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gatorpower
(65.5.200.181) on 11/29/2011 - 7:35 p.m. says: ( 214 views
, 2 likes
)
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"Dear Shellay Meyers" |
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Dear Shellay Meyers I would like to take the opportunity to applaud your courage to sit in front of a reporter, hundreds of miles away, and trash talk the very people who made it possible for you to be a millionaire. You took time away from a tough schedule of sitting around the house, watching soap operas, running the washing machine, letting the dogs in-and-out of the backyard and buying things on amazon.com to really set the record straight about your years in Gainesville. It was an exposé that needed to be told. Mrs. Shellay “Upton Sinclair” Meyers. The horrors of the college football industry: A cruel world of back-breaking labor in the Alachua County stockyards. A life of misery often defined by disfigurement, job-related mutilation, missing persons, sexual exploitation, rape and often death. You tell a harrowing tale of how you held Chris Rainey's lifeless body in your outstretched arms, rocking him back and forth, quietly humming a hymnal about Jesus, or something Jesus-related, as blood pooled around your Prada Vitello Daino handbag. My entire body spasmed in pain to hear your trembling voice describe how bits of his intestinal lining, clinging to the side of your Christian Dior outfit would make it absolutely pointless to sell on eBay anymore, even with your husband's autograph thrown in. It was the horrors of your life juxtaposed against the meager compensations received from UF and maybe a couple of its sponsors, like Papa Johns or Yella Wood. Florida Pest Control. It was only a few weeks ago that my locked fingers, ribboned pink with stress, would dig into the arm rests of my favorite recliner after reading the depositions of the Sandusky case. Your interview not only destroyed my fingers, it destroyed my recliner. I gripped onto the faux leather so hard, that my house caught on fire. Then I threw my finger nubs into the fire. Then my penis. No reason for that, just thought it would smell good. What does a story about a man raping children and setting up an ad hoc child prostitution ring have that yours doesn't? Truly first-world problems, Mrs Meyers. But. No. Seriously. By accepting millions of dollars and then bitching and whining about how hard your life is, you've become the version of Zook who never actually coached. Wait. On second thought, that criteria alone makes you exactly like Zook. So, I would like to then applaud your ability to get knocked up with the right sperm because, as we both know (we both know it), without that sperm blasting its way to your ovary nest, you would likely be eating bird food on a park bench, with K-mart pumps, leaking tears from both eye sockets, reading twitter updates from the 20-something-year-old vagina Meyers upgraded to. Thank God, your vagina works! Meyer only slightly loves its products more than the stuff that comes out of your anus and he's proving it by treating them nearly identical. It really takes guts to be so unfiltered about things you couldn't be bothered to think through. You know, like blaming the media for doing their job. It's full job, Shellay. They don't just exist to stick a microphone in your face so you can verbally fellate yourself and your husband. They get paid, not as much as your husband, naturally, but they get paid nonetheless to do more than be your personal cheerleaders. They only reported information like your husband's dishonesty, his hypocrisy, his emotional instability, his team's lack of discipline on and off the field. You know, facts. If their articles really bothered you that much, you should have buried your face in premium bon bons and designer chocolates. For someone who hasn't had a real job in years, you're very good at criticizing the people who do actually work for a living. The media, the fans. Yes, the fans. You know, those people who work 40-hour weeks and take care of their homes without maids or personal assistants, then fork over $500-$1000 to the university every weekend with their families to watch 18-22 year old kid play football. The way you grouped us all together... First-world problems, Mrs Meyers. I am a bad fan. I think a show of hands here will prove that. Not every fan is like me though. There were people stuck in cramped cubicals with FSU grads, Alabama grads, Mississippi grads, defending the $**t out of you and your husband. There were people buying tshirts and car decals, with money they could barely justify spending, with your last name plastered all over it. I know this because I was the guy laughing at them at Publix. I was the guy calling Urban a wimpy little child and they were the guys with the stiff upper lips. And now you think we're the same. How enjoyable it must be to have the kind of luxury that allows you to be so stupid and so popular at the same time. Once upon a time, I heard that every recruit had to be interviewed by you, in your living room, one-on-one, after dinner. I think the line we were all fed was that it was about your expert abilities at You can not differentiate between anyone and you are seemingly unable to assign proper responsibility. Thank God your vagina works because everything else about you is useless. Sincerely, All the fans in Gator Nation (like you would really know the difference) |
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-- Starred by: Utahman J-VILLE GATOR -- 
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Dear Shellay Meyers gatorpower 11/29/2011 - 7:35 p.m.
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