This is not an open letter, but rather an open letter to those who write open letters. I want to throw two words at you right now, but considering you make me attempt to read your 1500 words of whining.
Rather than use the right two when I have to.
It’s similar to a morning spent with my grandmother’s knitting club, although they are busy knitting hard to keep orphans warm, they throw racist taunts at the lady, who has delicately prepared their tea, probably with the right amount of gob.
Except, look like you?
And have more hair?
I was asked the other day if I was concerned about the repercussions of the Schmidt Post. I wasn’t, firstly I managed to get him out of my life, as he blocked me, and with this face, I am used to rejection.
I went to Arts on Main yesterday, it was as underwhelming as this sentence.
Also, if I manage to piss someone off, but entertain two, I feel like the odds are with me.
I wonder if that was Stalin’s mantra?
What I hate about being not gay? All my gay jokes are seen as derogatory. Also I cannot pout in photos and admit to the fact that I love Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I sing badly, don’t look after myself and I look terrible in pastel. Kidding, I look wonderful in pastel.
God forbid you had terrible skin and played sport against me high school, I would remind you every second I could that you looked as though you had been slapped by a pizza.
We sit down now as the water cooler talk has been slightly stunted as the rest of the week slowly shows its face and the fact that we have seen the most dramatic end to a premiership season, ever, ends.
I sat on the couch stunted by what I had just saw, I cried with laughter as my housemate screamed down the passage because his “Manchester United” went down in 3 minutes and enjoyed a second spot, which, if we go all in is probably deserved, considering the domination of the entire season by City.
A Face like a bulldog Chewing on a Wasp.
Are they on a brink of an Arabian Dynasty? I don’t know.
Who cares, the drama I encountered yesterday is well worth the oil wells that pay for Balotelli’s perfectly shaped Mohawk, which he uses to scrub the inner workings of prostitutes thighs. High class of course, he can afford it.
The sporting world needs bad boys.
After Suarez threw his hand up denying Ghana access to a semi-final loss, the world hated him, well everyone except the lovely people of Uruguay, he gave them a semi-final to look forward to. He got his due punishment, a red card and a sending off. Gyan didn’t convert.
The Hate screams through this picture.
You do what you need to win.
Let’s swim with Joey Barton.
Tevez through a little punch to the head, its sport. Joey retaliated, but got caught. He got his due and got the red card. If you follow his twitter feed, he was instructed to try and take a City player with him, so he tried to create a reaction that would get a City red, it didn’t pay off, but he had already received his orders.
QPR were fighting for survival, they did what they could.
I love the purists, “he should be banned for life,” sport is a battle field where you do what you can to win.
The people, who play to have fun, obviously don’t know what victory feels like.
I was taught from a very young age to fight to win, its war, you do what you can. And once the whistle has gone, you move off the field, and all is forgotten.
I focused on a fella who didn’t look like he may have had some insecurity issues and banged on him till he cracked, you may have worked it out but I was a talker.
I still feel shit for an opposition lock, who was unfortunate to have the same initials as Uncle Fallatio.
If I had to fight I did, but I always made sure I got cracked first, ensuring a red card would follow and the opposition would be in a quandary.
Have we as sports supporters become softer than the Serie A, let the F.A. punish people for the decisions they make. This is sport, this is the shit that drives us, we need the hard men!
I wonder if Roy Keane felt sorry after breaking Alf-Inge Håland’s leg?
Everyone needs to get harder than John Terry after a coffee date with Olalla Dominguez Liste.
DCMYF
I am currently dealing at a mood set of every poor person who had parents that named them Adolf. This is in no way related to anything except Johannesburg and her traffic.
After the torrid time I have had with the Schmidt debacle, I have been questioning if whether I should do a follow up post, to be fair, I think he has gone through enough.
I will have you know that I did try and request his friendship.
You Think Your Schmidt Don’t Stink?
Long story short, the Schmidt hit the fan and he has denied me as a friend on Facebook, blocking me harder than every girl, well, ever.
But after listening to Fat Boy Slim’s “Don’t Let the Man Get You Down”, on repeat I realised a lesson.
If one person despises you more than George Best’s third liver hated him, at least you have entertained 2 people with the culmination of that hate. In which case, as a certain someone grabs on to his pole tonight, making a curly haired voodoo doll his bitch, I will be okay.
#DCMYF
Sadly, I thought that by making a mockery of him on my blog would qualm the thunderous battleship attack of requests to make me play games on Facebook. It didn’t, if anything more came. It was like my absolute disregard for his respect made him a more powerful knob, a super knob, a knob that knocked on the gates of purgatory deafening the devil… Leaving an ache in his horns similar to the ache I get in my left eye socket, every time I see this shit!
Like being asked to play twister, with 15 nude Greek men in their 60’s, a little something I look to put in the box of suppressed memories, like the time I was accosted by Mormon in 2002 – A sex story for another time.
It’s pretty much a tough decision on what you should share in a personal space on Facebook. While most of us get it right a certain few get it so very wrong, they are ultimately judged harder than the nude fat man in the flat opposite you.
I am also feeling pretty sensitive. I went obese at a wedding and I am now dealing with a full retard hangover.
On Sunday someone “outed” me about my smoking habits to my family, while I showed the composure of a salesman in the approach to the matter the fact that this person threw me under the bus still stings.
Besides this I have been putting in the necessary steps to stop this terrible affliction, that and, the fact that during exercise last night it felt like two turtles where playing haky sack with a nail gun inside of my chest.
All this resulted in me coughing up a throat oyster the size and colour of an off-cabbage.
Not Cool
Some of you may have realised that I have learnt, albeit 5 years too late, how to create motivational posters.
If only hugs could cure hangovers.
I also have a friend who looks remarkably like any paedophile, ever.
His surname is Hope. So I decided to make a series of motivationals called Let’s Hope. Now I know how secretive this little kiddie fiddler can be, so I am going to need your help. If you do spot him, please email any pictures you have to: baylissno8@hotmail.com
Or tweet that shit, just mention @Badtennis_ (Thanks Barb Kissick for the underscore) and I will need you to use #LetsHope.
I will get images off his Facebook profile, well as many as are relevant. But your help will be found with as much gratitude as we are that he doesn’t have children, apart from in his inbox.
So, you may have seen this little diddy I made of Joseph Fritzl’s doppelganger earlier this week.
So, I thought I would get the ball rolling.
Obviously, I had to do a follow up to the first.
DCMYF
