IN THE NAME OF SPORTS, IT’S TIME TO EAT OURSELVES TO A CELLULITE-D IMMOBILE PULP
Right, let’s face it. Who are we kidding? The only thing sporty about me is that I could, maybe, jump over a puddle if my life depends on it. But that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t want someone like me at the party this sunday – while the gang rouse up above a borderline-patriotic roar towards the flatscreen, beers blazing and testosterone bursting – who sinks into the couch giggling at her phone for French bulldog puppies on youtube. Why, because my friends, I’m the one who’s gonna bring the kool-Aid.
So let’s hit it. For God and country, in the name of sports, and beefcakes clashing and tight muscles fluttering in slow motion… let’s eat ourselves to a cellulite-d immobile pulp and call it the spirit. Man… gotta love this day.
Here’s the game-plan.