I'm gonna get me the craziest, strippiest...

No crazy stripper wife of mine is gonna wear a t-shirt. I'll hold the money while you go change into that classy new outfit I bought your ass.

Ah yes, that's my good little whore.

What a fucking week! Further proof that you don't actually need to know what week it is to successfully wager on events of a sporting nature. All it takes is a little know-how, a weed habit, and enough pent up sexuality to fill the up all of the reservoirs from Adamsville to the battlefield. Let's take a look at my unprecedented windfall.

• This started off on Saturday night with a non-football bet (always a good way to go). $50 on Floyd Mayweather to win by knockout at 3.7/1 netted me $185 heading into Sunday's game. You'd have to be either English or retarded to bet on Hatton, or in extreme cases, both.
  
  leave it to those wacky UK dwellers to tilt the odds by dropping 20 million euros/pounds/quid/eel pies on Fat Ricky.
  

• A tidy record of 5-2 in the single bets at $20 a piece (plus an an extra $30 on the Texans) made me feel smart. Like, Asian smart.
  

• To top all of it off I nailed my 3-team parlay like it was Jodie Foster on a pinball machine. That $31 investment resulted in a payoff of $195 .
  

EIGHT UNITS MOUNTAIN FRONT!

Of course this is a new week and my month without masturbation has come finally come to an end. I think there might be something left in the tank, but obviously the money shot has already come and gone. Oh well, let's see what else we can squeeze out of the season...on to the picks!
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The Lucky Number Singles
Risking 45 to win 41 on each game

Cincinnati -9 vs. San Francisco

Want to know how shitty the NFL has become? The Bengals are giving nine fucking points. Can you throw a ten-yard spiral without looking like an effeminate limp-wristed pussy then come on down to the 49ers open tryout! Ah hell, the ferries can come too.

Green Bay -9 vs. San Francisco St. Louis

This time next week the Rams are going to be experimenting with Bernie Lomax under center. He's had fewer drugs in his system than this week's opponent and a tad more brain activity than Gus Frerotte.

Yeah, I love the number nine, and I've been drinking.
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The Road Dog Parlay
ft. Atlanta "We're Pissed and Ecstatic!" Falcons
Risking 25 to win 135

Buffalo +6 vs. Cleveland
Jacksonville +2.5 vs. Pittsburgh
Atlanta +14 vs. Tampa Bay

It'll never happen. Seriously, we're just as likely to see Brett Favre's retirement and Jesus Christ's comeback.
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The I Have No Faith In That Other Parlay Parlay
Risking 60 to win 160

Indianapolis -11 vs. Oakland
Buffalo +6 vs. Cleveland

But I really do like Buffalo for some reason.
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The Other Bet Bet
Risking 50 to win 45.45

Seattle -8 vs. Carolina

Actual Analysis Alert: The Panthers are 1-5 ATS at home. Yeah, and Vinny Testaverde like old and shit!

"He doesn't have a particular injury or anything," [Panthers Coach John] Fox said. "Just the wearing of the game."

Your quarterback is questionable with a case of aging. Doctors fear that it could be terminal.

I'd stick around, but I want to get some sleep before my early morning lingerie money fight.

Who am I kidding? They don't start until I get there.

I'm Sorry, Paris Hilton

I am sorry that you went to jail, mainly because now someone else will have a chance to rape you, although that may be a misnomer since you really don't know the meaning of the word "no." I bet the food in jail is bad, Paris Hilton, but I hear their gym is pretty sweet.

I was thinking the other day about all the fun times we used to have; I was taking a shit and then realized that I didn't have any toilet paper. So I just sat on the bowl for, I think it was like an hour, and then my ass started to get numb, so I just lathered up my hand with two squirts of Dial and then scrubbed out my crack. But I had no way to rinse out my wares, so I just wiped out the suds with one of my towels. When I finally hopped off and flushed, I saw there was a brand new roll resting on the top of the toilet behind me. I'm never eating ziti after 8 o'clock again.

But anyway, Paris Hilton, I remember when we used to hit the town. You had these stupid little pointy shoes and you asked me what I thought of them. I told you I would rather drive the tips of those shoes through my eye sockets than be forced to bear witness to them for even another second. Then you got really pouty and quiet. And then when I asked what was wrong, you said, "Nothing." But I think if nothing was really wrong, you would have let me use the anal beads that night.

