A How-To-Stay-Alive-And-Out-Of-Prison Guide For Professional Athletes

Published by tgim on December 8th, 2012

by Tommy Gimler

In what is quickly becoming the “norm” for NFL players, another wild and crazy Friday night turned tragic as one member of the Dallas Cowboys is dead and another is behind bars for DUI and intoxication manslaughter. And while the deceased was just a practice squad player, we still care. So much in fact, that we are taking time out of our Saturday afternoon golf game to create a short set of guidelines that, if followed, should lead to a long and prosperous life even after these retards’ playing days have gone the way of disco and Daniel Powter.

The DUD’s Guide For Professional Athletes – How To Stay Out Of Prison, Keep A Pulse, And How To Make Sure You Have Millions Even When You’re Done Playing The Game

Go home at midnight (aka The Gremlins Clause).

Last weekend, Jovan Belcher was captured on a police dashboard camera at 3am saying that he had to “deal” with his other girl. Josh Brent flipped his ride this morning at 2:21am. Have you ever heard of shit getting this real at 11:30pm? Never. That’s because nothing good happens after midnight. It’s just like ordering a drink when the bar says it’s last call. It’s not a good idea. You’re going to pay twelve bucks for a Jim Beam and Coke that some fat GED mother fucker is going to rip out of your hands two minutes later.

And look, brother. If you’re an NFL player and haven’t picked up a broad before midnight, your game is dog shit, for starters. But just go home and have one of the 32 guys in your entourage that are drinking for free on your tab again send over one of their sisters…

And when you go home at midnight with a hooker or one of your friend’s sisters, pay $30 for a cab or just put one of your homies on your payroll to be your designated driver year round.

Think about how easy that is for a second. Your “friends” are doing nothing for you except running up another 450 bucks on your bar tab thanks to that bottle of Henny. It’s time their free ride ends, and yours begins. Well, it might not be free, but since you make so much money, dawg, it’s pretty damn close.

Josh Brent was making $490,000 this year. Why not pay one of your homies $50,000 to be your driver no matter where you go? You still have $440,000 (before taxes) to spend on hookers and purple drank, and you never have to worry about killing your friend in an auto wreck because you’re a fucking idiot. Everybody’s a winner. And if that friend wants to come out and get shit-housed with you that night, that’s cool. But then he has to pay for limo or cab that drives both of you home…

And when you go home at midnight with a hooker or one of your friend’s sisters in a cab that cost $30 or in a car that was driven by one of your homies who is now on your payroll, there is no need for any room in your house to be made out of 24 karat gold.

Look, man. You’re a 315-pound fat fuck who happens to be able to stuff the run on a football field rather well. The only reason you’re bringing a broad back to your place is because you’re an NFL player and/or the ruffies are finally kicking in. Once you get back to your twelve-bedroom mansion that only cost $250,000 because you live in Detroit, it doesn’t matter if your bedroom is made out of gold or hummus. She’s going to let you go to town on her…

And when you go home at midnight with a hooker or one of your friend’s sisters in a cab that cost $30 or in a car that was driven by one of your homies who is now on your payroll to your house that has zero rooms made out of 24 karat gold, make sure you only have sex with her asshole (aka The Antonio Cromartie Clause).

According to our sources, George Clooney only plows chicks in their poop shoot for the sole reason that he doesn’t want to get them pregnant or deal with any accusations in the court room or in the tabloids that he is a father. As a professional athlete earning millions of dollars every year, this is great advice. Why give half of your scratch to some broad whose sole talent was being fertile? Don’t…

And when you go home at midnight with a hooker or one of your friend’s sisters in a cab that cost $30 or in a car that was driven by one of your homies who is now on your payroll to your house that has zero rooms made out of 24 karat gold, and you have just had butt sex with the broad, even if she begs you to, do not, under any circumstances, create a record label.

Look, dawg. The latest Too Short album was fucking dope, and that’s because you had nothing to do with it…

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