Velociworld

The Puppet Master

Just as Erica Jong fears blood will run in the streets if Obama is not elected, so I fear He is conspiring to provide Florida a win over Georgia today. And why would Obajahweh do such a thing? Why, to put a righteous wind at the back of a critical swing state, that's why. If you doubt me, just read Chapter 12 from Saul Alinsky's seminal Rules for Radicals:

Where possible, create a sense of inevitability and victory in established liberal areas; simultaneously, deny those cracker-assed bastards in hillbilly country any sense of pride in place, or community.

There is no denying Georgia is Neanderland; even manipulating the polls cannot create a victory for the Neo-Nazarene in that Heart of Darkness. In fact, I have it on excellent authority that the Stone Mountain election night laser show at that heinous redoubt of Klan orgies will have the giant carving of the Confederate generals riding off into the sunset, dragging James Byrd behind their horses.

Florida, on the other hand, well, let me just say it's no coincidence that Goldberg alluded to the fact that Hanging Chad is just codespeak for gay autoerotic asphyxiation. Which brings me to my evidence that the outcome of the game is preordained:

We all know that referees and umpires are all closeted homosexuals, inveterate jocksniffers who love nothing more than to rub against sweaty studs. So when those egregious pass interference and "holding" and "offsides" calls start piling up against the Dawgs, just remember that the Florida team is nearly entirely gay, and the Rainbow Refs are engaging in some home cooking for their buttboyz.

And one cannot overlook the fact that the Georgia offensive coordinator is named Bobo. His spurious play-calling this year confirms my deeply held suspicion that he is a plant, a spy. That and the fact no one willingly hires anyone named Bobo for anything other than birthday clown. Bobos get all their jobs through family connections, which we know as bobotism.

And Tim Tebow: he was home-schooled. You know what that means. You may as well hang a Manchurian Candidate sign around his neck. Why, the guy doesn't even have a high school yearbook. Allowing him to play college football is as insane as letting some character run for President of the United States who can't even manage to produce a birth certificate, college transcripts, state legislature records, or even a buddy who can bear witness to a vomit session after a night of spree drinking at a frat party. That insane.

I'm firmly convinced that should the obviously inferior team beat Georgia today, it will be the result of sinister machinations by Barack Obama, so that he can swoop into Florida Sunday or Monday, and strike a jutjawed pose, eyes cast heavenward, hands upon hips. But with his thumbs thrust forward, like the nelly bitch he be.

Ah, well. I'm used to these setbacks. And I do get to nurse my grievances every morning when I get on my knees and thank the baby Jesus for two things: that George W. Bush was able to steal the 2000 election by nefariously counting all the votes in Florida, four times, and that the Central Intelligence Agency created crack cocaine in order to wreak havoc in the African-American community. Because I know it's a good thing to have to dodge machine gun spray every time I go to Shantytown to cop a fucking nickel bag.

UPDATE: The ghost of Pop Warner just stopped by to tell me how disappointed he was in Georgia. Said he never knew grown men could be such fucking pussies. The ghost of Vince Lombardi also stopped by, and kicked me in the balls, because, as he said, Every time a bell gets rung, Obama gets another set of wings. Meanwhile, I'm stripped naked on the bed, listening to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, part 2, and spreading coffee cake on my torso. I'll open the window shortly, and let the turkey vultures eat my sweetbreads, even though the only fire I ever provided was to an underage girl attempting to smoke a Marlboro Red slathered in hash oil. And nice work on the referees, President Obama.