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Could You Kick Sean McDermott’s Ass?


Irv

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It’s situational.  On any normal occasion he could easily beat up an old man like me. But on several occasions such as the 13 seconds game , the rage with in me could possibly have fueled a victory.  

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Let me get this straight, this is a discussion about whether or not grown adults think they could beat up another grown adult. Setting aside the incredible improbability of the event, aren’t discussions like this best left to twelve year olds?

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19 hours ago, Royale with Cheese said:


Dude, McDermott would mop the floor with you and probably most people on here.  You’re underestimating grapplers.

Christian Wilkins has entered the chat

7 minutes ago, chris heff said:

Let me get this straight, this is a discussion about whether or not grown adults think they could beat up another grown adult. Setting aside the incredible improbability of the event, aren’t discussions like this best left to twelve year olds?

Adults are merely grown 12 year olds

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17 hours ago, CoffeeDrip said:

I’ve been the only girl among a pack of boys most of my life both in my family and my neighborhood so I learned to fight dirty. But I don’t think a kick to the stones will take down McD. Thankfully I also think he would never ever fight a woman so I’d win by default. 😂

 

Same! I grew up with two annoying older brothers: both varsity athlete mesomorph types, whereas I myself have always been disadvantaged with more of a diminutive ectomorph physique. Nevertheless, the one thing I have always been blessed with is a resourceful survivor spirit!

 

So while there’s no way I could physically take on Coach McDermott, I do consider the brain to be the most powerful muscle in the human body. Coach McD strikes me as a guy wound just a bit too tight, perhaps secretly dealing with a multitude of mental health issues ranging from paranoia and insecurity to chronic anxiety and insomnia. My strategy of choice would therefore be to personally subject Coach McD to months of torturous psychological manipulation, ideally culminating in a life-threatening eating disorder.

 

Once the eating disorder has advanced to a stage requiring in-patient hospitalization care, I will come visit Coach McD at the Catholic Mercy Hospital of Buffalo. Though to be clear: no mercy will be offered to him by me on that final day.

 

As I saunter over to his hospital room bed, Coach McD’s eyes will fully widen as he sees me, like a woodland owl forced to acknowledge its indefatigable apex predator. “You again! Why?! Why did you do this to me?! Was it the 13 Seconds game? The pathetic Bengals playoff home game? Too many men on the field for the final play of last season’s ridiculous Broncos game? All I ever wanted in life was to bring gridiron joy to all you lovely Western New Yorkers! Why, Kay? Why?!”

 

This is the moment where I then slowly lean in towards him, gently stroke his arm, massage his shoulder, and whisper softly into his ear, “Because I could, Sean. Because I could.”

 

As I get up and walk away, a nearby nurse vigorously holds down Coach McD’s emaciated and flailing body to the hospital bed, as his pale Irish countenance turns bright red like an aged star approaching supernova status. “Curses to thee, of sly mind and small body, and with neither sling nor stone…another favorable victory I have blown!” Sean rather poetically screams out to yours truly. “May you welcome as your eternal abode the fiery pits below, you Baphomet-worshiping banshee! Arrrgggh!”

 

<< END SCENE. >>

<< BEGIN EPILOGUE. >>

 

The rhythmic clicking of Kay’s VEERAH stiletto heels echo through the hospital hallway as she walks away from Coach McDermott’s room. The reverberating clicks grow louder, drowning out the distant flatlining emission from Sean’s electrocardiogram. Kay suddenly removes a wig and rubber facial mask, revealing herself to be…<<dramatic pause>>…Tyler Dunne in drag! Eeek! The “Go Long” journalist, evidently all along, was playing his own long game on poor ol’ Sean.

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41 minutes ago, ComradeKayAdams said:

 

Same! I grew up with two annoying older brothers: both varsity athlete mesomorph types, whereas I myself have always been disadvantaged with more of a diminutive ectomorph physique. Nevertheless, the one thing I have always been blessed with is a resourceful survivor spirit!

 

So while there’s no way I could physically take on Coach McDermott, I do consider the brain to be the most powerful muscle in the human body. Coach McD strikes me as a guy wound just a bit too tight, perhaps secretly dealing with a multitude of mental health issues ranging from paranoia and insecurity to chronic anxiety and insomnia. My strategy of choice would therefore be to personally subject Coach McD to months of torturous psychological manipulation, ideally culminating in a life-threatening eating disorder.

 

Once the eating disorder has advanced to a stage requiring in-patient hospitalization care, I will come visit Coach McD at the Catholic Mercy Hospital of Buffalo. Though to be clear: no mercy will be offered to him by me on that final day.

 

As I saunter over to his hospital room bed, Coach McD’s eyes will fully widen as he sees me, like a woodland owl forced to acknowledge its indefatigable apex predator. “You again! Why?! Why did you do this to me?! Was it the 13 Seconds game? The pathetic Bengals playoff home game? Too many men on the field for the final play of last season’s ridiculous Broncos game? All I ever wanted in life was to bring gridiron joy to all you lovely Western New Yorkers! Why, Kay? Why?!”

