Five Feckin' Haikus fer a Friday. 'Cause Why the Feck Not?

I dunno about yous, but me brain's frickin' fried. Therefore, I'm takin' the feckin' liberty o' postin' a bunch o' nonsense this flurryish frigid day. Do take note, however, that the entire Iron Triangle is represented in these here lines. They create quite the body of work, and you can find it after the jump.

As for the picture, I imagine I'm the dude on the left, given that I can't grow a mustache. Cecil's gotta be the cat on the right; he's such a jovial character that you couldn't package his simmering piss in a simmering vial(redacted) if you tried. That leaves Old No. 7 as the middle man. He and his gray bear'stache (Editor's Note: It's true. He's that Old.) are begging for mercy from the Lord above as we all await the (now less than a week away!) birth of the first House of Georges child. Rumor has it that he and his wife conceived this offspring, but we'll wait on the DNA test results.

Following the ridiculous loss the Chiefs suffered at home courtesy of the then-soon-to-be-called Chris Simms Express two years ago, Cecil and Old No. 7 left town happy, my 'fridge with haikus on it. Cecil's looked a little something like this:

"Bad Port-A-Potty
A meathead Chefs Fan Douchebag.
Where is John Elway?"

Old No. 7's was, well, Old No. 7-ish:

"Arrowhead again.
Average weight in seat: three bills.
Chiefs lose game, not weight."

In a rather astonishing fit of coincidence, Seven offered up a new pair this afternoon. There was this one:

"Cutler, Jay -- slinger
Of Gun. Asks barmaid for gin,
Insulin chaser."

And there was this one:

"Arriveth fetus
Naked and afraid. And he
Hasn't seen Broncs yet."

My contribution was in response to this last piece:

"Once he's here, clothed, bathed,
Affixed to nipple, and wit-
nessed the team, fear grows."

Sure. I probably cheated by hyphenating, but who cares. It's feckin' Friday. And it's feckin' freezin' out. Have a great weekend, y'all.