You walk into her bedroom and see her passed out on the floor. Looks like she's been drinking again. You move the half-filled bottle of whiskey away from her side and step close. Your heart is beating a mile a minute as you remember last time you tried to take her car you ended up getting four stitches, but you know that it is too late to turn around. You carefully slide your fingers into her jacket pockets, praying that you feel her Winnie the Pooh key chain. Nothing.
Your knee gets wet as you kneel down closer to her. You cannot check to see what it is. The pockets in her jean shorts are bulging with random contents. The trick is knowing which bulge is the keys. You carefully put one finger into your mother's pant pocket before sitting back, allowing yourself to rethink the situation. You finally have a chance to check what your knee came in contact with. Vomit.
Ferguson's long arm of the law laments the latest cutback.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
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