Ugly Hoosiers Got Some Mad Skills
Don't Have Sex With Them Whatever You Do
(Preface: Why should all my hate email come from The Rez? I want to enrage misogynist, dog-beating, child-beating, cross-burning rednecks from New Whiteland, Elwood and McCordsville too. If you have no sense of humor, save your blood pressure and skip the following. You’ll hate this. It'll make you beat your dog, kids and wife. But even if you don’t fit any of the above-mentioned subgroups, feel free to hate this too! Bring it on, ‘Hoosha Hata’s.’)
Peyton Manning was raised craving applesauce in a basement in remote Mississippi. No electricity, no toilets. The basement was kept dark and musty and was well stocked with spiders and rabid raccoons. Moonshine sat aging happily in the corner in apple cider jugs. Peyton never learned how to read a book. But he learned how to read a defense real well though because his papa, Archibald, wouldn’t feed him any applesauce if he didn’t. And without the applesauce, the basement wasn’t half as much fun.
Locked away deep in that fetid cellar, a confused Peyton was allowed to emerge for 22 minutes a day @ exactly 6 p.m. to throw 200 footballs a distance of 75 feet through a tire hanging by a wire from a Spanish Moss tree. Young Peyton staggered from the basement, blinded momentarily by the twilight glare, before being handed football after football. If he missed his target more than once, he was given a choice: sleep in the swamp with the agitated gators or head back to the cellar with no applesauce. If he hit all 200, he got some cinnamon sprinkled on the sauce. He grew up a lonely, confused boy, which explains his Forrest Gump-like facial expressions on NFL sidelines now.
And that’s how Peyton Manning became Peyton Manning. He never learned how to read or write so good – when your dad is named “Archie,” you’re probably not headed for Harvard – but he can sure wing a pigskin like nobody’s business.
JIM CALDWELL: “Why did you throw that ball so well, Manning?”
PM: “Because you told me to, Drill Sergeant!”
JC: God damn, Manning! For an idiot, you a football genius!”
PM: “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”
Larry Bird. Well, Larry Legend is another sad story. He’s so ugly he makes Peyton Manning look like a guy who gets to be on television commercials. Larry Bird grew up the spitting image of the love child produced by Ned Beatty and the cross-eyed inbred hillbilly who violated Ned Beatty in "Deliverance." When little Larry used to drain a three-pointer in grade school, he apparently could not suppress an uncontrollable urge to “squeal like a pig” and he inexplicably later told his school’s 68-year-old custodian Ned Greeley, “You shore got a purty mouth.” These episodes did not endear his town or its women-folk to young Larry. They avoided him like the plague, mocking his unfortunate visage and unsavory demeanor. Larry was to remain dateless and lonely for years and years.
So all through grade school, junior high, and high school, no joy for young Mr. Bird. Instead, he stayed alone on the farm, shooting thirty footers at a peach basket. For 20 hours a day he played basketball to forget that he and the Elephant Man had more in common than just bad breath. From 4-8 a.m. he’d sleep, hanging upside down on a support bar in the barn like a bat. Then he’d rise, look at himself in the mirror, glimpse what appeared to be a tall Freddy Kreuger, get scared, and play another 20 hours of inspired basketball. On his prom night, Larry B. wore an ill-fitting rented tux and with black Chuck Taylors and proceeded to score 672 points in 28 minutes of spirited play. He pretended to be 400-teamed on defense by those “candy ass pretty boys” who were at the prom. As he walked off the court, a solitary tear rolled down his homely face. That’s how he became Larry Legend, leading the ISU Sycamores, Boston Celtics and the Indiana Pacers to later glory. Eventually, Janet Reno and Larry Bird spawned a son together who turned out to be Dwayne from the movie "Little Miss Sunshine": looks from dad & mom, intellect from mom.
And finally David Letterman. Beyond hideous, Letterman appears to be the misbegotten by-product of a Howdy Doody - Phyllis Diller liaison following the consumption of too much cheap gin. This highly regrettable and unholy union produced one aesthetically challenged David Letterman baby. Letterman looks like raw freckled butt, plain and simple. And he always did. Neighboring kids, disgusted by Dave’s ugliness and gapped teeth, used to beat him with hatchets, mallets, golf clubs and anything else they could brandish. After a few months of this, Letterman developed the schtick which would carry him for decades on late-night TV. To thwart yet another painful mauling, he’d “dog leg” a fire hydrant on all fours and whiz away. Stunned kids were told it was a “stupid human trick.” Then he announced the top 10 reasons his face looked like a red-headed ass. “Number 10: My mom is Phyllis Diller; Number 9: fetal alcohol syndrome, etc. etc." So small wonder as an adult, Dave stills wins an ugly-off versus the likes of Paul Schafer. If a diminutive, balding, flaky band director looks good by comparison standing next to you, it’s time to consider plastic surgery options or to find a burlap bag. When the Letterman sex scandal emerged last year it surely seemed to be verification that ruffies work. Honestly now ladies, can you imagine waking up next to that face? Holy shit. You wouldn’t be doing the walk of shame back to your car, but the sprint of shame straight past your car and into the hills naked.
Finally, consider what kind of “pillow talk” these three Hoosier icons would make. Whether Letterman, Larry Legend or Peyton, it would likely put any potential partner off sex for some years to come.
Letterman: “Here are the top ten reasons you should do me tonight: number 10- I’ve been Herpes free for over a month. Number 9, If you’re drunk and it’s dark, hey, I almost look human. Number 8, I’m more attractive than Larry Bird…”
Larry Legend: [staring @ you cross-eyed] “You shore got a purty mouth.”
Peyton M: “Go long and I’ll hit you on three. (Screaming now) Blue 99, Blue 99, alpha romeo! Red-dog. Audible. Audible!” Meanwhile, he’s flailing his arms willy-nilly as his partner becomes scared, confused, ashamed. Peyton continues yelling: “I like candy! I like candy! Marci Playground! Hike.” At this point, you’d better run like Pierre Garcon out of that bedroom as there is no telling what kind of basement-flashback freak show # 18 has in mind.
No doubt about it; these fellows are fine Hoosiers every last one. They play some good sports and make some decent jokes now and again. But lookers, intellectuals and lotharios, they are likely not. If you feel you must have sex with any of these three, do so at your own caution. And remember, Dan Quayle is probably available in Huntington. After you explain to him what sex is, he’d probably have some of it with you.
In the next installment of Hoosier Icons: A hubpages exclusive: Eight of John Mellencamp’s former wives reveal what it’s like to live in a dilapidated shotgun shack just outside Seymour, Indiana, with neighbors named Theo and Weird Henry.