I grew up in a little town south of the Kentucky border... things were simple. You tended the farm, raised the herd... and if anyone gave you shit? Son, you beat the fucker down. You were a man. And under that hot alabama sun you learned the values of christ, america, and manhood- the missisipi trio as my pop called it... may god bless his soul... And a man like me? Well when we weren’t out hunting or at the bar? We watched sport. None of that pussy european shit- real sport, arizona sport. I’d get back home... hang up my duster, cold beer, my girl cooking some fineeee BBQ... and id watch muscular, toned black men. Sometimes they’d collide into each other, sometimes bounce a ball... but they were always fine specimens. I’d watch those darkies sweat and toil for hours... and I’ll admit my loins stirred more than once... called it the texas rise, heh... and when I watched those guys play, my mind... wandered. I imagined them taking my girl... like animals- hoo boy did that get me goin! I remember, in the 12th ad break of the NFL playoffs powered by mcdonalds I’m loving it, right after the arbys presents: the danger kick! I noticed my missus watching those stallions on screen... stroking that pussy of hers. And I tell you what... without a word I drove her down the city, philidelphia- my home- and she made love to every nigger in sight. I milked my johnson more than ever that night. So when you pussy europeans talk about sport.... remember what REAL men play