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Spud Tripped Balls That Day

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Spud laughed at the way the rabbit was eating its green carrots.

The tiny ball of spikes was nibbling on them at such a high speed it seemed like the rabbit had snorted a line before chowing down on its meal. Spud watched from his perch in the tree as the tiny creature blew through four of the green sticks without stopping once to take a breath.

“Hey rabbit,” Spud said. “Slow the fuck down or you’re going to choke on on those.”

At the sound of Spud’s voice, the rabbit stopped chewing and slowly looked up until it found the exact branch on which Spud was sitting. Spud gasped in horror as he gazed into the rabbit’s face. He had seen those features before, but they didn’t belong to any rabbit. There, on the tiny furry animal’s head, sat the face of Spud’s ex-girlfriend, Lauren.

The ex-girlfriend rabbit stared at Spud high up in his tree, the creature’s eyes conveying a lack of self-esteem coupled with murderous intent. Spud sat in terrified shock as under his slack-jawed watch, the small rabbit started to grow. It got larger and larger until it had far surpassed the height of the tree and blocked out the sun with its size. Finally, at the height of a three story apartment building, the rabbit stopped its rapid ascent, and as it looked down at the tree before it, it raised a fur-covered paw, and pointed directly at Spud. 

Spud leapt from the tree and started sprinting away from the super bunny. He hauled ass through shining fields of purple grass and a forest of baby-back ribs, never looking behind him for fear of slowing down. But as he stopped to catch his breath, he glanced to his rear to see if the gigantic mammal was in pursuit. 

It was. The mega rabbit covered half a football field with each step, and it could not have been more than 250 yards away from Spud. Spud frantically resumed running, desperate to put distance between himself and the creature. But as he bounded up a hill, the ground beneath him shook with a shrill scream.

“You said we would make it! You said the distance wasn’t a big deal!” the grotesque frankenbunny yelled. “You said we would name the first of our kids Chloe!”

“Chloe sucks as a name!” Spud roared back, doubling his efforts to get up the hill. “It always sucked. It’s a fucking cat’s name!”

Spud reached the top of the hill just as the rabbit began it’s ascent. But as he started down the other side, Spud tripped and fell to the ground. Spud clambered to his feet, but it was too late. Peter Commitment-Tail was lording over him like a god. Spud stood and looked up at the gigantic creature.

“So…how have you been?” Spud said.

The human-bunny hybrid raised one of its massive feet, hovered a second above Spud and brought it down on top of his head.

Spud awoke to the sound of a voice coming from above him.

“Hey, Jeff, wake up. Come on, Jeff. It’s the middle of the fourth. I need you.”

Spud opened his eyes very slowly. Gone was the towering super rabbit hell bent on killing him. In its place, there, kneeling just above him, was a living legend.

”Holy shit, Mr. Manning. It’s nice to meet you,” Spud exclaimed as he stood up.

Peyton quickly pulled him back down to a crouching position.

“Get the fuck down, Jeff. There’s Viet-Cong all over that ridge. Those sons a bitches think they can keep us from scoring 40 tonight. No, sir. These guys are too special. It’s been such a unique season, and it’s been so great to be a part of this journey with some great teammates. I’m happy we have the opportunity to go out and finish it on such a high note. Thanks, Tracy.”

Spud surveyed his surroundings; he and Peyton were huddled up to what appeared to be the wall of a trench made out of some weird cloth material. Spud’s bewildered gaze settled back onto Peyton.

“Ahh, Mr. Manning, I don’t see-”

Peyton silenced Spud with a quick throat slash gesture.

“Here’s the deal, Jeff. We score here and there’s no way in Rocky Top fuck the Viet-Cong can come back to beat us. Their offense isn’t built to score fast. They’re all ball control. Charlie don’t run go-routes, son. With a defense like ours, we just need to play mistake free football and hopefully we are lucky enough to do that here tonight. Thanks, Pam.”

All of a sudden, Peyton sprang to his feet.

“Let’s go with the hard count here, Jeff. We draw them offsides and we can take a free deep shot on the edge!” Peyton yelled. 

“Blue 80, blue 80, Omaha HUT!” Peyton roared as he vaulted the over the wall of the trench. “54’s the mike, Jeff. Cover me you limp dick fucker!”

As Peyton sprinted toward the ridge-line in the distance, artillery shells began to fall all around Spud’s position in the trench, the deafening blasts drowning out Manning’s further commands. Spud broke from the wall he was crouched behind and ran in the opposite direction from Peyton’s charge.

“I’m not Jeff fucking Saturday!” Spud screamed as the whistle of another shell caused him to dive into the safety of a nearby foxhole. “I was a point guard in high school!”

Steaming pile of Chimpanzee excrement Ted opened the door to the living room and was confronted with a strange sight. His pledge brother roomate Ricky was lying on his stomach on top of the kitchen table, appearing to be leisurely practicing his breast stroke. Inside the fireplace in the corner, his other roommate Spud was cowering, blubbering something about Peyton Manning and suicide missions.

“My goodness,” Ted thought, “I think they might be a little too over-intoxicated.”

Ted stood in the doorway a while trying to decide what to do about his fraternity brothers clearly tripping balls all over the living room of their house.

“I know, I’ll make that Stouffer’s Lasagna we have in the freezer. That way when they sober up, they’ll have something to eat.” 

Ted walked into the kitchen and turned on the oven, confident in his decision to make food for his fucked up compatriots. 

Because that’s who Ted is, an optimistic little pissant not worth the room in the septic tank his shit takes up. Fuck Ted, man.

Image via Shutterstock

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Wooden hulled, three masted heavy frigate. Named by President George Washington.

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