Sportress of Blogitude

Wrong Wrong Wrong

Jason Whitlock Could Be The Best Ever, Nope…

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Jason Whitlock’s most recent column where he criticized Serena Williams for being an underachiever and having too big of a butt has created a veritable firestorm of condemnation across the internet. Being the nice guy that I am, I reached out to Mr. Whitlock and offered him a forum to defend what we wrote.

Whitlock did me one better – he actually re-wrote his column and directed the criticism onto himself. The changes he made to the original column are shown in bold.

Enjoy.


In addition to talking about Colonel Sanders and his secret recipe 11 herbs and spices, we should also be celebrating Jack In The Box and its assault on my overactive colon.
The problem is, even after knocking off two buckets of the Colonel’s chicken Saturday, I’m not anywhere close to fishing those soiled underwear out of my hamper.

At age 42one year older than Jeff GeorgeI own just half as many reusable adult diapers (11) as David Garrard, the greatest pants-shitter of all time. That’s a terrible disease.

With an increase in diet, a little more time stuffing my face and a smidgen more grits, I would easily be as big as Marlon Brando, dwarf Mama Cass and take a run at being the third member of the those motorcycle-riding twins from the Guinness Book of World Records.

You can call me unfit. You can even scream that I’m morbidly obese.

But there’s an inescapable truth about my ass: It’s as big as one of Jupiter’s moons.

And all the people making excuses for my gastrointestinal disorder and rationalizing my farts that totally clear out any room I happen to shart in are the very people uninterested in seeing my gas rise to a level of equality with toxic air pollution.

My homemade chili gravy malt has all the ingredients to be turned into violent diarrhea, stomach cramping and severe anal leakage rolled into one made-for-a weekend on the shitter package. It is quite possibly the most fattening dish in our lifetime.

Unfortunately for me, I lack the courage to look in the toilet.

I’d rather eat, half-ass my way through bullshit columns and complain I’m not getting the respect my overrated fat-ass demands

I complain about having to go No. 2 in the Port-a-Potty behind the newspaper’s offices when I’m not scratching my ass and smelling my fingers while new rules that forbid Kansas City Star employees from leaving the bathroom without washing their hands.

Seriously, how else can I fill out my size 10XXXXL underwear without grazing at the Sizzler All-You-Can-Eat Salad Bar between my eight meals per day?”

I know, you can’t believe I consider myself a talented sports writer. No, I don’t. Talented sports writers are supposed to be insightful and interesting. I’m an overrated and sanctimonious piece of useless shit.

And you probably think I don’t like salad. You’re wrong. I love it. It’s the main reason I shit six times a day. It’s fascinating. The power and skill I use to spray liquid waste all over every possible inch of porcelain are breathtaking. And when I’m in really going for it, I’m every bit as disgusting as 2 Girls, 1 Cup.

I know, a clean colon is supposed to matter to overall health. That’s such a load of (spit). That lie sells disposable enema kits. You think being smelly, dark and greasy didn’t significantly enhance sales of double-ply toilet paper? You think Charmin, Quilted Northern and Cottonelle haven’t seen increased sales due to my diet?

Appearance matters in quality of feces. The whining last week about my admission that attractiveness plays a role in determining whether I document my bowel movements and post photos on the internet struck me as disingenuous, politically correct bull crap.

During my recent bout with constipation, I played “stick my finger in my butthole” while I battled on the throne. I can blame genetics for my fate. My plumber only has himself to blame. God gave me nothing, including drop-dead body odor.

I’ve chosen to smother some mayonnaise, barbecue sauce and bacon fat in an unsightly layer of thick, greasy tastiness, a byproduct of my unwillingness to commit to a training regimen and diet that would have me at not pushing 4 bills year-round.

I’m simply not obsessed with trying to contribute anything to the human race. I seem to exist solely to make other people feel better about their lives. Not because I have a burning desire to spend the next few hours sitting on the pot. That is my lot in life.

And it’s my right to rip my anus for choosing to be a celebrity fat fuck rather than a single-minded, well-respected, talented journalist.

If I chose the former, it would be front-page news every time I managed not to make a complete ass out of myself. I’d complete the Whitlock Slam — eating every breakfast item on the Denny’s menu— every other day. I‘d be the most popular and powerful degenerate over-eater of all time.

Louie Anderson couldn’t touch me. Camryn Manheim would be reduced to slupring my balls. The people from The Biggest Loser would be astounded that I managed to keep living, ashamed that they would never be able to make me lost a couple tons.

Think about it. At 6-foot-1, 445 pounds, I have difficulty getting out of bed in the morning, on the shitter every morning until I lose circulation in my legs more often than Richard Coller.

Instead, I am arguably pushing 500 pounds, content never getting to see my hard-on except in the mirror, happy to be photographed on dates with tranny prostitutes and proud to serve as a role model for morbidly obese degenerates with oversized egos.

BBWs — Big Booty Wipers — do not write me angry e-mails. I’m only knocking my fat ass because it’s preventing me from reaching the bag of Double-Stuff Oreos on top of the refrigerator. I am not fundamentally opposed to Vanilla Wafers, although my preference is a stuffed turkey on top of an oozing Chicago-style pizza.

(A stuffed turkey so round and glistening that it brings tears to your eyes).

I’m sorry. I shit myself.

I have a limitless appetite. Competitive eating is the platform that could open doors for me and other fat fucks. My parents raised me until I ate too much and made me go live with my pervert uncle. He’s in prison now.

I could break any load-bearing wall simply by leaning on it. I could join Oprah and Steadman and feast on orphaned African teenagers. I could be an impossible-to-ignore advocate for the eradication of the missionary position since I can’t do it without smothering my partner.

Right now I’d put on a woman’s bra and panties and model it for you. I know that’s harsh. My girth requires a far more substantive material than cotton. But I don’t have one discernible skill (that I can publish in this column without earning it an R rating). My monumental overachievement is that I actually get paid to write this drivel.

My greatest feat might be avoiding a massive coronary as I get up from the toilet. Yes, I write my best stuff while taking a shit. It makes sense when you think about it.

Well, that was…ummm, interesting. Thanks, Jason.