Shut your heads, you freaking babies.

From: (Paul Casino)
Date: Mon, Aug 16, 2004

The cover of today's USA Today decalares that the U.S. Olympics teams
aren't doing too much kicking of ass in the ass kicking department,
and this apparently is comming as a suprise to most. Will someone tell
me what kind of a country we live in where we're all so damn
egotistical that we actually EXPECT to win EVERY event we're
participating in?

Our basketball team is full of pampered and overpaid NBA stars led by
Allen Iverson, and it comes as a SHOCK that a team from Puerto Rico
who basically has nothing and has had to work so much harder and
stronger to get to where they are now beat the pants off us?

And this Michael Phelps kid. It says that it's now doubtfull that
he'll be able to achieve his goal, which was to win eight medals.
EIGHT FUCKING GOLD MEDALS. Isn't that bar a little high? And if he
walks away with only ONE MEDAL, it will be viewed as a failure, if
he's only recognized as the most talented athlete on the planet in ONE
aspect, not every aspect, because I guess we're assuming that he's
Aquaman or something.

So here's a little message to Michael Phelps from me.
Dear Mike,

This morning I woke up in a growing puddle of my own drool, underneath
a kitchen table in a house that I'd never been in before. Did I know
how I got there? No. Yes. Vaguely. I then had to summon the strength
to pull myself to my feet so I could vomit in a toilet as opposed to
the sink, as to keep up the semblance of being a relatively polite
houseguest. I then realized that I was an hour late for my conspiracy
job, which I hate with a heat that burns with the fury of a thousand
suns. I then got to work, got chewed out, and to top it all off, I am
a regular poster on alt.slack, which in case you happen to be
unfamiliar with it, is the relative equivalent of shoving hot and
sharp things directly into your eye in hopes of scratching a
neverending itch on your frontal lobe, especially when Nenslo gets
fired up about some obscure topic and decides to start passing out
insults so painfull, stinging and DEAD ON CORRECT that they make you
want to go home and slap the shit out of your own mother for giving
birth to an asshole like yourself.

Mike Phelps, this is my life. This is my sad, pathetic excuse for a
life. And guess what? It likely won't end anytime soon, unless Artenia
Selina starts to make good on them threats he's been making.

Mike Phelps, what did you do today? Oh, that's right. You participated
in the Olympics. And didn't do as well as you thought, but still
brought home a single gold medal at least. What you need to do is
lower your standards, my friend. I don't even own anything made of
gold that I haven't pawned. So buck up, camper. You could be me.


Paul Casino
Post-Apocalyptic Whipping Boy for a New Generation

See? See what reading a conspiracy newspaper can do to your brain,

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