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u/sterlingSTYLE: Anyone got an ID on the cat ears and tail?

The low-rise pants are Gucci, probably tailored to be skintight.

Looks like they retail for $3K. There are a ton of dupes on Alibaba.

The studded boots are Versace, but it’s going to take me a little bit to find out what year.

The harness is probably custom. Educated guess says it’s the same person that did the ears and tail; the finish on the leather is identical.

As usual, I’m not going to try and track down the eyeliner, shadow, or nail polish, as it’s just too hard. Pics will be up on the blog by morning.

u/sleepyshadow: Bet he’s plugged under those pants.

u/pendeHO: [comment removed by moderator]

u/SG-AUTOMOD: Comments will be removed if they are gratuitously sexual.

u/pendeHO: LET ME LIVE

u/sterlicious1: bet the train is like “here kitty kitty”

u/cabobbyg: PSS PSS

***

The Cyclones’ winning streak ends in Week Nine .

You travel north to play the Tampa Terriers.

The guys are hyped as hell during the one-hour flight: Tampa’s got a 2-6 record, and beating up on them is all that stands between you and going into your by-week undefeated.

Coach spends almost the whole time yelling at the team, warning you that complacency against weak opponents is how contenders fuck up.

“It’s fuggin’ Tampa ,” Jameson mutters, with a massive eye-roll that he hides behind the seat-back in front of him.

He’s in one of the first-class loungers on the chartered Airbus, his long legs spilling into the aisle.

Notably, he doesn’t start talking shit until Coach heads downstairs to talk with the press onboard.

“Nothin’ to worry about besides putting on a good show for all twelve people who bought tickets. ”

“Heard it’s sold-out.” Cordarius Wick, a first-year receiver, somehow found his way up into first-class. You wonder idly why he’s not back in the business seats with the rest of the rookies and the second string, but it’s not like you to get hung-up on cliquey shit like that.

You half-expect Jameson to make an asshole comment, but he just laughs.

“All Cyclones fans, bruh! That shithole stadium’s gonna be all green and gold.

If they had a stadium in fuggin’ Timbuktu, we’d sell that bitch out too.

Gonna smoke that Terriers pack.” Satisfied with himself, he leans back in his seat, his jacked forearms dwarfing the armrests.

TrIIue to Jameson’s prediction, Tampa Stadium is awash in Cyclones colors.

It makes sense: the fans only had to drive about five hours to get there.

Tampa is geographically the closest team to Miami, and it’s a party city.

Tickets were probably cheaper there than for any other Cyclones away game on the schedule.

A fleeting moment of pity for the Terriers flickers across your mind.

You always feel slightly bad for teams who don’t have a loyal fanbase.

The fans are the twelfth man. The backbone of team spirit.

Florida has finally started to cool off a little in earliest November.

The sun is hot, but not aggressive, and the slight breeze puts a spring in your step.

Something inside you comes alive on days like this.

The sky is blue, the turf is green, and the crowd is roaring when the Cyclones take the field.

Sterling is recovering from his first overseas show, having flown back to New York in the wee hours of the morning, but Gabi is in the box, staring starry-eyed at GoGo.

Tampa wins the coin toss and defers, putting Sandy and the offense on the field after kick-off.

They rack up forty yards quickly on a steady, coordinated march, and things are looking amazing for an opening drive score when the impossible happens: a Terriers linebacker breaks free of Anderson, your left tackle, and sacks the shit out of Sandy.

As if in slow motion, you see Sandy go down hard, landing on his side.

The ball is knocked out of his hands by the force of the fall and rolls about two yards away.

There’s an immediate dogpile, huge men piling atop each other for possession of the fumble.

The refs yank them off one-by-one. At the bottom of the huddle is a lone Terriers player clutching the ball like a priceless treasure. Tampa turns it over.

The defense takes the field. Your eye goes automatically to the Terriers’ LT: Julian Tamatoa.

He’s a big Samoan bitch with a riot of blackwork tattoos.

Six-foot-four and 300 pounds on a slender day, he’s not hurting for meals.

You know all about Tamatoa: he got traded this year; you used to play him twice a year in Buffalo.

He’s deceptively agile and light on his feet despite his size.

He’s also a massive asshole, literally and figuratively.

If there’s one player in the Association that you have beef with, it’s him.

He likes to run his mouth and make things personal, which is a play-style that you loathe.

Football is your passion, but it’s also your job.

Is a little professionalism too much to ask?

But Tamatoa knows how to get under your skin, and he’s made it his personal goal to get your goat for three years now.

The jawing starts when you guys are lined up. Crouched on opposite sides of the line, looking straight into his beady black eyes, you see Tamatoa flash his white teeth in a grin.

“It’s my li’l buddy. Choo-choo,” he coos. “Gonna chugga-chug real hard, Choo-choo? Think you’re going somewhere?”

You ignore him until the snap. Then you’re struggling against him.

You are far more fit than Tamatoa, but he’s got the brute strength of sheer bulk.

You’ve no sooner broken free of his mass than the ref blows the whistle.