Remember, Paris Hilton, when we went out with the team to the Chicago Playboy Mansion and Tank wanted to lay money on how many handguns he could cram up your pussy? I really thought he was going to be more systematic with his insertion methods there. Plus I thought that he would have made sure that none of those guns were loaded, or at least had the safeties on. And I have no idea why I took the under, either. That whole thing was really my bad.

I bet jail is a lot like having a sleepover, Paris Hilton, except none of your friends show up and the guards search your asshole for contraband. I will try really hard to make the trip east to California and visit, so we can talk on those special phones, and you can mash your little titties up against the glass, like in that one movie, while I make moaning sounds and jerk off after I throw on a turbin and walk some laps around a pillar.

So, um, I guess I'll see you later. Tell Martha Stewart I said hey.

I Called This Press Conference To Let You Know That I Dislike Press Conferences

I’m glad you’re all here today. Sorry I’m a bit late. I know y’all have a job to do, so my apologies about that. Anyway, I wanted to call this press conference to let all of you know that I dislike press conferences. Hate ‘em. Can’t stand ‘em. Wouldn’t be caught dead at one.

You see, I’m just a simple country guy. If I had my druthers, I’d be back in Kiln, sittin’ on top of my lawn tractor, mowin’ the grass. But I felt obligated to be here today, to let you know that I really resent havin’ to be here. I don’t want all this attention. It’s not me. This really ain’t my thing.

Man, look at all your fancy cameras! Back in Kiln, we don’t even have cameras! Don’t need ‘em. We’ve got Tookie the mud painter to preserve our memories. And that’s all we need. I’m not a real technophile. Sure, I own a flat screen TV, iPod, laptop, and Harmon Kardon surround system. But I don’t use any of it. I just like to bring friends around and point at it and mock it for being so materialistic. We don’t need any of it. I play a washboard for my friends and they like it just fine.

I’m a down home feller, guys. I just want to be with my family. In fact, they’re callin’ my Blackberry right now. But I can’t answer it, because I have to be here with you.

I just want to go out there and play football. I’m not in this for the money, or the attention, even though I signed endorsement deals with Motorola, Nike, and Ted’s Auto Body. That’s not what Brett Favre is all about. I’m just a hard-workin’ boy who hopes to retire one day to a life of farmin’, fishin’, huntin’, and hostin’ NFL Live 6 days a week. That’s all I ever wanted. Don’t you see that you people are robbin’ me of precious time with me and my family? Jesus.

Peter, you understand better than anyone. I’m not some spoiled diva, am I?

Buttboy: Hell no.

Of course not. Even when I bitched to the team to bring on Randy Moss, hell I wasn’t doin’ that out of selfishness. I did it because I think it would be some darn good fun to have Randy Moss on our team. The sullenness. The lackadaisical attitude. I wanted him to be around here because we could play some old-fashioned ball together. I certainly didn’t want him here to help bring more media attention to my falling team as I try desperately to remain in the limelight as my skills quickly rot away into nothingness. That wasn’t my intention. And I resent having to mention that idea to you and then refute it. It ain’t right.

I’m not some total media whore who puts up a Bobby Bowden-like country bumpkin front for reporters in exchange for favorable coverage. I’m not some selfish prick who pretends to be a team player but really just can’t stand to live one second without the attention. I don’t wish I was Peyton Manning and secretly hope to catch him, skin him, and then wear his skin as a disguise while I try and play five more years. I’m not a whiny, hypocritical douchebag who thinks he’s better than everyone because he fancies himself so fucking down-to-earth. I’m not a fucking asshole - a big, gaping, flaming red asshole who deserves to get brained by a roided-up, tire-iron wielding Shawne Merriman and then thrown into a wheat thrasher and brutally murdered for being such a tiresome sack of shit. I’m not like that at all. Which is why we should meet regularly every week from now on, so I can reinforce that point.

I’ll be honest here, I’m not sure how much longer I can take this. Maybe I should retire. Maybe. Probably not. But possibly. I'd say there's a 30% chance, but a 50% chance I could increase that first percentage. But maybe a 15% chance I could lower it. I'm not sure. Maybe. Possibly. I'd have to talk to my family about it. Then I'd have to think about it. Then I'd have to have a conference call to hash out my feelings. Maybe a conference call. Possibly a town hall forum. Not sure.

Let’s hold a press conference next week and I’ll inform you of my decision. I won’t like it, but you Northern fuckers have forced my hand. Guess I’m missing Breleigh’s birthday.