Boys, lets bring it in. We’re going to have a good safe game out there as long as you boys keep it clean. Nothing dirty. Even though some of you are absolutely begging for a good quick shot to the nads (specifically Jamal and Larry Fishburne Jr). Now I’m going to go over a few rules real quick before we get started so that we’re all on the same page. I know I can be a hard ass some times but I play by the rules and I don’t like no funny business, see?
Rule 1: Respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me? Don’t bother. I’m about to lay it out real simple-like. You gotta respect me as your official. For Realz. I didn’t put on my black slacks and my Foot Locker shirt to come out here and get shit on by you little snot nosed fuckers. I have a whistle. Last time I checked, none of you shitdicks had a whistle. So go fuck yourselves. But guys, you also gotta respect each other out there- no grab ass and no finger play. You boys can do that in your own time. For all I care as soon as that clock runs out, you can start diddling each other’s Willard Fillmores until sun up. I’d suggest sneaking down after she’s gone to sleep and stealing some of your Mom’s vodka and then getting sticky with it in the kitchen. But so help me God, as long as that clock is rolling this is my turf, MY TURF, and I don’t want none of that corn dogging shit. If you can do that, then I will in turn respect you and we will be peachier than a turtle in a basket.
Rule 2: This Whistle is God. You must worship this whistle. You must fear this whistle. You must sacrifice your first born to this whistle. You must eat this whistle’s body and drink it’s blood. This whistle died for your fucking sins. You must hijack airplanes in the name of this whistle. You must convince yourself that the Beatles are transmitting the word of the Whistle through the White Album, telling you to go murder some people and then carve a swastika on your forehead. Seriously guys, when I blow this thing you gotta stop, hey, what’s that sound? Everybody look whats going round. It’s my whistle and I’m blowing it for a fucking reason. Unlike my ex-wife who apparently needed no reason to blow anything in the bathroom at Quimbies while me and the kids are still at the table enjoying our garlic and cheese biscuits. They are a staple in my household. Apparently being a cheating bitch is also a Dickenson family staple.
Next Rule. No cursing out there. I just won’t have it. You can’t say the F-word, the C-word, the D-word, the H-word, the other F-word, the K-word, the N-word, the B-word, the S-word, the W-word, the J-word, the T-word, the P-word, or anything like that. I also don’t want to hear you say the Midget-word. The proper term is “little folks” or “little sweetie folks” or “munchkin men.” This is a sports game not one of these Jason Mraz rap MTV spring break jersey shore shows. I swear to God if I hear one nasty word out of any of your moist, kissable lips, I will pray to the heavenly father, Jesus Christ the Lord Amen (you may know him as my Whistle) to striketh thee down in this very sports arena with a flaming lightning bolt so that your parents will wail with sorrow as they sweep your charred remains into a heavy duty Ziploc bag.
Last Rule. Keep your shirts tucked in. You don’t want to go looking like some sort of yokel. Act like you got a job, hippies. And try to get your orange peels and empty Hi-C’s in the garbage cans.
Alright, good game guys.