It was late one spring evening, and Fuzzy Dotson couldn't sleep. So he did what any self-respecting person would do and heated up a bowl of Chunky Campbell's Clam Chowder Soup and put on a movie. This time on his recommendations queue, he selected some Martin Scorsese flick. Cool. After he finished his can (ok, 2 cans) of soup, Fuzzy finally comfortably dozed off as one usually does with the television still flickering.
In his dream, he was drafted by the New England Patriots. Immediately Fuzzy knew this was a nightmare. Next thing he knows he's being escorted to the locker room by a box of macaroni and cheese, and his greeted by a man with no face and no sleeves. Only a hood. "Were happy to have you here." the faceless man deadpans. Fuzzy began to sweat profusely. This can't be happening. Then he finds his locker right next to another with a TB12 labeled above it. Tom stood there, smiling, and for whatever reason he was fully dressed to play, pads and all. Fuzzy was beginning to feel sick.
"I can't believe I'm playing for the Patriots, I have to get out of here!!"
He tried to find his way out, but every time he opened a door or turned the corner, there was the same locker room, with Tom standing there smiling and waving at him. Just then Fuzzy had an idea. He pretends to get something from his locker, waits until Tom isn't looking, walks up behind him and says cheerfully, "Hey Tom!" And just as Tom turns to look at him, Fuzzy shoves two fingers (ok, 3 fingers) deep into his own throat, causing projectile clam chowder vomit to pummel Tom in the face.
What I'm saying is, Fuzzy would go the eating disorder route to get himself cut.
In his dream, he was drafted by the New England Patriots. Immediately Fuzzy knew this was a nightmare. Next thing he knows he's being escorted to the locker room by a box of macaroni and cheese, and his greeted by a man with no face and no sleeves. Only a hood. "Were happy to have you here." the faceless man deadpans. Fuzzy began to sweat profusely. This can't be happening. Then he finds his locker right next to another with a TB12 labeled above it. Tom stood there, smiling, and for whatever reason he was fully dressed to play, pads and all. Fuzzy was beginning to feel sick.
"I can't believe I'm playing for the Patriots, I have to get out of here!!"
He tried to find his way out, but every time he opened a door or turned the corner, there was the same locker room, with Tom standing there smiling and waving at him. Just then Fuzzy had an idea. He pretends to get something from his locker, waits until Tom isn't looking, walks up behind him and says cheerfully, "Hey Tom!" And just as Tom turns to look at him, Fuzzy shoves two fingers (ok, 3 fingers) deep into his own throat, causing projectile clam chowder vomit to pummel Tom in the face.
What I'm saying is, Fuzzy would go the eating disorder route to get himself cut.
![[Image: MOSHED-2021-7-8-23-9-42.gif]](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/862920505216204831/862923540743192596/MOSHED-2021-7-8-23-9-42.gif)
