Ole Miss Shows the Way

It's not enough that Lane Kiffin (yes, that Lane Kiffin) is the new Ole Miss coach. Here's how the folks in Oxford are cat-fishing for the silver lining in this lil' ol' once in a lifetime apocalypse.

Nice, huh? "You gonna' die, Bojangles? Well, just, ya' know, don't forget about us, okay?"
Hey, sure, fund raising is inherently a gross, dirty race-to-the-bottom affair. I live in... well, you know where I live. Every douche and their brother Don is raising money for SOMETHING. But this is a new low. This is like at the start of the AIDs epidemic when ward clerks at NYCity hospitals used to scour the records of recent admissions for AIDs cases. And then call real estate brokers for a slice of the commission when the AIDs victim died and the apartment got sold. True. Fact. Bitches.

I wonder how The Rebs are feeling now that the center position has had a little Covid shakeup? Dog the Bounty Hunter, you know how important the center position is. Sure you do, Dog.

Now, I could go on bloviating for an hour and a half like a certain spray-on-tan Leader-of-the-Free-World might do and turn this IMPORTANT MESSAGE into a campaign stop but I'm not going to. Basically because I'm not campaigning. I'm already the Commissioner, you Fuckers, and if you didn't know it you'd best learn it right quick. I'm in charge here. Not Anthony fucking Fauci. Me. El Supremo. So, no. Not going to blibber on for an hour and a half. Not going to talk about the time I mowed my mom's neighbor's lawn for a whole summer for nothing. Just to be a  nice guy. Just to do the right thing. Because this is America and that's what American's do. I got a blister mowing that lawn but I never once told anybody about it. I just popped it with a needle and went to work. I didn't miss one day of work because of that blister because that's what you do in America. You work. You take care of business. I took care of business. I did it with a blister that maybe took a little longer, a lot longer, yeah, a lot longer, to heal than the ordinary blister because I have really soft hands. I have soft hands. I have the softest hands in America which is the greatest country in the world and everybody knows it and they watch my hands. If they could have seen that blister they would have shit themselves and then where would we be? I spent thousands of pennies on band aids and neosporin to heal that blister and I was glad to do it because, basically, I wanted that blister to heal. And when it healed my hands were softer than ever. They were like supernaturally soft. Like amazingly soft. And my work productivity went, like, off the charts. Also because the internet wasn't working at my office and I couldn't surf but also because my hands were soft and could do things with a keyboard that, frankly, other people, though I'm sure they're very nice people, can't do.

And they're probably some of the nicest people you know. But they don't have my two, soft, Commissioner's hands that are so soft that they can feel the  Chinese virus on a counter top and save millions of lives every day by screaming, "Stay the fuck away from that counter top you...you... dumb shits! It's crawling with coronas. What's the matter with you? Come here, away from the corona counter, and let me grab your pussy." I can do that, you know. I can. I have arms that are 6 and a half feet long. So I can pull off a social distance pussy grab and you can't so don't even try. Idiot.
And I'm not going to go on and on. Because there's a lot of stuff to do. For me to do. Because probably only I can do it. Like make ventilators. In my basement. Which is kind of a  mess so why don't you lazy turds get off your asses and clean it because I. DON'T. CLEAN. BASEMENTS. You do,  Mister Nobody. So, maybe when you clean my basement I can continue building ventilators. Which I can build. I'm building them. Hundreds of them. No, wait, a million. A million or two ventilators. I build them out of garden hose, air conditioners and bicycle pumps and these are the most perfect, the most beautiful ventilators you have ever seen. You'll never see a more perfect ventilator. And they're so easy to use. So easy. A monkey could run these ventilators. A  monkey with Ebola, which is, thankfully, not what we're dealing with here. This is not Ebola. If this were Ebola you would be, like, so amazingly screwed and I would be so, so gone. Like, in the Commissioner's sealed bunker eating pork and beans until you all die.

No, I'm not going to go on and on about all the great stuff I've done and am still doing. Because I'm still doing it. I'm doing it right now. I do it all the time and it's a beautiful thing. I's a great thing. Do I get tired of doing great things? No. Well, yeah. Sure. Great things are hard to do. But I spent tens of dollars getting to be the Commissioner and I like it. I like it a lot. But it's a lot of work. And I don't get to do some of the other great things I always used to do. Like, the great athletic things, because I'm probably the greatest, most fantastic athlete you've ever met. Some days I play golf and ride a bicycle uphill. I walk the dog. I walk the dog and the dog knows that these are the greatest walks a dog could ever go on because I'm on the other end of that leash, wearing a mask and a face shield.

But, everybody knows I'm one of the greatest athletes, well, THE greatest athlete that ever lived. Ever. I don't have to talk about  my accomplishments. I don't. Why would I have to? They were great. They were beautiful. Everybody talks about them. Like my 6 career solo tackles. Like that time I took down that large African American youth from Clinton. Sure, he was 5 yards down the field already. And, yes, it was  one of those chop-the-knees tackles where you don't really have to take the guy on and he goes sailing for another 2 or three yards after contact for an 8 yard gain which is, really, a very successful running play. So successful.
Why should I take on a large African American running back head to head? I love African Americans. They love me more, of course. But I love them. And, frankly, I had never seen an African American before, let alone a great big one running downhill straight at me with a football. But I did a beautiful, perfect thing. I went low. I prayed. I love God. Not as much as he loves me. But I love God. And I love knees. Knees are beautiful. But if it's a choice between somebody's knees and me getting my jersey dirty, with stains that will be on my nice jersey all afternoon? Well, as the Chineses say, "chop chop".

Hey, you know, I'm not going to say bad things about the Chinese. Or their virus. We have a lot of Chinese here in this country. Do we have more than we should? I don't  know. I don't think anybody knows. How could they know if I don't know? They're stupid, which is not their fault. But it's a fact.

And the Chinese are hard workers. Could it be they work too hard? Maybe that's why they invented viruses. Novel viruses that nobody knows what the fuck to do with. Not even Anthony Fauci. Who looked like he just got a haircut the last time I saw him, which he is  most definitely not supposed to do, so, like, in your fucking FACE Little Tony's Pizza Fauci.  I guess you're not the Sawed Off Saint of Novel Chinese Viruses after all. Nice looking haircut though. Not, of course, as nice as my haircut. Which is not a haircut at all. Because my hair is beautiful. And who would cut such beautiful hair? It's not going to happen. I already had to shave my beard because of the god damn Chinese Virus. And my beard was beautiful. It was perfect. Perfectly beautiful and somewhat reminiscent of a shaggy dog's ass walking backwards but it was mine and I loved it and now it's gone. Gone down some sewer pipe with a bunch of paper towels and hand sanitizer sheets and Huggies. But at least my mask fits. And my goggles and my face shield. And that's beautiful. And perfect. Like me.

Jimbosuke,
Commissioner for Life

EDIT- DPO
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