New Weekly: Hot of the Presses

Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah “the blogs fallen off”. We have all heard it the past couple weeks, but think about it, that is what they said about Friedman, and he is back on top mother fuckers. Isn’t he. And who do we have to blame for this so-called falling off? Who? No one but our own damn selves, and maybe Nicky, just because it will piss him off.

Anyway, this is my poor attempt to breathe a little life back into this blog. So here is the CPR, oh yes folks, we are going mouth to mouth, and belly to belly if you are lucky. So pucker the fuck up.

So week 5 you say? Doolies are undefeated you say? Surely you jest.

So let’s just put it like this, Doolies have looked good, I mean real good. I mean if I was a female softball team, I would drop trou(sers) and mouth fuck the shit out of the Doolies, right on home plate (Mailly could I get a “lefty” call while that happens). Take notes my little Gold Diggers (Shouts Chachi) I’m just saying….

So enough of sucking each other off, lets get down to business. Cruel Shoes. Cruel. F’in. Shoes. This is a big game coming up. After the Cruel Shoes won last Father’s Day on a walk off in the rain, it looks as if the Doolies are out for revenge.

Do you smell Father’s Day Rematch.? I do. And it smells like Victory…. And strangely enough, a little bit like urine.

I challenge the Doolies reading this out there. Are you going to lose while your fathers watch? Are you going to admit defeat while the man whose balls gave you life casually drink beers in the stands? I didn’t think so…. So I have come to this conclusion. If we don’t win on Sunday, we must, WE MUST, in honor of our fathers, kill every last Cruel Shoe player. Yeah, I said it. And I meant it too.

Onto this weeks rundown:

Urban Dictionary : Cruel Shoes

There is no Urban Dictionary for Cruel Shoes because the name blows. If you google it, it turns out to be a book by Steve Martin or some slutty high heels from Japan. Fuck. That. Shit. Gay.

Sponsor of the week: Bud Light and Clamato. Otherwise known as Chelada!

Oh yeah, its about fucking time that someone decided to throw some fucking clam broth and tomato juice in my beer. You know how many parties I have been to where I have tried to make my own Chelada? Fucking Trillions! Yet no one seems to carry the goods I need in order to get a buzz going while consistently throwing up every 45 seconds. My prayers are answered.

Ps. What the fuck is Clamato (Cla- may- toe)?

Weekly Prayer: (Bow your heads)

“Dear 6 foot seven, 320 pound infant baby Jesus, please guide us to victory as we play the most “devilish of shoes” this weekend. And bless all Doolies as they take-a-tha-field. But most importantly bless the tiny town of Latrobe PA for giving us the magical gift of Rolling Rock Nips.

Amen.”

Seventh Inning Chant:

Anything by Enrique Iglesias. Seriously anything.

That is all. Go in peace.