NEEDS A SHARPIE SCRAWL

The screaming of yutzes in the back room suggested that the football season has started. Which means little other than audible unpleasantness to me, because I do not thrill to the sight of manly buttocks in spandex. Not being all-American with a few homoerotic tendencies. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Y'all do you.
Homoerotic is therepeutic. Very red-blooded.

It's butch as all Jesus, yessir.


I'm sure that American wifehood loves the smell of sweat, beer, and pizza that their husbands and their friends impart to the couch and other furniture. Which precisely explains why I have those nasty fossils in the backroom; their wives, for those that have them, need to get them out of their hair for a few hours. They aren't vested in the masculine reek, and the buttocks that would rub the fragrance intot the fabric are too old and spongy. Plus seeing someone whose death-white calves look like something a zombie would wear, with liver-spotty male pattern baldness and a paunch well-past the drawing board stage bouncing up and down losing his shiznit probably isn't very high on their wishlist.

Which proves there is something wrong with them.
They might even be educated.

Didn't bother paying attention to the game on the telly, but I do know that the local team was playing, as I recognize their shiny gold nether-garbs. It's styling, dudes.
I have no doubt those duds also please our president.
He's likely to offer to autograph each bum.
Because gold shows off U.S. glory.




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