FanPost

I Am Bret Bielema's Hawkeye Tattoo

Bielema_tattoo_medium[Outstanding.--OPS]

I'm sure you hearda me, I get more shit from Iowa fans about me than a Kinnick Stadium crapper. Look, do you think I WANTED to be put on this dude's leg? I know he played football for the Hawks, but that ended over fifteen years ago. NOW look what I'm stuck with! Have you seen what Bret looks like these days? Like a gopher. Like a 275 pound chipmunk-cheeked bright red big-ass gopher.

Life didn't start out so bad. In the early nineties, when I was born--man, it fuckin' rocked. It was all metal bands and big-haired chicks--some nights back at the apartment I was just SWIMMIN' in big hair, GNR and the Crue blastin' on the stereo. Got tired looking at the ceiling some nights, bouncin' up and down like a yo-yo, but after a Hawk win--I don't have to tell YOU that gravity pulled the Hawkeye Vodka in my direction! Loved the Hokey Pokey, too; I was center stage then, bein' "shaken all about"! Oh, I had chicks kissing me, putting their tits in my face, licking me all up and down. Those were some times, man. I was the TATTOO. Bret Bielema's HAWK TATTOO. I was king.

Look at me now. Connective tissue only lasts so long, dude. I'm stretched like a 45 year old vagina after a litter of nine pounders. And Bret ain't exactly a workout addict; fuck, have his calves gotten fat. I never seen a guy with such fat fucking calves; sometimes I think they're about to bust wide open like that guy's belly in Alien. If they did, I bet that Stretch Armstrong red goop would ooze out, he's so mushy inside.

To be honest, I don't know how long I got for this world. I've been covered with about everything: socks, band-aids, adhesive tape, ticket stubs, liquor store receipts, pregnancy test labels, leaves, poop, condom wrappers, a bird's-nest; you name it, I had it on top of me at one time. Summer's the worst--goddamn shorts weather. I know I'm gonna take it right on the nose, then. Could be duct tape, could be a smooshed eclair from the trash. Who knows?

Just last week I ran across a receipt for a belt sander; scared the livin' pigment right outta me. Once--I think Bret was looking at Shon Green game film at the time--he looked down at me and just started screaming: "Shit! Shit! Shit!" Fucker took a Sharpie to my faded black and gold ass. He drew BLOOD, man! Real BLOOD. The guy's a maniac. He hates me like that disease that's worse than cancer.

It's gotten so bad around here, sometimes I wish he'd just see a dermatologist and end it, I really do. How much can a little tattoo take? So the next time you're ragging about Bret and his Hawk tattoo, think of me, and say a little prayer. Some people make their own destinies, but I'm just along for the ride. And my ride is definitely the wrong kind of phat.

Unless otherwise expressly indicated by BHGP editors, this FanPost is strictly the viewpoint of the author and is not endorsed by BHGP in any way.

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