Mecca lecca hi mecca himey ho!

You just have to believe in the power of positive thought. As you may already know- summer is the slow season around sick jersey bro. You may also know that my summer time is precious. I have so very much in the works at any given time. From my various commitments to judging local strawberry festivals, volunteering for homeless dogs with cancer and rigging corn eating contests- all the way to being forced into Milwaukee's Best power hour on Zeke's porch with four or five ladies best described as filthy street whores. I never know what's next! Luckily, when I'm not waking up behind the dumpster at the Pink I occasionally run into a tiny little gem like these dingleberries. You know, I pray and I pray. And I will be God damned if Jesus don't pull the most tits moves when you least expect it. Now you know the deep, abiding love I hold in my heart for the shitbirds with custom jerseys. Sometimes I think, dude. How could these assholes get any sweeter? Well Jesus emphatically answered "check this shit out, bro!" and slapped me with the with the Mecca Brothers. Not one but count em two. How could you EVER, EVER, piss all over the beautiful original white home jersey by using shitty screen printed letters and numbers IN THE WRONG FUCKING COLOR AND WRONG FONT! douche. You might as well buy a blank and wipe your ass with it. Then your inbred brother finds your jersey so fucking hot he can't help but blow $150 on a slug jersey and make it even more reprehensible by "Mecca-ing" it all up like big bro. But how could you not? He always set the standard. Who was the first one to smoke weed in the pines behind the greenhouse? Who told that faggot Red Lobster manager Patrick to fuck off that one time? Who bought that fuckin' awesome ball python from that dude at the fair? Big bro Mecca-maniac that's the fuck who.