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Thursday, February 13, 2014

WHITT'S END: 2.13.14

      Whether you're at the end of your coffee, your day, your week or even your rope, welcome to Whitt's End:

   *After their worst loss of the season, the Mavs get their signature win by ...

   *Uh-oh, Jason Garrett is getting coaching advice from a guy who makes a home out of moving around ...

   *The hottest girl you've never seen having sex in complete darkness ...


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13 comments:

  1. Last night my wife picked up some take out from an Italian restaurant in town. My supper consisted of an order of lasagna and a dinner salad. The meal also came with a huge order of garlic bread. A pre-prepared Italian feast of this magnitude called for a big-ass plastic cup full of wine. I went to the wine cellar, also known as the refrigerator in the garage, and drew a massive cup of chilled Franzia Blush 2012 from the plastic tap on the side of the wine box. I gathered up all of the necessary eating implements and accessories, then hunkered down in front of the television for some fine dining.
    I am not sure if the food was that good or if I was just famished, but either way I damn near inhaled the contents of the tin containers. The lasagna had just enough residual grease to make the platter glisten in the light of the TV. After the salad and main course, I used several pieces of the garlic bread to mop up the tomato sauce and salad dressing from their prospective containers. The wine washed the food down my chute and made me feel warm, content and full.
    With my pants unbuttoned and remote in hand, I embarked on an evening of quality television viewing. About half way through a Family Guy rerun, I developed a mild case of heartburn, accompanied by a bit of gas. About 10:00PM, my wife grew tired of my flatulence and retired to the bedroom. Her departure left me free to survey the greatness of Cinemax soft porn in peace and quiet. While scanning the program ratings for “MA, AC, N and AL”, I came upon some boxing on ESPN2. As I watched these 145lb. modern day gladiators do battle, I felt a bit of the sweet science stewing in my innards. As the fight on television continued, the pungent pugilists in my bowels received their pre-fight instructions and touched gloves in the center of my ring.
    The flatulence ceased and pressure started building inside my belly. It sounded as if my intestines were chanting “Ali – Bum-Aye-Yea… Ali-Bum-Aye-Yea.." My colon wanted to rip out my heart and eat my children.
    The abdominal brawl made me feel as if I had taken a devastating body blow from the heavyweight champion of the world. My asshole was the Italian Stallion and it was fighting Clubber Lang The combination punch of ricotta cheese, garlic bread and red wine were about to send me down for the count. There would be no standing 8 count. My legs were like rubber as I tried to fight my way off of the ropes. I was covering up, but the contents of my stomach were scoring at will. I had to hang in there. It felt like Andrew Golata was in my manhole and would not be disqualified for low blows. I was trying to fight back, but my asshole had adopted the “rope-a-dope” defense and was hoping that the challenger would punch himself out.
    The internal bell finally rang. I made my way to the red corner and flopped down on the porcelain stool. The furious onslaught of rectal headbutts to my rim made me fear that I might need a cutman. Roberto Duran was in my dungpipe and was yelling “no mas…no mas…”
    My brain was my trainer; giving me the strategies to battle through the next round. As the next round began,Tom Conti music played in my head as I started to flex my sphincter. My colon struck back with a violent cramping uppercut. My guts and my asshole were squared off, standing toe to toe in the center of my taint, trading haymakers. Then it happened, I finally connected with a roundhouse left to the head of the challenger.I was connecting and the Brown Bomber was going down. My asshole was Boom Boom Mancini and this behemoth log was Doo-Doo Kim.
    As the contender hit the canvas of the commode, my asshole relaxed and went to a neutral corner. The ass-fight was over and my spider was still the champion of the world. I arose to survey the damage and found a mammoth turd, lying unconscious in the center of the squared circle. Pound for pound, it had to be the toughest turd in the world. In celebration I climbed the turnbuckle and stood atop the toilet with my arms raised over my head in victory, yelling “I shocked the world… I shocked the world…”

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    Replies
    1. this has been the best post I've seen on this website in forever. Can't call it a blog when we have no access to any of the posts.

      And just a suggestion, if you want us to pay for your blog, that's one thing. You might want to eventually, oh, say after 30 days of publishing, open the availability to be able to view your article. Not saying I'm going to read it but still.

      Delete
  2. Pure Unadulterated Genius

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  3. I tip my Red Ranger cap to you sir and your digestive musings.

    - Storm

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  4. Richie, you gotta keep this thing going....uh...you can maybe bow out... but we got us a writer here finally!

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  5. I like the way he stopped his 5-part series on his vacation after part 3. So half-ass.

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    Replies
    1. Not usually a defender but there are 5 listed vacation stories in the left pane. Page up a little.

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    2. My bad, he left "Third in a 5-part series..." for the last three. Shouldn't have assumed he proof read his own stuff.

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  6. .......slow clap......

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  7. the return of Elmer Wayne!
    genius.

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  8. I leave you 3rd graders to your own devices and THIS is what you come up with? Wow. Well, enjoy. I guess.

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  9. Fuck off Richie. Go back to writing your stupid ass blog.

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