Well, it’s that time of the year again. Time to eat and drink to one’s fill, and enjoy a spirited game of football with a glass of Single Barrel or Crown Reserve and a Partagas or two. As we reflect back on 2004 we can rest assured that we, as Texans, have done many of the right things, led the country to many of the right decisions, and provided leadership where it was lacking before. We can all be proud, as Texans, of our accomplishments. Of course, when I say “many of us” I do not mean the denizens of The People’s Republik and other green haired freaks that established asstin as a lonely, meager patch of limpwristed blue in a sea of patriotic red. You turn on your computer the day after the election and there is some pasty f@ggot with an “I’m sorry sign” trying to make sure his nose ring and My Mommy Didn’t Love Me tattoo are in the photograph as well as his fringe wearing, crossdressing boyfriend Skippy the cow keeper and supplier of bovine intoxicants. These nutless bovine dumbasses can operate a computer but they can’t keep the grass of Shyster Field from turning into Lake Travis every time a sunshower passes over The People’s Republik? What a bunch of freaking morons. I suppose you cannot expect much more from people who capsized a boat to get a look at some naked hippy hollow queers. How much sense does it take to fire the drooling imbecile that has failed to win a title for seven straight years while drawing two million for losing in the Holiday Bowl? More sense than a cow, apparently. The Captain of the nutless bovine ship couldn’t navigate a rubber duck across a bathtub. When the offensive coordinator is sacrificed on the altar of Old Yeller’s burned orange express and the five year plan is given an eighth year to blossom, it will solidify overrated underachiever inferiority with regard to the best football program in the State (and the last one to win a Big XII Championship): Daddy A&M. Then you go into work and you get your morning coffee and a cup of water but you look at the cup and it says “Delta Gamma Crush Texas ‘98” and you spew out the contents you had drank and throw the cup into the sink. Somebody has apparently hired another journalism intern to run the copier. You look suspiciously around the floor for somebody new with a nosering, but don’t see anybody so you send out a company wide e-mail asking if anybody would like to attend a folk singing benefit to save the rainforest being held in honor of Woody Harrelson, and sure enough you get one reply and it’s a new name so you ask them to please come to your office but once they get there you tell them the tickets are gone and could you please copy these eight boxes of closed files for me, and when you’re done make coffee and then shred the originals. Another journalism major enters the workforce. Damn Kerry loving journalism limpwrists. The whole discipline appears to be a front for recruiting socialists, obfuscating the truth and falsifying documents. You can’t even be sure they put the right number of espresso shots in your coffee when you order it. I sure hope Old Yeller’s Beverly Hillbillies pig farming truck has a hitch so the nutless bovine bandwagon can be towed to San Antonio after this year’s chokenship, because the t.u. time machine is going to log a lot of mileage traveling back and forth to and from their last Super Bowl win over Daddy (in an off year) in 2003. Coach February is dead… long live the king: Dennis Franchione.
BTHOOtu
Sincerely,
13-0 Branding Iron
texas bite
texas bite!
texas jump up and bite my ass!
texas bite
texas bite!
texas jump up and bite my ass,
texas bite, texas bite
jump up and bite my ass...
Bite! Bite!
Bite! Bite! Bite!
jump up and bite my ass!
BTHOOtu
Sincerely,
13-0 Branding Iron
texas bite
texas bite!
texas jump up and bite my ass!
texas bite
texas bite!
texas jump up and bite my ass,
texas bite, texas bite
jump up and bite my ass...
Bite! Bite!
Bite! Bite! Bite!
jump up and bite my ass!