Some of you have asked me my view on the whole Ben Roethlisberger is a Dirty Reno Himbo fiasco (Isn’t that what the media is calling it, officially?) and I realized that outside of the 1,000 of you I am facebook friends with, lots of people haven’t read what I initially wrote about Ben Roethlisberger being a Dirty Reno Himbo ™. Here is what I said, and keep in mind that in light of recent news, I’m inclined to believe that Benny didn’t assualt the woman, but merely had consensual dirty bow-chicka-bow with her. In other words, he’s no rapist, just a Dirty Reno Himbo.
As I wrote:
Dear Your Highness Duke of Fug, Earl of Gross, and Shagger of Wenches:Benny. Benny, Benny, Benny.
It’s not enough that James Harrison beat his babymama or that Najeh Davenport went and pooped in a closet.
It’s not enough that Santonio choked his babymama, smoked weed while driving, had a twitter account allegedly called @Pussy_Monstah, or flashed his GIANT FRESHLY SHOWERED PENIS for all the world to see.
It’s not enough that Jeff Skippy Skeeve Reed is a whore. A proud whore who will beat the ever-loving shit out of any paper towel dispenser that dares cross his whore path.
You had to go and add one more flag pin on the great big map of Steelers Public Transgressions. This one in Reno.
You know, Benny, for as long as you’ve been in Pittsburgh, I’ve had issues with you. Whether it was your stupid “injury” to the Thumb Which We Don’t Speak Of, your fugness, your grossness, your playing, or anything else about your non-helmet-wearing-crotch-rocket-riding ass. And since you’ve been in Pittsburgh, you have been vehemently protected and defended by your Fug Bunnies (tm PittCheMBA).
Your Fug Bunnies.
Those insane women who take to your blog to write things like, “Benny, we met once that one time and you looked at me and I love you and I have just now carved your name on my breasts and I’m bleeding and OMG call 911! Or don’t. BECAUSE I WILL DIE FOR YOU!”
Those very same women who lit the match that sparked the flame that lit the room that revealed the light bulb that was the bright idea to start calling you The Duke of Fug and The Earl of Gross.
Those very same women who, once, so angry at me for daring to speak badly of you, called me “an barf ugly woman.”
Those very same women who believe that you really do “play for Jesus”, who refused to believe the stories of you partying in Vegas while watching lesbians make out in your private VIP suite, who, no matter what evidence I gave them to the contrary, insisted that you are pure, Godly and perfect and spend all of your time being celibate, chaste, and in prayer while buying K-9 dogs with all of your money.
You’ve successfully wrapped up a very faulted human package in a very Troysus-like wrapping paper. But I have peeked behind the paper and it’s very very meh in there.
Being rich and famous, you should know that in order to keep this Good Ohio Boy facade intact, you should at all costs, avoid The Crazy. Eschew The Crazy. Don’t touch The Crazy with a ten-foot pole or your penis.
You should not invite The Crazy to your room for sex.
The Crazy will bite you in the ass, carve your name on her breasts, and then bleed the hell all over you while dialing her lawyer’s number and vomiting repeatedly while sobbing about how much she loves your stupid, gross, fug, himbo, lesbian-loving, Vegas-partying self.
Now, all of this is assuming you didn’t sexually assault The Crazy. If you did assault The Crazy, you deserve to have Jeff Reed give you the Sheetz Paper Towel Dispenser Treatment and it should be focused heavily on your donkey omelet region, you stupid gift-wrapped bitch.