The Challenge

The Challenge

“I want my bwanky…and my Michael Phelps lunchbox…..so I can fuckin HURL in it!”

Text message sent to GotRocks Monday morning. Lets go back to the beginning so this makes sense.

So we’re sitting around the “Wake Table” –no, no one died. It’s the Wake Forest Table. Giant Bistro table thing that ways about a 1,000 pounds (trust me, I moved it) because its made out of …CEMENT. Yeah, all these centuries of developing “science”, getting burned at the stake, Inquisitioned, ex-communicated ….so we can put a sheath of plastic on our dicks so thin it makes Nicole Ritchie jealous – and it still manages to have ribs, vibrate, glow, kill diseases and of course, sperm. Yeah, all that progress, death and persecution just so Oak Tree can have a really cool college themed table….made out of fucking cement. Copernicus would shed a tear over it.

Anyway were sitting around this pinnacle of scientific achievement – doing what the human race does best, eating and getting drunk – when the subject of physical fitness comes up….again. Intigated by who? Excuse me WHOM? The wives. Now you can’t blame them, they all look good, smell great and dress pretty. Frankly we don’t deserve them – and they try, in their oh so subtle way – to make sure we fat bastards don’t forget it. Hence the spontaneous subject of physical fitness.


4:30 am practice

Got Rocks – inheritance from Robert E Lee’s….brother….hasn’t got it yet but he knows its coming…on the other hand he grew up in a borrowed trailer on a lake because outside of his mother, the rest of his family are douche-bags. So…you know…he’s got street cred.

Gay Divorcee – not gay like a cocksucker….just happy go lucky…and divorced…with puka beads…and hair. Hair that’s just a little too shiny. Seriously, John Edwards has nothing on the Gay Divorcee’s hair.

The fact that I am losing my hair has nothing whatsoever to do with my attention to this innocuous detail. Really.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. The Challenge...