Yogi “All’s Ferrell in Love and War” Ferrell just doesn’t excite me. For whatever reason, I can’t muster even the smallest amount of hype for him. Theoretically I should be able to appreciate a six-foot-tall dude who can make it rain from three, but not so with Ferrell. Maybe his face is too square, I don’t know. Or maybe it’s because it seems like everybody can shoot 40% from three these days, so Ferrell having reached that milestone isn’t even an accomplishment.
I went to my doctor to see if my hype glands are working properly and you know what that dusty old fart said? He said that there’s no such thing as “hype glands” and that I should stop getting medical information from the internet. Um, excuse me, but I didn’t get that information from the internet. I got that information from my BODY. I know where my hype glands are. They’re in my forehead. I can feel them sitting up there, and I can tell when they’re producing hype juice because my vision gets all blurry and everything starts spinning.
That wrinkly dude who thinks he knows everything says it’s possible I have malignant tumors, but I know he’s lying. My overclocked microwave might give me tumors but they’re definitely the benign kind. Then I asked him if he was hyped for Yogi Ferrell, you know, just to get a gauge of how hyped I should be for him, and he said he didn’t know who that was. Old people, seriously.