Tuesday, 17 April 2012

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!": One Trophy's Triumphant Story

"How putrid a man," thought the trophy as he lay in a glass case in Ireland. The television was showing a brief piece on a one, Nick Saban, on that afternoon's edition of ESPN Game Day. The trophy still smelled of the polish the craftsman had applied. The trophy was glorious in every aspect of the word. Glorious.

"One day, you'll be given to someone who deserves you and loves you like I do." The craftsman, O'Toole, said. This gave Trophy comfort. The horrid man on the television squealed on about his team, Alabama, and their goal of winning the National Championship. "How disgusting," Trophy reflected.

You see, Trophy's father, Trophy, was won in 2001. The Miami Hurricanes had given him a good home, and a better life. For that Trophy was forever grateful. Trophy (the son) grew up having a tremendous amount of respect for all things Miami Football, he even tolerated the Marino-less Dolphins as they bumbled their way through mediocrity.

It was in December of 2004 when Trophy first saw Saban. He was wearing a Miami Dolphins sun-hat and a windbreaker. His father took one look at the mysterious coach and said, "I don't much like this fuck-face one bit, I'd fancy a hot shit down my throat well before letting him gargle my testies." His father had always had a way with words.

Something about Saban gave Trophy a bad feeling as well. All his fears were realized when he pissed away the season leaving the team in a state of disarray, cackling all the way to Alabama. Hot shit down the throat indeed.

The Trophy shivered as he lay in his glass case. The snarky confidence in Saban's eyes sent a chill down his glorious spine. "Don't worry pally, that fucker won't be taking you home... Those LSU boys are too good." O'Toole told him.

"Maybe he wouldn't be that bad? AH FUCK, WHO AM I KIDDING, HE'S A CUNT!" Trophy prayed that O'Toole was right. But he was more wrong than a open-faced grilled cheese sandwich. LSU weren't too good. In fact, they weren't even good, at all, when Trophy needed them. They wheeled him out, and there he was. Saban lapped him up into his grip and looked into his eyes with more apathy than Hannibal Lecter; a look of unadulterated entitlement. Cunt, indeed.

And so there he was on national television, in HIS hands, for all to see; like some PRIZE he had earned.

That was the saddest day of his life. He relished the moments when the players passed him around feverishly, hoisting him in the air. If he closed his eyes he couldn't see the Crimson Red, he could imagine himself in Don Shula's reassuring grip... Even Bobby Bowden's greasy mitts would have been all right. But, he would always snap out of it, and before he knew it was back in the hands of the screechy douchebag that had once made his father curse things so vile they could have choked a billy-goat.

Eventually, he accepted his fate. He lay on his stand in Tuscaloosa, each day passing easier than the last. He could see the mocking eyes of the life-sized Saban statue standing in the sun, glistening next Bear Bryant undeservedly.

The months passed, and Trophy remained stationary on his stand. Then, last Saturday, Saban emerged from his office that Trophy assumed Saban only used to blind and torture children inside. Suddenly, Saban walked over to Trophy with a strange look in his eyes, the same look he had had on the television Trophy had witnessed not long ago.

"Why hello beautiful," Saban spat. "You make my weiner hard, you know that right?" Trophy gagged. "You make me the greatest coach of all time. That makes me hot in my downstairs business. You know what else?" Trophy dare not speak.

"I'm gonna use you."

A chill went down Trophy's spine.

"I'm gonna use your beautiful, shiny, glimmer to bring the best players in the world here. To Alabama. And we're going to win, and win, and win. We will win, forever. My weiner will always be hard, because everywhere I go I'll see a trophy telling me I'm the greatest. I AM THE GREATEST, YOU FUCKING TROPHY! IF YOU WERE HUMAN I'D FUCK YOU OVER JUST LIKE THE MIAMI DOLPHINS, YOU FUCKING TROPHY!"

Saban strolled away, chuckling to himself. Trophy lay, in shock.

A player and his father walked up to Trophy to pay their respects. Trophy saw the man's foot snag in the carpet surrounding his stand. It was then and there Trophy decided he would not be a patsy in Saban's disgusting game. He would not play a role in forcing his children, and his children's children to live a life of laying on a stand, being held by Nick Saban sporadically. He remembered being forced to watch game film in his disgusting claws, being forced to lay silent while he rubbed and kissed his trophy body. No, they would not have the same fate as he - no one should.

"I can't take it anymore!" thought Trophy.

As the man's foot caught the rug, Trophy, in all his glorious might. He separated himself from the tape holding him to the stand. Did they really expect TAPE to hold him? In one swift movement he rolled from the stand.

As the ground rapidly approached, he heard the man shriek in terror, but Trophy knew it was too late. He had done it.

"Freedom, glorious freedom." He thought as he reached terminal velocity. "Goodbye Saban world."

He exploded into a thousand fucking pieces on the ground.

The End.

RIP Trophy

(Screw you Nick Saban you haughty prick)

For more information on the story of Trophy check ESPN: Alabama Trophy Broken


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