Hammond, IN-The Mighty Bits junior soccer team, currently ranked dead last in the 6-8 year old division, disappointed their loyal following yet again on Saturday after being left for dead by the Mini Cobras on a neglected soccer field in rural Indiana. Parents with hopes of someday seeing their kid get cut from a JV soccer team senior year in high school and never play soccer again, wept openly on the sidelines as the oranges they provided as sustenance at halftime somehow made the team even more sluggish.
The flood of sugar and acid on an empty stomach combined with the mouthful of ever thickening, unswallowable spit that an orange provides should have theoretically been enough to overcome the 10 goal halftime deficit, but most of the Mighty Bits team was left washing their sticky hands and faces with the tears of defeat after the opposition scored another 10 goals after half.
Several disinterested children received warnings from concerned parents after the match reached a it’s merciful conclusion. The parents informed players that the college scout at the game, which turned out to be merely a feral dog consumed with rabies, saw their terrible performance and would probably never give them an imaginary scholarship offer to play soccer at University of Phoenix online.
Some parents speculate that had Mrs. Connors splurged on the organic oranges, the results may have been vastly different. Several guests in attendance were taken to the hospital after being bitten by the apparent college scout.
The NL Central division leaders just got a whole lot more frisky. The Chicago Cubs have recruited and landed a completely unstoppable force. An unhittable demon with absolutely no regard for human feelings or safety. Something so heartless that it once threw behind a bride on her wedding night. And the best part is it’s fueled exclusively by grape bombs and Red Bull Vodkas. The fast pitch machine at Sluggers Bar & Grill was traded to the Cubs outright for Clark the Bear, who will be forced to throw 5 nights a week at the Wrigleyville bar.
“We’re pretty happy with the deal, the versatility with the machine is perplexing,” said Cubs manager Joe Maddon, refilling the machine with its preferred fuel of specialty shots. “I’ve seen Bryant not even be able to get the bat off his shoulder. It’ll launch a 100 mph fast ball at your head, follow it up with a 50 mph change up low and outside, then leave you frozen with a snap dragon curve. Unpredictable in the most terrifying way,” continued Maddon in complete awe of the mechanical perfection, still confused by how the owners of Sluggers Bar & Grill rigged it to run on alcohol.
Many have wondered how such a liability could have ever existed in a bar in which all customers are completely incapacitated. Though the fact that there hasn’t been more horrific accidents reported is a true testament to the surgical precision contained in this machine. The pitching machine will take the bump next Tuesday under the name The Official Captain Morgan Pitching Machine sponsored by Captain Morgan spiced rum, always smooth, always delicious, Captain Morgan.
Clark the Bear will also be depressingly throwing for several straight hours at Sluggers.
A free t-shirt given away at a Cubs game last night stayed consistent with every free t-shirt ever made, fitting only those of us lucky enough to be 4 feet tall and approximately 800 pounds. Like most free t-shirt giveaways, the promoters ordered exclusively XXL’s and stayed consistent with popular free t-shirt styles. A large part of that style is having the XX applied to width rather than length, stopping just above the belly button on normal sized humans while also ballooning out 2 feet in every direction.
The shirt was made with the extremely popular burlap/steel wool blend that is guaranteed to wreak havoc on nipples until it has been washed no less than 5,000 times or given up on and turned into a dish rags. Oddly enough even the most even keeled, mild-mannered person can turn into a raving lunatic while seeking possession of an unwearable garment.
Most people left the night either ready to bury the prized gift deep within the confines of their closet or with completely raw nipples. One man however couldn’t have been happier; Derek Sutton from Shipshewana Indiana is 3’11 and 800 pounds.
“All of the shirts I own are from giveaways; I refer to them affectionately as little-big-guy shirts.” Said Sutton looking incredibly comfortable in the free shirt. “Because I fill the shirt in its entirety, I experience less chaffing than regular people, if you’re anywhere north of four feet tall and south of 800 pounds, you’ll be out of luck” continued Sutton.
The rest of us will continue not being able to wear XXL promotional shirts.
Savvy investors everywhere have begun capitalizing on soaring sales of Hanes underwear during the 2015 Stanley Cup final. With each game being won by a single goal, and no team ever leading by more than a goal, it’s become apparent that national underwear consumption is quickly reaching historic levels. Day trader and Florida native Joshua Jacobs was an early adopter of the aforementioned investment strategy.
“In games that are this tense, it’s pretty easy to let one fly at any given moment. Not to mention the constant squirming and skidding as you sweat out the last couple seconds of a game.” Said Jacobs sitting in a novelty chair at Señor Frogs, where most people watch sports in Florida. “It was pissing me off at first; my boxer-brief graveyard was reaching staggering numbers! At one point I was bringing two to three spares to the bar. Then it hit me, smack dab in the middle of a routine change up, I realized there was money to be made.” Continued Jacobs, swirling the crazy straw in his yardstick glass of Miami Vice.
