Aww shit son it’s the Seventh Day of the Week in the Ninth Month of the Year According to the Roman Calender and you know exactly what the fuck that means. You’re god damn right, it’s Outside Academic Institution-Based Sports Team Support Food and Drink Time!
Time to ignite that carbon-ash residue in your metal fire boxes and throw those hand-shaped disks of ground animal flesh, sinew, fat, and accidental shards of bone onto the thin metal crossbeams laid out in a supportive fashion across the top, because several of your friends who also support the same Academic Instiution-Based Sports Team are wicked fucking hungry and most advertisements imply they will be ball-punching pissed if you don’t shove greasy food cooked outside down their gullets. Don’t bring that carbon alkane gas crap here, dumbass. This ain’t Wilderness-Based Primitive Living Simulation for Recreational Purposes, idiot. This is Outside Academic Institution-Based Sports Team Support Food and Drink Time!
Who brings the Decorative Disposable Paper Dining Ware Emblazoned with Illustrations of the Ball Used in the Sport of the Current Season? Motherfucking Shirley brings Decorative Disposable Paper Dining Ware Emblazoned with Illustrations of the Ball Used in the Sport of the Current Season. This crazy Amazon Warrior Badass brought three sleeves of the sons of bitches even though our Loosely Organized Academic Institution-Based Sports Team Association only requested two. Shirley takes it to the hole once again.
Break out the Mythological Snow Creature Insulated Box, bitches, because you’re gonna want your Canned or Bottled Brewed Alcoholic Beverages to be significantly colder than the air outside the box, otherwise they’ll taste weird, and ain’t a motherfucking one of us got time for that weak-ass bullshit.
Yeah. Time to sit down and watch The Sports Contest That Has Absolutely Zero Stakes For Anyone Except the People Directly Involved on a television two hundred feet from the Large Concrete Structure Inside Which Said Contest Is Currently Taking Place. Hold on to your sex organs regardless of whether or not they're the genitalia with which you identify, because Twenty-Year-Olds Are About To Try To Move A Ball Across a Threshold Designated By A Painted Line and you best bet if the correct Academic Institution-Based Sports Team wins we’re all getting laid, motherfucker. Believe it.