 

This is the moment where I then slowly lean in towards him, gently stroke his arm, massage his shoulder, and whisper softly into his ear, “Because I could, Sean. Because I could.”

 

As I get up and walk away, a nearby nurse vigorously holds down Coach McD’s emaciated and flailing body to the hospital bed, as his pale Irish countenance turns bright red like an aged star approaching supernova status. “Curses to thee, of sly mind and small body, and with neither sling nor stone…another favorable victory I have blown!” Sean rather poetically screams out to yours truly. “May you welcome as your eternal abode the fiery pits below, you Baphomet-worshiping banshee! Arrrgggh!”

 

<< END SCENE. >>

<< BEGIN EPILOGUE. >>

 

The rhythmic clicking of Kay’s VEERAH stiletto heels echo through the hospital hallway as she walks away from Coach McDermott’s room. The reverberating clicks grow louder, drowning out the distant flatlining emission from Sean’s electrocardiogram. Kay suddenly removes a wig and rubber facial mask, revealing herself to be…<<dramatic pause>>…Tyler Dunne in drag! Eeek! The “Go Long” journalist, evidently all along, was playing his own long game on poor ol’ Sean.

… …
<< backs away slowly >>

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1 hour ago, chris heff said:

Let me get this straight, this is a discussion about whether or not grown adults think they could beat up another grown adult. Setting aside the incredible improbability of the event, aren’t discussions like this best left to twelve year olds?


Childhood improbability arguments were the most fun arguments.  Why do we have to stop at childhood for the most fun arguments?  Why trade that for serious only arguments?  
That sucks.  

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24 minutes ago, Royale with Cheese said:


Childhood improbability arguments were the most fun arguments.  Why do we have to stop at childhood for the most fun arguments?  Why trade that for serious only arguments?  
That sucks.  

Great, so who do you think would win in a fight Goofy or Pluto?

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13 hours ago, Chicken Boo said:

 

A small, bald, ginger.  He's probably pretty scrappy.

Being he is a a ginger, one just has to point a tanning lamp at him, 😁

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1 hour ago, ComradeKayAdams said:

 

Same! I grew up with two annoying older brothers: both varsity athlete mesomorph types, whereas I myself have always been disadvantaged with more of a diminutive ectomorph physique. Nevertheless, the one thing I have always been blessed with is a resourceful survivor spirit!

 

So while there’s no way I could physically take on Coach McDermott, I do consider the brain to be the most powerful muscle in the human body. Coach McD strikes me as a guy wound just a bit too tight, perhaps secretly dealing with a multitude of mental health issues ranging from paranoia and insecurity to chronic anxiety and insomnia. My strategy of choice would therefore be to personally subject Coach McD to months of torturous psychological manipulation, ideally culminating in a life-threatening eating disorder.

 

Once the eating disorder has advanced to a stage requiring in-patient hospitalization care, I will come visit Coach McD at the Catholic Mercy Hospital of Buffalo. Though to be clear: no mercy will be offered to him by me on that final day.

 

As I saunter over to his hospital room bed, Coach McD’s eyes will fully widen as he sees me, like a woodland owl forced to acknowledge its indefatigable apex predator. “You again! Why?! Why did you do this to me?! Was it the 13 Seconds game? The pathetic Bengals playoff home game? Too many men on the field for the final play of last season’s ridiculous Broncos game? All I ever wanted in life was to bring gridiron joy to all you lovely Western New Yorkers! Why, Kay? Why?!”

 

This is the moment where I then slowly lean in towards him, gently stroke his arm, massage his shoulder, and whisper softly into his ear, “Because I could, Sean. Because I could.”

 

As I get up and walk away, a nearby nurse vigorously holds down Coach McD’s emaciated and flailing body to the hospital bed, as his pale Irish countenance turns bright red like an aged star approaching supernova status. “Curses to thee, of sly mind and small body, and with neither sling nor stone…another favorable victory I have blown!” Sean rather poetically screams out to yours truly. “May you welcome as your eternal abode the fiery pits below, you Baphomet-worshiping banshee! Arrrgggh!”

 

<< END SCENE. >>

<< BEGIN EPILOGUE. >>

 

The rhythmic clicking of Kay’s VEERAH stiletto heels echo through the hospital hallway as she walks away from Coach McDermott’s room. The reverberating clicks grow louder, drowning out the distant flatlining emission from Sean’s electrocardiogram. Kay suddenly removes a wig and rubber facial mask, revealing herself to be…<<dramatic pause>>…Tyler Dunne in drag! Eeek! The “Go Long” journalist, evidently all along, was playing his own long game on poor ol’ Sean.

The epilogue has a Peaky Blinders vibe, 😁👍 lol

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