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Frenemies
We don't want to listen as you dissect your love/hate relationships with Jenny the Bitch from Accounting, who dresses like a whore and trash talks about all of you behind your backs but who you still stay friends with because of some insane female DNA dollop that requires you to talk unendingly about how much Botox she has had injected into her forehead and how much smaller her tits used to be and how you plan on never talking to her again only to invite her and her human tool of a husband over for dinner next week out of a sick and twisted desire to remain her friend in order to feel more superior about yourselves. We get that. We've already wasted countless hours—not to mention brain cells and really good cold beer—talking to the aforementioned hammerhead she married during previous coupled-up appointments. It's one of the prices we pay for being with you. But right now, the only bitch we want to talk about is the one playing quarterback for our favorite team. The one who threw three interceptions last week because he's afraid of getting hit. I'd like to Botox HIS face if we don't win this game.

Other Men's Arms
We know football players have huge arms. They are muscled and massive and bulging and, well, just plain big. We know you love arms that look like that. Here's a headline for you though: We are never going to have arms that size. Ever. Never ever. Not if we buy new furniture twice a week and move it in ourselves. Not if we take the couch we are currently sitting on and just maneuver it around the room six or seven times a day. Not even if we take the trash out every single hour for 67 straight days. We will never have those football player size arms. So stop ogling them. Or ogle them without mentioning how much ogling of them you are currently involved with to us.

And pass the potato chips.

And the sour cream dip.

And the fried pork rinds please.

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