Johnny Football got couth?

   I never watched college football other than the Razorbacks while living in Little Rock.  Didn't believe in all that school spirit and volcanic pep talks from obese coaches able to make their own gravy, delivering these profound, personal juices from underneath the chocolate yeast that boxer shorts and diets low in acidophilus deliver, though mostly to females; next, them needing to scrape the yeasty cheese with multi-forked injections of Greek yogurt, whatever . . .

   Look--college football was always a bodacious bore; specifically, it lacked the laser-passing attack of Joe Montana and Kenny "the Snake" Stabler, bringing Jack Daniels into the oval huddle, having studied his pestering plays by the neon gleam of jukebox lights the luminous night before.  Then--it happened.  A mystic epiphany forecast by the Abrahamic God--the bold birth of Tim Tebow.  College football was thriving and once again alive in my Hog-Laced Brain; indeed, doing the Madonna (not her, but Her) mojo of outshining Herschel Walker's rushing touchdowns; plus, passing via Southpaw (I think, but the 60's still obscure me) for a plethora of pigskin scores.  And then he was gone.  A total of around 500 total yards offense in the Sugar Bowl, his last game played, Tebow morphed into a Bronco Rookie, never to be sweetly appreciated, even offering the humility of crowning himself with metaphorical thorns, having shaved his masculine mane into the shape of an ascetic-fuelled friar from FranciscanLand.  Yep, after Tebow smoothly sailed off into the NFL, I thought college football was once again dead; then, I heard about Johnny Football.

   Johnny Manziel is not your garden variety nice guy; moreover, he might be a real prick.  But, cool for him.  Having edge and manifesting beefy bravado for the cameras and myriads of fans watching the pictures fly by over the High Definition System is a magnanimous blessing from the celestial ocean above.  Manziel is coolicious kismet, delivered by the gods for our entertainment.  He knows that.  He knows his Daddy.  The kid is young, gregarious, and talented, as if having sold his soul to the diabolical Red Men for Tom Brady's arm--though Tim Tebow from the waist down.  Yeah, Manziel got game. And what the hell is wrong with that?  He's no different than any cheap-dressing, oversexed hussy hoofing it in hellacious high heels to ignite erections for their own ego-boosting laxative.  He'll chill.  Find humility.  Offer his talents up to the Cosmic Giant who crafted the Big Neon Glitter.  Just the first game of the season.  Lord, I hope I'm right . . .

   Too, you can purchase my books @ Mark David King on Apple iTunes or the Nook; also, Barnes and Noble.Com, and Amazon.Com--here's a link to my Amazon Author's Page:  King's Books

   Sincerely, Mark David King