Pete Carroll’s Diary: October 16th, 2011

Dear Diary,

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.

Pete Carroll’s Diary: October 8th, 2011

Dear diary,

I was staring at two Asian Women clawing each other’s eyes out over a taxi, when suddenly I was approached by a large African American Gentleman named ‘Willy’ who asked if I wanted to have a good time… Of course I said YES!



Willy took me down the street and up a flight of stairs to a room with NAKED GIRLS!

I froze, and was like, “Say what?!” which I felt was the correct thing to say (there were black people in the room).

Some of these ladies had nipples the size of the drink coasters at The Outback.



The danger alarm went off in my head. My Rape Whistle was nowhere to be found. ”I want my wife! I want the police!” I shout. I wanted out and told those weirdo’s “I must go now! I have a game to Coach against the New York Giants that I will desperately try to lose today!”

Willy asked, “Wait a minute, you Pete Carroll?!”

Just as I was about to answer, a voice came from behind a dirty blanket hanging over a door-way: “That you coach?”



What was Tavaris Jackson, my shitty starting Quarterback of the Seattle Seahawks, doing HERE? “You are supposed to be watching film! Giants scored five touchdowns on us last year! That’s it TJ, you’re on the bench! ”

“Coach, I’m banging these dirty, big-nippled sluts to burn as much energy as possible before the game so I can forget plays, throw the ball inaccurately, and fuck up everything!”

“Sorry Kid!” I yelled, “You, Me, and Satan are all on the same page then baby!” (*does back-flip, slide-whistle sound*)

“Look Coach!”

“My Goodness...” I saw it: Tavaris Jackson’s huge, black penis wears the birth-mark of none other than Steve Largent, Hall of Fame Seahawks Wide Receiver, being sodomized by former Oakland Raiders Quarterback, Ken Stabler!

Diary, I swear to you this! It was a sign from Lord Satan!



Much like a Headline: Tavaris Jackson was conceived by Demon Seed from the Devil himself to bring down the Seattle Seahawks, from within.

I nodded approvingly, “Keep it up you big-dicked Monster from Hell.”

I need all the help I can get.

Pete Carroll’s Diary: October 1st, 2011

Dear Diary,

I went out for ice cream two days ago. I know I shouldn’t have sugar. What started out as a banana-split turned into fifteen Choco-Taco’s, four Dr. Peppers, and a half-eaten Churro that a nine-year-old Pygmy at the bus stop sold me for five dollars. It’s been days since I’ve slept or had any nutrition. I don’t know where my car is. Maybe I don’t even have a car?

I’m pretty sure my life isn’t real sometimes. I am often concerned that I’m not really Pete Carroll, head coach of the Seattle Seahawks, and that I might be in a ten-year LSD-fueled demented craze--that maybe I’m not really on the side-lines making terrible calls that put these players in severe jeopardy…

What if I’m really just a transient loner, under a bridge, whose brain has been forever burnt by hallucinogenic drug use, and am now living day-to-day on a healthy glue-sniffing regiment?



Perhaps these ‘Seahawks’ I have been ‘Coaching’ all this time are just old beer bottles filled with piss that I yell at all day?

No, that can’t be true. Pete Carroll is pretty sure Pete Carroll has said no to drugs. I’m also pretty sure that I DVR’d ‘Boy Meets World’ finally. I can only hope that I can end this season in a disastrous, swollen cluster-fuck so I can sit down in peace and quiet and soak in the 3 wondrous episodes we are graciously given each year.

With that being said Mr. Diary, My goal is almost complete: turn the Seahawks into a five-year losing franchise worth less than shit baked to the brick wall of the Mayor’s Office. Then they will let me go; they would have to. How glorious would that be? I could finally start following my dream: becoming a Summer Camp Counselor. Ah yes, and my free-time would be spent soaking in all those 90‘s sitcoms I missed out on during all those years I wasted trying to bring down the Vikings & Jets.

Will they finally fire me today? Oh Lord why won‘t you let me be free?! I should be asking Satan this question, because only in a world driven by the cancerous pains of Hell would I be allowed to coach an NFL Football Team.



We are 1-2 going into the Falcons this week. Let’s make sure at the end of it our Vagina’s will cry in terror at the pounding Atlanta’s throbbing Weiner has laid upon us.

I just have to get this pesky season over with hopefully 3 wins or less and the deal will be sealed.

Fuck you Seattle.