Tayden Harris, Tampa’s QB, just threw an incomplete pass.

It’s discouraging that he even got the throw off. Back to the line you go.

On the second down, Tampa tries the run and gets maybe half a yard before being swallowed up. Tamatoa won’t shut it.

“I missed you, Choo-choo. When I left New York, all I was thinkin’ was, ‘man, I’mma miss my buddy Choo-choo.’ Who else is gonna keep you in line, baby?”

Gritting your teeth when the snap happens, you fake out past Tamatoa.

Harris is in the pocket, looking for an opening.

You are almost there when he throws the ball.

It goes deep—surely there’s nobody open back there?

But there is , some scrappy fucking nobody receiver who snatches the throw from the air and takes off like his ass is on fire.

In a matter of moments, Tampa has six points on the board.

Things don’t get better from there. The first half drags on with one embarrassment after another.

On the Cyclones’ next possession, they get stuffed at the three-and-a-half on a failure to convert a fourth down.

Tampa follows that with a field goal. You guys answer with your own field goal.

Both teams go back and forth with no score for a while, then Tampa runs in another TD.

The Cyclones finally manage a touchdown, but Dettweiler screws up the extra point.

At halftime, the score is 17-9 in Tampa’s favor.

In the locker room, Coach is the color of a busted cherry tomato.

F-bombs fly as he berates the entire team, offense and defense alike, for looking like morons on the field.

The ass-chewing goes on for what feels like an eternity.

When he throws his hands up and remands everyone to their respective position coaches, you take a free moment to peek at your phone. You feel Ike your blood is simmering.

Sterling: You hanging in?

You: we’ll shake it off

Sterling: The commentator was talking about that big guy. Julian-something. He says you guys have almost fought a few times. You never mentioned him.

You: cuz he’s just a dick. gtg .

Palys is rounding the corner with thunder on his face, but you quickly realize that last message was abrupt.

You: xo

You just barely catch his response as you quickly shove your phone in your locker.

Sterling: :)

When you retake the field at the top of the second half, every man on the Cyclones has a bug in his ear from the coaching staff and a fresh fire under his ass.

Tampa has first possession this time. You will yourself to go to a Zen place in your head as you line up opposite Tamotoa. Even though the team just had a break, he is sweating profusely, and a noxious wave of body odor rolls off him in waves. You tell yourself not to make eye contact.

“Choo-choo.” There’s laughter on his breath. “You’re looking real nice in those pants, Choo-choo. You tighten up this off-season?”

“Sexual harassment is so funny, bruh.” The play begins, and the Cyclones immediately pick up a pass interference call. It’s spot-of-the-foul, so the Terriers advance twenty-something yards. At midfield, the once-balmy sun feels broiling. It’s probably tension .

“You know you guys are gonna lose, Choo-choo.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ain’t you never heard of a trap game?”

Another penalty leads to another first down. Harris, who isn’t known for being especially mobile, fakes the throw and runs in another touchdown. You want to kill someone.

Things turn around slightly as the third gives way to the fourth, and at the two-minute warning, it’s 24-19. You guys are still behind, but you have possession. On the sidelines, you mop sweat off your brow with a towel and cast an eye up to the box, where Gabi is raptly watching the game.

Sandy has a perfect opening, and, by some miracle, GoGo breaks free of coverage.

Sandy whips off a gorgeous pass and GoGo has his gloved hands ready to catch it as he runs towards the end-zone.

It looks like all the pieces are about to slot perfectly into place when a member of the Terriers’ defense comes out of literally nowhere—well, it was undoubtedly somewhere , but you were looking at the box—and snatches the ball from the sky inches from GoGo’s fingers.

Interception.

There are still time-outs on the board, so the defense takes the field again. You are hot as fuck and annoyed as fuck. Losing fair and square is one kind of disappointment, but the nonstop errors this game have been galling. You can already hear the coaches’ yelling and see the catty headlines.

Tamatoa gives you a sympathetic smile on the line.

“Chin up, Choo-Choo,” he coos. “Everyone screws the pooch sometimes.”

When the snap happens, you grapple blindly in his direction and inadvertently yank his facemask. The ref spots it immediately and throws a flag.

Five yard penalty, automatic first down.

On the sideline, Palys slams his tablet on the ground in aggravation.

The Terriers kick a field goal, one last fuck you just as the last seconds on the clock wind down. Tamatoa laughs uproariously. He’s looking right at you, but all the coaches are watching, so you ignore him and crack your knuckles hard enough to hurt.

@BALLINsportsnews: The Cyclones got #EXPOSED today!

I’ve been saying for weeks now that they were coasting on weak strength-of-schedule and would soon be revealed as FRAUDS.

The defense was paper-thin and the O-Line was MASSIVELY underwhelming.

Am I the only one who doesn’t get the hype about #SandroCovelli?

Key players (lookin’ at you, @c.reinhart and @GOGOJUICEZZZ) should focus more on football and less on their Hollywood sig others.

Check out the LIVE CHAT with Pat Pronto tonight for more coverage of the biggest loss this season. #justsayin #straightfacts