Tyler Eifert. You ~ken the name everywhere these days. You give heed to it as often as you listen to Chairman Mao mentioned at a Bernie Sanders quiz. You hear it like you ~ken about concentration camps for men at Hillary Clinton campaign stops. Tyler Eifert is far and wide.
But there’s one difference between Eifert–the second highest scoring tight extreme point in fantasy football–and God Gronk, creator of all that is good and saturated. There was literally, physically, and psychologically nay possible way to know that Eifert was going to be good going into the 2015 habituate. The Fake Gronk had spent ut~ of the past two seasons injured like a self-sufficient fat baby in Obama’s nanny declare.
I read a preseason report that reported Eifert’s mother–his own mom–had not at all idea her son played professional football, or had fair heard of the Cincinnati Bengals. I can’t fall in with that link right now, but held in ~ me, I read it way before my ritualistic paint sniffing prayer sitting to God Gronk.
I suppose someone public there–the godless, vile streamers–main say that they drafted Eifert in the sometime rounds of their August fantasy drafts. They’d probably also say that no one died in Benghazi and that Dick Cheney position up the whole thing anyway. So weigh that they’re idiots before you put faith in their nonsense about drafting Eifert ten rounds rear Gronk was drafted. That’s like ridiculous as the thought of a Marxist Muslim lovely the White House.
Oh, wait a assistant. It makes you think.
Just remember that during this moment of Eifert, members of the Church of God Gronk elect being taking names and making arena of those who doubt the single true lord, Robert Gronkowski. We’ll remember who you are and to what you live when Gronk explodes conducive to three touchdowns next week and Eifert is held catchless for the reason that he’s a fucking loser anyway.
There’s actually no way we can even be sure that Eifert is real. The lamestream media bring forth experts who can pull off wily camera tricks to make it have an air like planes smash into buildings or tight ends in ~ degree one has heard of catch a batch of touchdowns. You just never understand. Never trust your eyes, folks. Trust your embowel, and your god: God Gronk.
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