Jonny Dave tells it

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is a NASCAR/sports columnist for Flotsam Media. He is currently single, but not desperate. He likes girls with moisturized skin, big teeth, and a little bit of a mustache.

Hey, y’all. I’m back. I haven’t written in a while because Momma took my computer away as punishment for trackin’ peanut butter all through the house, like it’s my fault that her precious little dog didn’t lick it all off. How am I ‘sposed to see the bottom of my feet? Anyway, I thought that I’d just get some things off my chest about the happenin’s in the sports world.

Bobby Petrino: I truly do feel real bad for all them millionaires who lost a coach better suited to the college game and who they didn’t like anyways.

Momma says they were all just upset and hurt because Petrino leavin’ further perpetuated the cycle of them bein’ left by male authority figures when the goin’ got tough. Since a lot of those fellas are black, I’m a little scared that might be a racist way of lookin’ at it. I’m not even sure anymore, but, if you’re white, poor, and from the South, it’s always better to assume what you’re sayin’ is racist.

I warned Momma about her racism and she said she was basin’ her assessment on the fact that I, myself, was left by my daddy and my reaction when my night manager at Wendy’s quit to further pursue his associate’s degree in hotel management at the local community college. I don’t know what she’s talkin’ about. I think that cryin’ for three days straight and campin’ outside his house until his dad calls the cops on ya is a perfectly reasonable reaction to being abandoned by the guy that was supposed to teach how to be a MAN workin’ in Wendy’s. I HATE YOU, CRAIG!

Mitchell Report: So, why am I supposed to care if some of those players took steroids? I like seein’ homers. They’re excitin’. I don’t wanna see no pitcher’s duel; I wanna see some scorin’. And I don’t care about the health risks, either. Their shrinkin’ nutsacks ain’t no worry of mine, y’all. They all made plenty of money. They can pay somebody to get hard-ons. I say put ‘em all on the juice -- hitters, pitchers, umpires. Max out those performances. Give the people what they wanna see. I’d rather see a bunch of players with small balls hittin’ the long ball than players with big balls playin’ small ball. Maybe it’d cut down on all the crotch-grabbin’, too. It’s gotten so bad that I’m scared to let Momma watch games anymore because she gets all weird when it’s over.

16-0: As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t nothing more that needs to be said about this story. I don’t like or trust the “Patriots” anyway. As ironic as it may be, they seem a little un-American, as far as I’m concerned. With all their talk of teamwork and sharin’ the responsibility, they sound like a buncha commies.

Instead, I think I’ll take this time to share with y’all a cautionary tale of overindulgence. It starts at the Georgia State Fair (’94, if I recall correctly). My love all things pertainin’ to state fairs and corn dogs is well-documented and I proceeded to polish off 19 corn dogs with ketchup and cheese, thereby establishin’ a new (and still standin’) Floyd family, state fair, corn dog-eatin’ record.

Momma was actually proud of me that day and I was happier than a guy that just got out of prison and doesn’t have to shower with dudes anymore or do any of that “other stuff” that my uncle won’t talk about that happened to him while he was incarcerated for writin’ too many bad checks. What I did not count on was the amount of impurities that had collected on those 19 corn dogs from the suspect cleanliness of the carnies, whether through their dirty carnie hands, cookin’ devices, or corn dog storage bins. Well, to make a long story a less long one, the task of breakin’ down those impurity-infected corn dogs was, apparently, too much for ol’ Jonny Dave’s bowels and, therefore, rendered me unable to produce a dry fart for the better part of a month. To this day, all of my underwear has skid marks, people call me “Mud Butt”, and I still check my pants after a fart (it’s a 'lil embarrassin’ bein’ seen in public with your hand down the back of your pants).

So, let that be a lesson, y’all. You ain’t gotta avoid all food at the state fair; ya just gotta avoid the cross-eyed carnie that you just saw leavin’ the port-a-john. There ain’t no faucet in that corn dog trailer!

Well, that’s all from me for now. Happy New Year, y’all! NASCAR season’s just around the corner.