“If I was doing it, there had to be others. Millions of additional pairs of boxers bought, ruined, and flushed in the same night.”
Jacobs has since put his entire life savings into purchasing shares of Hanesbrand and is doing quite well. The flourishing stock is a testament to just how many pieces of helpless underwear have been destroyed during this Stanley Cup final. It is also a testament to the fact that people regularly crap their pants at Señor Frogs.
The quest for Lord Stanley is a merciless, unstoppable force and until it has run its course, every pair is at risk. Financial institutions everywhere are recommending people invest while they can and use the dividends earned to buy a few more backup pairs for Saturday night.
There’s been speculation that Marc Trestman, the head coach of the Chicago Bears, is an apprentice and possible relative of the puppet from the Saw movies known as Jigsaw. Sunday’s blood bath erased all doubt in any skeptic’s mind. This was his masterpiece. This is what a sick demented man spent the better part of the last decade working for. Tinkering and slaving away at his project. Quietly building the confidence in a city that has bought into an immensely talented team. Creating some preseason Super Bowl buzz, and the promise of fixing the one thing that has always been wrong. We should have all seen this coming, he wanted a front row seat to watch the destruction of a city’s spirit. Leaving our spirits tattered and left for dead, watching a team this good fail time and time again. A deranged magnum opus that only a twisted genius could enjoy. Soak it in Trestman, you really got us on this one.
We’ve all grown unfortunately intimate with Tom Crean’s blunderous, aloof coaching style. A coach whose favorite pastime is getting into and losing grinding slug fests with other Big Ten bottom feeding insects. Waging a fierce war of immense insignificance against no one in particular. We’ve been circling the piss and vomit soaked drain and Kilroys all season, and there’s no sign of a merciful flush coming. As the stale and wearing season labors on I often times myself abandoning the second half of games, in favor of watching reruns of Man vs. Food. Watching a sweaty, fat, illiterate goon inhale 90 nitro wings in less than 20 minutes for a free t-shirt is somehow less objectionable than watching a single second of an IU game. Unless Air Bud is in next year’s recruiting class be ready for another season lost. On top of being more incompetent than the Tilta-Whirl employee at the state fair, here are 10 more reasons IU needs to give Crean the heave.
1o.) Uncomfortable/imposing fire and brimstone twitter account with apocalyptic undertones
9.) A “recruiting” coach who doesn’t actually recruit
8.) Regularly studies tapes of the Washington Generals for offensive/defensive inspiration
7.) Refuses to admit he’s drinking Red’s apple ale in that mysterious water bottle
6.) Gives every player a “Participation Award” at the end of the season
5.) Demands players wear orthopedic Adidas shoes to make sure the game appears as though it is being played in quick sand
4.) Gives team oranges and ecto cooler Hi-C at half time
3.) Has officially made IU football more exciting than IU basketball
2.) Gets the team pumped up for games with Nyquil flavored Gatorade and Sigur Rós albums
1.) Looks like Brendan Fraser starring in Encino Man
Beer and alcohol commercials are a complete nuisance. They generally exist as a reminder that whatever depraved creatures that created them are 1.)Immensely out of touch with reality 2.) Have never actually drank a drop of their product and 3.) Are aggressive and staunch virgins.
I know that the first thing I would do after scaling Everest would be to promptly reach for a Michelob Ultra, because I still have to maintain my boyish figure after the grueling climb. I know that when Ray Liotta vacantly looks at me from across the bar with a glass filled to the brim with 1800 gasoline, that I’m pissing myself then immediately throwing my beautifully crafted sazerac on the floor where it belongs. What I witnessed on 1/4/14 however is proof that the Budlight superstition commercials are about as accurate as it gets.
By halftime of the Colt’s game, the sulking was at an all-time high with my friend. They were down 28 to the limping Chiefs, in the first round of the NFL Playoffs. Several temper tantrums and tear drops later, the stench of both defeat and black mold lied heavy in the air. As he sat there watching his team get destroyed and the $200 bet he laid on the game was looking grim at best. Another friend suggested a tribute, a sacrifice that would ignite both his liver and the will to win for the diminished Colts…Smirnoff Raspberry. Specifically a mystery bottle that had been ditched from New Years Eve days earlier.
The answer had been there all along, nothing inspires a football team 100’s of miles away, and completely unaware of your existence like chugging Raspberry Vodka before key plays. With every possession the pulls from the bottle became more feverish and more frequent. A descent into complete oblivion. After what I counted to be a full 6 second chug, Andrew Luck miraculously recovered Donald Brown’s fumble and dove into the end zone. The turnovers, the injuries they were all being fueled by this otherwise bottle of undrinkable Smirnoff Raspberry. It seemed insane at first, but the consistency of it all was nothing short of mesmerizing…magical. One man put the entire Colts team on his back and trucked them through the first round…and it wasn’t anyone on the field that day. Those Budlight commercials were officially accurate on 1/4/14.