Sunday, October 16, 2011
Pete Carroll’s Diary: October 16th, 2011
Thank Lord Satan! This is our Bye-Week! Oh my blessed luck!
So, get this business:
Last night while I was ‘Alley-Dancing’ by myself…
…I came across an open garage door housing two really cool Pygmy Children playing ‘DIE HARD‘ or something silly like that.
Of course I said ‘Hello’ and they immediately invited me inside.
(At least I think they invited me in; I’m not totally familiar with Pygmy welcoming ceremonies, but since one of Them slapped me and the other clamped His grip down on my genitals, that this must be my initiation ritual to join their Tribe.)
The garage door closed. I knew I was in for a surprise because they immediately blind-folded me. I don’t think they wanted me guessing where we were going either, due to the fact they crammed a Racquet Ball in my mouth and wrapped my face with Duct Tape.
The Two Pygmy’s must have sensed my Dancing Legs were tired, as each just took an arm and let my feet drag nice and limp-like across the concrete. I didn’t have to walk another foot!
Wherever we were headed smelled remarkably like Oxy Clean. (Weird huh?)
The next thing I know, I hear a butt-load of shouting in a foreign language and my blind-fold was yanked off (that kind of hurt my ear a little).
In front of me was a rusty cage made of Rebar Steel; containing two White-Collar Gentleman, crying in sorrow, whilst avoiding cattle-prod shocks and bare-knuckle boxing each other!
“Holy Potatoes!” I scream, muffled under the Gag-Ball resting half-way down my throat.
A Pygmy Child begins screaming at me. Another Pygmy cuts the Duct Tape loose from my face and I spit out the Racquet Ball, “Gross Guys, that ball had dirt on it.”
The Screaming-Pygmy continued on in an unintelligible manner.
“I don’t know what you’re saying, but if I don’t get a snack soon I’m going to have the belly-grumble’s, you hear?”
A familiar voice came from behind.
“They want you to fight to the death, Coach.”
What was Tarvaris Jackson, my shitty starting Quarterback of the Seattle Seahawks, doing HERE?
“TJ?! How did you get mixed up with this Pygmy Alley Death Tribe too?! I don’t think they’re very friendly!”
“Yes, they are too friendly, Coach. You just need to understand their Culture better. Watch...”
Suddenly, TJ takes his huge black penis (with the birthmark of Steve Largent being butt-fucked by Ken Stabler) out and three Pygmy’s stand right in front of him while he plays their hollow skulls like a drum-set with his battering-ram Dong.
“My goodness…” These Pygmy’s pray to his Seahawks-hating dick like it’s a God! TJ is using it like a musical instrument on their scalps for Goodness Sake!
The Pygmy’s see that their Weiner-King, Tarvaris Jackson, and I are ‘Tight’ (you know, because we both HATE SEATTLE, like, a lot, and both of us are in the grip's of Satan's sweet, juicy lure) and they let me free... After what I can only figure was the last phase of my initiation, that I will call in Our Native Tongue:
‘The Three Pistol-Whip’s’.
Maybe I can use this Pygmy Tribe to do the Devil’s bidding too? We will see. A problem has arisen that I may require their assistance with:
THE SECOND COMING OF JESUS.
Seattle's Great-White-Hope: Charlie-Fucking-Whitehurst.