Winning.

December 9, 2011

So I’ve been studying you humans for some time now. You fascinate me. You amuse me. You occasionally give me the shits. But most of all, you baffle the fuck out of me.

You spend hours agonising about hair. Styling it, cutting it, shaving it, pulling it out by the roots or killing it with a laser. Bears just fucking grow it.

You have complex systems of politics, law and ethics trying to figure out what’s right, wrong, good and bad. Bears make it simple – if you don’t want to hug it, rip its fucking head off.

You have books and TV shows dedicated to growing, storing, planning, cooking, plating, presenting and consuming food. Bears just eat the fucking stuff. And no, despite what you may have heard, we do not have fucking picnics.

But never mind all that. What has me intrigued is the faces you adorable little bastards pull when you win at sport. Especially blokes. You train for fucking years, you compete with the best of the best, you pull off a ball-bustingly incredible feat of endurance, coordination and technique, and you look like you’ve just eaten the arse out of a flatulent donkey.

I think something else is going on. Allow me to illustrate.

 

 

Image from The Examiner“I look like this when I win stuff.
And when my missus kicks me in the nuts.”
(image: examiner.com)

“My invisible puppet friend thinks I’m fucking awesome!”
(image: couriermail.com.au)

“My testicles are this big, you guys.”
(image: tvguide.com)

“I’ve got hair and Liz Hurley.
So you may take a seat right here, motherfuckers!”
(image: perthnow.com.au)

“Ouchy nipple cripple is ouchy.”
(image: smh.com.au)

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Go on then. Have a go.

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