You grab the javelin. It feels good in your hands as you throw it with all your might. The rod travels through the old monk, sending him flying to the ground. Chad vomits all over himself from the image, but years of internet usage has left you numb. You pull the javelin out and head back towards the main street. Five police officers stop you. Sweat begins to gather on your forehead until one reaches his hand out for a handshake. "Congratulations." He says. For your participation in the extermination of an ancient religious sect, the Chinese government wants to reward you. You can have anything you want.
"I want a girlfriend." You quickly say. No.
"I want to be in the Olympics." No.
"I want a Hanzo Samurai Sword." No. That's Japanese anyway.
"Well, erm, could I have a 50inch Sony TV?" Okay.
"With 1080p HD?" No.
Congratulations on your new television, too bad you won't be able to compete in the Olympics or watch Ratatouille on Blu-ray.
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.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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