kaleidoscopic mélange of whacked-out, wobbly-brained, insistently incoherent, wired-up weirdness to the nth degree of odd at times, but at no such time did I ever feel compelled to take a poo in some random hallway.
And certainly not a hotel.
I mean, you’re in a hotel, for Christ’s sake, it has rooms. Find yours, open a fucking door and go to the fucking toilet. They even give you paper for when you’re finished. So you don’t have to drag your arse up and down the carpet runner in the corridor. Some people leave their plates out there when they’re done eating, you know. It’s not sanitary.
So, let’s just call a spade a spade, shall we?
Footballers are just plain-as-the-nose-on-your-face staggeringly fucking stupid.
Most of them, that is.
Because I’d hate to be accused of making any broad generalisations here, y’know?
…
…
Well, I wouldn’t hate it.
…
…
I’d be a bit iffy.
Whatever.
But, look. It’s not as if your average idiot footballer goes on in later life to write critically acclaimed works of literature when their careers are done. Become incisive journalists of great merit and note. Carve out glittering careers for themselves in the arts and sciences. Reap glittering prizes as they go. A certificate or three, some honorary titles.
No.
Mostly, they’ll just open a car dealership somewhere.
A shop for vacuum cleaner accessories, maybe …
But, seeing as how they’re just stupid bloody footballers, their businesses go bust in twelve months and by then they’re too old to get another job so they just sit at home all day and drink beer and get fat and then they get into drugs and prescription painkillers and speed and the like and spend all their spare time in the company of shadowy underworld figures who coerce them into doing shadowy things for wads of shadowy money and then one night they try to hold up a chemist for a carton of Sudafed but they don’t know that the chemist has seen “Taxi Driver” 96 times and forges prescriptions for himself and has gone quite insane as a result and tonight he thinks he’s Travis Bickle and he pulls a shotgun out from under the counter and blows a hole in their heads and their brains go spurting like a half kilo of wet mince all over the Rexona deodorant poster and dribbles onto the shelf below where the eyecare products are kept.
Next to the display dump bin of Listerine, two for six bucks, on special.
That’s what happens to footballers.
Because they’re all so fucking stupidly fucking stupid, the stupid fucking … fucks.
There you go.
If you know any small children, you should tell them that. Teach them.
As a precautionary tale.
Like “Red Riding Hood” …
…
Or “Last House on the Left”.
…
…
…
…
Maybe leave out the curse words.
Being fucking kiddies and all.
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