Al Harris And Coverage

We've been going through the thousands of submissions you've sent us for the FF contest, and, in a interesting reversal, it has been US enjoying YOUR work over the last couple of weeks. Your pics and stories have been most entertaining, and we would be remiss if we did not share the ones that didn't suck the love. We will continue to accept entries through the weekend.

This submission comes from Muffmaster C, and rather than prattle on, I'll simply give him the floor:

I know that I have exceeded the mandated 250 word count, but I think it will be worth your while:

Being from the Chicagoland area, I venture up north to Wisconsin a couple times a year to get fall-down drunk and harass the degenerate cocksuckers that are Packer fans. Last summer a couple buddies and I made the trek to Manitowish Waters (imagine “The Great Outdoors” sans the lonely, but fuckable local girl) and hit up one of the many dive bars that plague this bastard child of a state.

Sporting orange and blue we waltz in like we own the joint and get more dirty looks than Isaiah Washington at a Gay Pride Parade. As the booze starts flowing, so do our overtly loud comments regarding Brett Favre’s drug dependencies and Charles Martin’s demise (isn’t karma a bitch). From the back of the bar someone yells, “At least our coach isn’t a limp dick, boner pill hustler.”

The moderately-sized crowd parts like the Red Sea and there stands a Rastafarian looking d-bag sporting flip-flops and socks. Not recognizing this guy, Dan (part of our crew) fired back with “I loved your work in 'Cool Runnings'.” At this point, Ziggy Marley realizes that we are a bunch of drunk assholes, mutters “Eat a dick” just loud enough for us to hear and gets back to his game of pool.

We polish off a few more rounds and we hear people saying something about Al Harris. Simultaneously we all realized that Douchey McRaggae was none other than the aforementioned Packers cornerback. Relatively shitfaced, we wrap at the bar and take one last parting shot as we walk out the door, “Harris, you get beat more than a red-headed step child.”

And as we walk by the floor-to-ceiling window in front of the bar we hear a knocking sound and see Al Harris drop his pants, slap his dong on the glass and flip us off while nodding like a bobble-head. Bewildered and thinking we’re about to get our asses kick by a professional athlete we all ran like girls made a clean get away without a confrontation.

I wish I could have told you that Al was molesting farm animals with some teammates, but the Packers hadn’t drafted A.J. Hawk yet.

Thanks, Muff!