Hey. Yellow Penalty Flag here. You guys got a minute? Just thought I'd chime in on the replacement refs situation. Heh, given Monday night's game, I thought a voice of reason would be welcomed. And who's more reasonable than your own humble Yellow Penalty Flag? I mean, that's my job right? Thrust into the heat of confusion to restore cool-headed order!
DON'T MAKE BE GO BACK OUT THERE, MAN, DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK ON THAT FIELD! I WON'T DO IT! NUH-UH! NO MORE! I'M DONE WITH THEM, MAN!
Gah! With their hands all over me, the way they throw me around like some cheap XFL penalty rag! There's no finesse, no art, no style to it! Have you ever been tossed past the the face of Jay Cutler, knowing you shouldn't have been thrown, having to look directly into Jay Cutler's woolgathering, Laguna Beach-penetrating eyes, hanging your tail in shame? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HUMILIATING THAT IS?
THEIR BACK POCKETS ARE STICKY AND MOIST AND THEY SMELL LIKE ROTTEN TOFU MIXED WITH AUSCHWITZ!
I'M SORRY! That was uncalled for! That was wrong, I apologize! I don't know what came over me! I'm just very emotionally invested in this whole thing! I'm not anti-Semitic! One of my best friends is a very respectable yarmulke!
Listen, I just... I really miss those guys, the real refs, you know? The way they'd fluff me before every game. And sometimes after every game. Maybe the fans were a little nasty and they need a cuddle buddy. Maybe they realize they blew a call and they need someone to talk to, to restore their confidence in the craft. Maybe their reffing far away from home and they're in need of family, or a friend, or... a lover...
Oh, the real refs, they're like lovable dancing zebras. Their arms flaying about in a symphony of calls and whistles! They carry with them (besides me!) the aroma of a unicorn's powdered tush, so soft, so plush with fragrance!
And then the whistle blows, like a siren's song to me and my kind. Those long slender arms command the field like a general. And they grab for me, their one and only companion on that field of battle. Their touch, so sensual, so loving. Not unlike a tigress corralling her young --- firm, but with hands like Heaven's clouds made real.
Then he launches me into the chilly fall air --- tingling and orgasmic! I surge forward like a beautifully carved seductress leading an ancient wooden ship, my bosom heaving towards chaos to restore order.
And now I float slowly back to Earth, collapsing in pure ecstasy, as the world is being made right by the rulebook. The turf cushions my bottom like grandma's apple pie, and a whiff of the field paint has me intoxicated.
There I lie, waiting. Waiting for him to return. To scoop me up ever so gently, and return me to the warmth and hearth of his back pocket, where I happily take shelter flush against his well toned booty.
And he always returns to me, NFL. He always returns.
Won't you let him return to me once again?
Yellow Penalty Flag
P.S. I just want you to see the personal toll this has taken on me. My NFL ref and I (seen here) were together for 20 years before all this! You're destroying lives dammit! *Tearing up* Imagine me and you, I do... I think about you day and night, it's only right... to think about the ref you *chokes up* love, he'll throw you right *chokes up* so happy... together... *runs off crying*