A Toast for My Fugging Boys.
We don’t talk as much and that’s for real wrecked, but one thousand percent if I ever really needed to fill out the league for fantasy, I know the group chat would be lit.
“Game recognize game. Flame recognize flame.”
This was the dopest thing that the friend group ever came up with, and I would be remiss if I neglected to mention that I, your boy Trenson, created a MyCareer player in 2K with that mantra tatted on his pecs in bubble script Gothic style fontface, and that MF goes for 30 EVERY! FUGGIN’! NIGHT!
That having been spake, I now ask the assembled to raise a glass, or a whole frickin’ fifth if that’s the wave you’re on — I see you, Lence! Heheh! Get it!— to my fuggin’ boys, the Booger Brigade. I’d sober drive any one of you fuggers to Ghetto Domino’s any frickin’ night of the week just to save you delivery fees, you little cheap asses! Heheh! What? Yeah, you are!
Let me start with you, Toaf. You’re the CEB — Chief Executive Booger. You’re literally a walking Matthew Gladwell article, only your 10,000 hours is in being a fuggin’, like, pimp and shit. Straight up, you’ve broughten so many of these Gs into my life and enrichenated it twelvefold just by connecting us on like-mindedness and shared infinities for crap as wide-ranging and niche as like Django Unchained and Deal or No Deal reruns on YouTube.
Much love to you, Toaf. No deal! Heheh! Just playin’.
And Aithan. Literally, it feels like you’re the smartest fugging kid I’ve ever known in my life it seems like. Like, no way in fugg half these nards was making it through C305 without your friggin’, like, Mark Cuban fuggin’ crazy ass brain and shit. Aith can name something like six consecutive Vice Presidents of America — it’s so bonkies. And, you’re the freshest dancer in the friend group, bar none. That’s 100.
Trince. Out of all the fuggin’, like, psycho ass, delinquent ass fart-tarts in this friend group — Heheh! What? Naw, it’s like a, like, PopTart with a friggin’ poopy ass little butt stain on it where the frosting goes I think. I don’t know, dude! I just — you don’t make sense! Heheh! Whatever.
Anyway… Like I was trying to say before this nutpunch interrupted me like a friggin’, like, doink or something, I was saying that Trince is a fuggin’ amazing ass dad and I can’t wait to meet his conjoined twin daughters. Point is, you’re easily one of my closest fuggin’ boys.
Rich Rich and Poor Rich. Literally, it’s almost like — “wait where’s Poor Rich?” and then someone’s like — “Shit, bro, prolly with Rich Rich!” And verse vica. Now you’re roommates. Wow, that’s dope. It’s so sick that you guys recognize that how much money you make isn’t directly correlated to how raw you are as like a person, or better yet, as like a man.
Finally, I just want to be grateful out loud about somethin’. When I joined the team, we all recall that I was a walk-on — mostly because my parents could afford it so it was philanthropically very selfless of me to make sure that Coach had an extra scholarship for, like, depth and shit. And like, literally nobody even stepped to me and we were just fuggin’ boys from day one.
I’m not trying to get soft and crap, but obviously we’ve been raging since like 3 pee-effing-em and Tevis came through with the space age fuggin’ meteor ass, like, Cali bud. PER YOUGE! Heheh! I’m NFL blitzed right now! Literally so twisted…
Anyway… I look around this baller ass outdoor space Rich and Rich have to share with the rest of their building, and I see all these faces and I’m just like… You know what? Everybody, glasses up!
I look around, and I see all these faces and I’m just like: beauty fades, money spends, but BOOGERS STICK TO EVERYTHING! LET’S GOOOOO!