Thursday, January 15, 2009

SuperWhitlock Explains the Universe

Jason Whitlock, noted writer, famous BSU alum, unapologetic food addict, adds bullets to his resume each and every day. Lately, Whitlock has been dabbling in conspiracy theories and NFL scouting. We wondered how he did it, then we realized he has to be superhuman. SuperWhitlock was kind enough to break down the universe for us. This time focusing on the NFL future of some of the best QBs in the country.

SuperWhitlock Explains:
QBs Heading to the NFL Draft

Greetings, simpletons. It is with an uncanny ability for truth finding and conspiracy exposure that I point out the things that are wrong with the world. It's hard fucking work, you dimwitted small minded shits. Don't you know how hard this shit is? No... you don't. And you don't wanna know. I know shit brother. I'm a fucking journalist!!! Recognize.

I get the tough scoops, and I ain't talking about double Baskin Robbins. I'm talking about the inside shit. The shit that will turn you white, playa. I have been talking about my Ball State Cardinals all year. But that no good bitch decided she was going to axe my coach behind my backfat, and frankly, I'm done. There was a ton of shady stuff going down behind the scenes. You don't want to know. I mean, seeing Nate Davis go into a suite with Stan Parrish and Tom Collins is nothing, man! I saw Kim Jong Il, a donkey, a Mexican prostitute, and a bucket of cut off African clits all wander into Jo Ann Gora's office. I was disguised as a ficus tree over in the corner, and I saw shit you don't even want to know. Trust me, man... you don't want to know. If you knew what I knew, you're fucking head would explode. Book that shit.

So after they tried to screw my boy Nate I thought it might be best to check in on some other young men across the country. They's got skills, playboy. And these blue eyed white devils masquerading as athletic directors, coaches, and parents try to take their duckets in an effort to keep these young boys down.

I teleported myself to the Staples Center where Pete Carroll invited Mark Sanchez to a luxury suite to watch the Lakers. How did I do it? You don't want to know, man. It's best if you keep your little peabrain on shit you understand, like jerking off into a sock. Anyway, Carrol/Satan put a full court press on Sanchez to stick around. He berated Sanchez's confidence. Told him he was ugly. Told him he didn't read good. Told him that he would no longer be swimming in Song Girl panties if he left. Told him he made sweet sweet love to Mrs. Sanchez wearing a matador costume and a luchadore mask. I was furious man! That shit's not right. Mark Sanchez has every right to seek those NFL dollars, dogg. And he's going to. Good for him. That signing bonus should buy him all the empanadas he can eat. GET SOME, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!

Next I flew to the Bradford home. Not by plane, you ignorant slackjawed fuckwit, but by my special abilities. Trust me, I got 'em. You don't wanna know. Anyway, morons, I was chilling under the table, eating table scraps they thought they were tossing to the family dog. Little did they know I'd already consumed it whole. I was able to hear the family talk about why Sam Bradford should stay, namely getting a degree or having fun. You know what's really fun, Sam? Banging drunk sluts you don't have to pay for, not that I would know, because you're an NFL quarterback. Sure, you get lots of ass in college, but we're talking NFL ASS. Totally different. Trust me, man, I know shit. Lots of shit. Don't let yourself be fooled into thinking your parents know what's best. If they did, they wouldn't have sent you to Oklahoma to get the shit kicked out of you in every BCS game you'll ever play in. You stupid commoners amuse me with your ignorance.

By the way, have I mentioned that Charlie Weis sucks? No? Well... Charlie Weis sucks. One time Weis, John Madden, and I had an eating contest at an Old Country Buffet. There was no declared winner. But the loser was most definitely the food... And two sneeze-guards. And sixteen heating lamps. And a busboy. You don't even know. Because I'm fucking super. And you, you disgusting proletariat ignoramuses, are not.

Oh, shit. The Bradford's dog is really hitting me. Holy mother of Christ. I might mess my cape if I don't get out of here. SuperWhitlock has to take a massive SuperSteamer. SuperWhitlock.... AWAY!!!!!

Disclaimer: This post does not contain the actual views, comments, or opinions of Jason Whitlock. Mr. Whitlock is a journalist for the Kansas City Star, and Ball State University Alum who is not affiliated with OverThePylon. All opinions and comments expressed in this Post and others are those solely of OverThePylon and its staff.

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