Up In Smoke.

I mean seriously, Michael???? I love your torso. I love how you move as one with the water. You + Speedo=Hot Sex on a Platter. I have never really looked at your face, but I'm sure it's fine. So you are 23, potentially one of the richest athletes in the world with your endorsements varying from Wheaties to nose plugs...and there was a mole amongst your South Carolina party crew. Damn it all. Some little peroxide whore, with silicone melons and a double-layer of Mystic Tan. I want to kick her ass for you. Take her Capri Lights, her Budweiser Lime, her Cricket camera phone and the keys to her 1996 Suzuki Sidekick and request a meeting in the parking lot of that Bi-Lo right down the street. She is trying to ruin your life. I won't allow for it. I have your back. I mean after all, it's not like you were selling meth to 6th graders in the playground. You were just trying to relax...completely understandable. Good luck to you, my friend.

*insert Kid Rock Bawitdabaw playing here*

~j