Put down your can of Natty Boh and stop saying “hon” for two seconds, Baltimore fans, because I have something to tell you: National Bohemian is a shitty fucking beer. It just is.
Also, it looks like Ray Lewis tore his triceps on Sunday. His season is over and this may very well be the end of a legendary 17-year-career. So instead of making fun of that ridiculous goddamn Dundalk accent that all Baltimorons speak with, let’s take a trip down memory lane and re-live the career of Ray Lewis — a football story as surreal and over-the-top as any John Waters movie.
If you play on his team, he will yell at you for at least five minutes before every game. Every lazy schmuck in America, sitting on his crusty-ass La-Z-Boy recliner sees this and gets all WE MUST PROTECT THIS HOUSE when they see Ray do this shit.
If Ray is in a good mood that day and happens to like the cut of your jib, he will perform his patented RAY LEWIS DISCO ROBOT MURDER SHUFFLE for you. The best part is by far the little arm shake thing at the very beginning. If you disagree with this, please stab yourself.
Ray Lewis is the last of the old-school gridiron maniacs. Here he is causing someone’s future brain trauma-related murder/suicide. Haha, just kidding. That whole football-causes-brain-injuries thing is imaginary, like Global Warming and the female orgasm.
After the game, Ray Lewis eats the radioactive heart of Philip Rivers for its delicious magical powers. BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL.
And then he flies away.
Photo from Flickr.
