By Brad Lee
It's 4 p.m. and I'm driving 120 mph in my Lamborghini. Once you get on Highway 40Â past the road construction, it's like the friggin' Autobahn. No traffic, lots of lanes and best of all, no cops. We play the Dallas Stars tonight. I'm pissed
(The Lamborghini pushes 130)
God, I want to beat these fuckers. Last game I scored a hat trick in the third period alone. I just couldn't get that picture out my head. She had just been in Dallas, wearing that fugly jersey cheering her new guy on.
Pfft. I should have been that new guy. I coulda been that new guy. But nooooooo. She said I was too much of an intellectual. And her dad said I wasn't tall enough. Screw that guy! What's he know? He's doing such a great job managing her career, she hasn't had a song on the radio since she played that slutty looking waitress in the short shorts in Dukes of Hazzard.
But you know what, I got over it. I relaxed. I mean, it was no big deal. We'd only bumped into each other a couple times in L.A. She couldn't even pronounce my name correctly. But that only added to her charm. Chicken of the sea indeed.
But then she had to go and rub it in my face that she's with that dumb looking quarterback. All the hot girls date the football quarterback. She had to let the Paparazzi know where she was staying on her vacation knowing the pictures would get back to me.
You know what? Fuck Dallas. We're going to kick their ass tonight.