Baby, I’ll Be Able To Concentrate On The Game Much Better If You Just Let Me Poop On You

I have to tell you, my dear, I’m feeling an awful lot of pressure this week. There’s more media scrutiny than ever. Coughlin’s been riding us really hard. And we’re up against possibly the best team in league history. I feel so tight. I want to focus on our game, but all these distractions… I just can’t seem to shake them off.

I need something that will take my mind off of everything and help me focus.

I need a release.

I need TO release.

On you.

Don’t go! Hear me out! I know you think this is some sort of crazy, demeaning perversion. But I’m telling you, baby. I’ll be able to concentrate on this game much better if you just let me poop on you.

I know it’s a touch unusual. But aren’t we ALL unusual in our own little ways? Some men like to collect stamps. I don’t ridicule them for it. I was taught by my father to follow my passions in life, and that would lead me to success. And my passion is to push out a big ol’ Butterfinger right on your chest. Don’t you see? It’s that passion that will lead my team to success!

What do you mean, it’s disgusting? I think you’re far too repressed by society. We’re always taught to fear our own bodies, and our own sexuality. Why are so we afraid of what is so inherently natural about us as a species? Are you the sort of person that would shun a woman for breastfeeding in public? No?

Then why won’t you let me empty my Poop-Doh Fun Factory out on your face?

I think it’s a fear of intimacy issue. Perhaps you think it’s too much, too soon. Has a man hurt you before, my dear? Did he disrespect you? I am sorry to hear that. You deserve better. You deserve a man who will hold you, and cherish you, and help Fantastik your tummy clean after unloading a day-old, fully digested salmon steak onto it. And that man is me. Which would you prefer: a man who shits all over you metaphorically, or one who simply yearns to do it literally?

If you’re worried about messiness, rest assured I know what I’m doing. I have eaten nothing but bananas, whole wheat bread, and other gluten-heavy foods this week. All very binding. There will be no runniness of any kind. Just a fresh, clean piece of turd pudding. You’d be amazed at the uniform shape I can achieve. And the color! You won't find marbling like this on a slice of Kobe beef!

What do you mean, all I care about is sex? That’s wrong. I care about you. And yes, I care about sex. I’m not ashamed to admit that. Sex is important to me. My identity as a sexual being is part of my identity as a man. All I ask is that you accept that. And that you accept my enormous brown battleship invading the gap between your tits. If you can’t handle that, then I feel sorry for you. Because how will you ever learn to trust someone if you don’t let them drop a steaming brown UPS package on your doorstep?

Oh, fine. Go! I thought you might be different. I thought you might actually be willing to take $500 for the privilege of letting me turn your ass into a big brown Jackson Pollock painting. But I see you lack that sort of confidence as a woman. It’s a shame. We got a big game out there on Sunday. And this big brownie cooking in my ass is just gonna go to waste riding down the toilet chute.

To think, we worked so hard to get here! Months and months of training to get to this very point. Where we could call ourselves champions, and I could drool a big fat Rotwurst out of my gaping asshole onto a lady of culture.

But I guess you don’t respect that. I guess you don’t really care about the dreams of a young boy named Osi, who came from Africa hoping one day to take care of his family, and to play in a Super Bowl, and to make a woman gag on his 5-lb. Neutron bomb of a bowel movement. Maybe one day, you’ll change your mind. Maybe you’ll learn this is about more than you.

But until then, I bid you good day. I doubt you’ll find a poop quite like this anywhere, my dear.