Dick Feagler: This Soulja Boy kid belongs in a work camp


Dick Feagler: This Soulja Boy kid belongs in a work camp Today's topic: Dick disapproves of the hip-hop brouhaha involving the Cavs-Wizards series I was at the coffee shop, and the guys all agree: this Soulja Boy character looks like a prime candidate for electric-shock therapy. ... Why, back in my day, we didn’t give simpletons microphones. We’d attach a large rock to an ankle and let them wander the yard at a Berea sanitorium. And if one started chanting gibberish or claiming to be Superman, we’d give him an ice bath and a lobotomy. And back in my day, athletes didn’t squawk back and forth like Italian whores jostling for a pimp’s attention. If you didn’t like somebody on the other team, you shut the hell up about it. That way he won’t be expecting it when you slide in hard at second base, your cleats as sharp as an Eskimo’s tit, and gash the bastard right in his soft thigh. With the hatchet buried, you invite him to get a Porterhouse and a scotch after the game. Only he didn’t really forgive you, so when you got drunk, he’d stab your knee with a steak knife. Now that was when men were men. And what’s with all this trash talking? Why back in my day, basketball didn’t have what my grandson, who believes he’s a negro, calls “flava.” The game was played by diminutive Irish boys, and the hoop was a peach basket, and you’d be ejected for dribbling. If any musicians were invited to sit in the stands, they were accordionists or wholesome crooners who sang fanciful songs about the President wrestling cougars. And these weren’t like the cougars you got today, where they stop biting the moment you get a little half-nelson on them, they … This has been another deep insight from Dick Feagler. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming...

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