by Fatty McButterpants
LSU v Bama 2.0.
Fools are those who see this as just a game. Even more foolish are those who believe potato salad does not go with gumbo. If football is a collision sport, then this rematch will most assuredly be “Titanic vs. Iceberg”. Submission or knock out…by any means necessary, all arguments will be settled on January 9, 2012.
While the world may have been captivated by these teams’ first epic SEC showdown on November 5th, I bore sole witness to a savage battle that took place afterwards, in a cold dank Bryant-Denny men’s room near Gate 30. Prologue to my testimonial is a collection of excerpts from the formerly private journal of one Leslie Edwin Miles, secretly obtained and stylishly presented by yours truly…the devilishly intrepid Fatty McButterpants.
(Nov 5, 1135a) “…You are my arch nemesis, Nick. I watch you on the TV, with your styled hair and entourage…all business. We’ve caught each other’s eye in the past and have offered a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games. I saw you this morning, stared you down. You took another bite of whatever death-ass-producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and glared at me. I got you this time, fucker.”
(Nov 5, 545p) “Deploying my best icy grin, I secretly plan my gut-busting strategy. It's getting close to kickoff…maybe this is the time you like to run to the toilet and perform your daily ASS JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in Sabanistan there is no objection. But did I mention that I got you this time…fucker?”
(Nov 5, 835p) “Yeah bitch, I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Almost halftime, and in addition to last-second FG…check it, TWO egg sandwiches with cheese…yesterday‘s hot sausage po-boy…a large curdled latte…some leftover Louie‘s loaded hash browns smuggled over in Studrawa’s front pocket…a warm Mountain Dew…double handfuls of Skittles…a pepperoni and cheese Hot Pocket…(2) chocolate Pop-Tarts…and, like the cherry on top, an extra-large handful of Bryant-Denny field grass...oh, the HUMANITY!”
(Nov 5, 1015p) “Good God, I never should eat this shit…it's all greasy and fucking nasty, but today is the day I fight back. My stomach feels like there are two drunk midgets slap-fighting to the death inside there. Having hard time walking the sideline…I can hardly breathe. FUCK!
(Nov 5, 1148p) “GAME OVER! You took the bitter defeat like a Manhattan cabbie taking coins for a tip…and I loved every second of that clammy, limp-wrested pudding palm you call a handshake. Who would have guessed your kicker was a Tiger fan? Tracy Wolfson wanted to chat, that flat-chested whiny-voiced trainwreck. She finally shut up and I stagger towards the men’s room. Now the real fight begins…“
(Nov 6, 1245a) “As promised, you were there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the fucking sinks. You arrogant, socially retarded dickhole. Fine. Begin your purge of Middle Alabama Ass Stew…hell is a-coming, bitch!”
(As the anointed chronicler of this concours fétide, language fails me as I describe firsthand what transpired next…)
My legs trembled as I squat atop the commode in the end-stall of this most disturbingly nasty stadium restroom. Perhaps some weight-loss may help my stamina? Thoughts of tacos and beer flee from my brain as Miles confidently strode into the room. Noticing Saban’s smallish feet establishing his trademark wide vertical base in the stall next to the sinks, Miles removed his hat and entered the adjacent stall.
No words...no acknowledgment of any kind.
Saban’s opening salvo: sloppy wet with a solid-shot closer. Laughing, Miles unleashed a tuba-esque fart that echoed off the walls and apparently shrank his waistline about an inch. Curiously present and providing color commentary, Jordy Hultberg briefly giggled…then horked his lunch into a urinal and collapsed as the stench fully unfurled.
Saban, to this credit, did not shrink from the fight. With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!", he sprayed his toilet with some sort of unholy ass juice, making my head swim. I covered my mouth and nose with my favorite Tommy Bahama shirt and the black spots disappeared from my vision.
I heard Miles scream as he dropped PBL... aka "Paincourtville Butt Log". Staccato farts erupted from his ass, as he ushered a Shit Dimension into the horrid reality of that men’s room. It's beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowered the B-Ham Ass Gutter odor of Saban’s previous attack. “MegaTurd” hit the water with a mighty splash…the reek was that of a dead whale slowly festering in the hot, tropical sun.
Wiping my brow, I should have known the battle was not over.
The way I see it, Saban must have completely unzipped his ass up to his elbow. That is the only way I could begin to explain the seemingly unending, lumpy, yogurt-sounding torrent erupting forth. I shuddered and swayed, unsure if I would survive this.
That is when Miles deployed the Deal Breaker.
I hunkered down …my fingers twitching and entwined like a nest of snakes, like I am running through a series of ancient Ninja Hand Symbols. I witnessed Miles’s feet lift up onto the toes, and then the stall walls started to shake. A low moan came forth like a dinosaur calling into a swampy, foggy night. "You wanna play??, Miles growled. "YOU GOT IT, SISTER!!"
Shrieking ensued…rancid, hot, magma-like refuse burst forth from Miles‘s stall, smelling of rotten fruitcake stuffed with boiled camel assholes on a bed of Rosie O‘Donnell‘s burning armpit hair. Saban’s stall door banged open in a panic and the disheveled, horrified coach staggered out. Taking three unsteady steps to the door, he could barely open it wide enough to slip out. Miles giggled…"RUN, FUCKER!"
Saban said nothing as he slipped off into the darkness.
Realizing that the carnage was over, I slowly made my way through the toxic ass-fog, helped a barely conscious Jordy to his feet, and we escaped that hellish scene. It was all over except for the monumental clean up. The message Miles wanted issued was clear…“Bring your ass to the Dome January 9 if you want some more, you pretty-boy Alabama Anal Terrorist…me and my damn strong ass will be waiting.”