Wednesday, October 27, 2004

William "The Fridge" Perry is a Fat Motherfuckin' Punk

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he's pissed cuz someone ate the ice-cream outta the helmet before he signed it.


That's right ya'll, I'm about to embark upon the single stupidest idea I have ever entertained in my 24 year existence: I (as a skinny young white male) am going to verbally assault the Fridge until he apologizes to me for being such a fucking douchebag (and it will be in those words or I will not rest until it is so...). William "the Fridge" Perry has offended me to the core of my esoteric sensibilities and therefore I will lash out against the one who has scorned me until my appetite for an apology is sated. That said, let me make my case:


Now, I was never a big sports fan, and I never have been, but I can remember seeing the Fridge on t.v. when my dad would watch the games and deciding I liked him for no other reason than the fact that he was a)huge and b)was called "the fridge" which was probably the first nickname I remember hearing. This vauge respect was further clenched when, at nine years old, I stumbled upon some crappy "rap" compilation in a K-Mart which featured "The Show" by Doug E. Fresh and Slick Rick "Nightmares" by Dana Dane and (inexplicably) "The Super Bowl Shuffle" by the 1985 Chicago Bears (!). Even then I knew the song was crap but I was always like "yeah, the fridge-he can rap and tackle mu'fuckahs-that's dope!". I pretty much had a vauge respect and admiration of him until last March when I saw him at O'Hare airport in Chicago.

See, I was in Chicago waiting for a plane to take me and my moms back to Indianapolis. We had just finished up a weekend wedding for my cousin in Austin, TX and were waiting for our flight which had been delayed four times in four hours. For whatever reason, the airline ( I can't remember which one...United?) was having all of the peeps tryin' to get home to Indianapolis stand in some long-ass line which stretched into the terminal "hallway" (where everyone walks through). So I'm standin' there bullshittin' with my moms when I notice this HUGE black man hobbling towards me as he makes his way towards my terminal. I'm thinkin' "damn, I better move or this fat bastard is gonna crush me" so I kinda step out of the way as this bhemoth of a man shuffles past me. As he's goin' by I'm like "damn. I think that's the Fridge. That's weird." He kinda grunted as a way of thanking me for stepping aside and lumbered on his way. A second later some dude in the line ahead of me was like "Whoa! That was William "the fridge" Perry!" which confirmed my suspicions.

Fast forward six-months or so, to when I'm moving into my new crib. New crib has no refridgerator, so I go and purchase one. As I'm sitting there admiring my new 'fridge inspiration strikes: "What if I could find a picture of the fridge Perry and make it into a stencil that I could paint on my 'fridge? That would be the illest shit ever! I could get a cold one out of the 'fridge and see that fat-bastard every time! Brilliant!"

So I started searching on the web for a good picture but found nothing worthy of putting on my refridgerator. I needed a good upper-body shot sans helmet, but could only find football pictures of him in action. Finally, I stumbled upon his website. See that picture of him with his arms crossed? That is the greatest picture of him ever and certainly worthy to be stenciled onto my new G.E. Select. Alas, I cannot get a good quality shot of this picture so i decide to E-mail the fat bastard and ask him if he would send me a picture OR if he would tell me how much it would cost for a copy of this picture. Now I'm not so naive that I think "the fridge" actually answers his E-mail, but I figured that if I told whoever got the E-mail that I was trying to pay tribute (a lie) to the Fridge then they would at least respond to my valid inquiry.

WRONG. WRONG. WRONG.
Obviously whoever answers the E-mail's over there at the Fridge's website hates his fans because they never responded to my E-mail that I mailed a few times over the course of the last two months. I even made up a bunch of shit in my letter about how i was a big fan and blah blah blah...it was all bullshit so I could get that picture. Perhaps they saw through my facade (this I doubt) or perhaps they hate my name (it sounds very foreign-very Eastern European), but either way, THEY DID NOT RESPOND. Therefore, they face the brutal force of my scorn on this web-log that approximately three people read (irregularly). The fools do not realize what they have done, obviously, so it's time to remind them of my furious anger...

I now issue a formal challenge to the 'Fridge:
'Fridge, you have angered this young skinny frail white boy and you must pay for your misdeed.
I now challenge you to a game of front-yard football (tackles allowed) to settle this issue.
If I can score more touchdowns than you (and I can...I've seen you walk upon those mangled knees of yours) than you must apologize to me in person and on your website admit that you are (in these exact words) that you are a "washed-up douchebag who does not respect his fans but [you are] willing to correct these mistakes by sending chiseven an autographed picture [which I will then sell on E-Bay after I make a stencil out of the image]. Save yourself the hassle of being defeated by a skinny white-boy and just send me the got-damn picture punk. Or, if you still cling to the idea that you are a formitable opponent then feel free to make your way towards the 1000 block area of East 25th Street in Indianapolis on any given Sunday and be prepared for humiliation. Sorry to mix sports metaphors here, but the ball is now in your court 'fridge.
Make the right descision.
Aiiight, I'm out because the High-Life is beginning to kick in.
Punk!
*out*


Comments:
GET THAT MOTHAFUCKA
 
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