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Hey you! You there with your hand on your spunk sprinkler! Pay some goddamn attention, because this is Jim Harbaugh talking right at you. I know about three things in life: kicking ass, getting ass, and solid public health practices. And since I'm sharing no secrets on passions one and two, I'm gonna have to share my talent in the third with you--my passion for public health education, fucknuts.

What's my message? Wash your fucking hands. That's my whole campaign here: wash your filthy, ass-scratching hands. We all know that filthy bastards like you do all kinds of things which are, in the parlance of public health officials, "completely dogass nasty." Frankly, I and the rest of the medico-scientific community are amazed you have the strength to stand a urinal, have lived to whatever wretched age you currently are, don't have a raging worm infestation. Which you might.

I also know two definite things about you. One, you probably don't wash your legs. Men just don't do that. It's a long way down there, and what the hell do your legs do anyway that require any real kind of attention, anyway? Just let the runoff from your torso and ass do all the work, right?

Wrong! Dirty legs are as dangerous as a lit flamethrower in the hands of an angry chimpanzee. Yours are filthy, and I know it. Go ahead, squint at the fine print in the in poster. It reads "P.S. Your legs stink of disease! Love, Captain Comeback." Because they do--I can smell them all the way up here, even beneath this plastic display shield.

The other thing I know about you? You scratch your ass with that hand. Which one? Oh, it really doesn't matter now, does it, sailor? Because when the sharp, hellborne pain of a sudden ass itch strikes, you send the professionals on either side: the index finger. And sure, sometimes you just shift in your seat and hope friction takes care of it. But most of the time you dig right in, hoping the double layer of trouser and underpant insulates you like some kind of magical lightweight wool/poly germ armor, right?

Let me ask you this--the next time a doctor's ready to cut open a family member of yours, how about if they just wear mittens made from an old pair of Dockers? Because that's what you're doing, jerkoff: operating in a hostile environment without the right protection. I won't even talk about the times you actually creep the hand down the asscrack, between the cheeks, and into the musty, toxic tortellini of the asshole itself for a 360 degree scouring of your filthy tailpipe.

What's left under your fingernails after doing that could have you classifed as a weapon of mass destruction, piggy. The Russian bioweapons program in the 1960s started with less raw material than that.

There's a name for people like you: vectors. Remember the asshole in The Stand who drives out of the army base in the beginning and infects the whole planet with the deathflu? That's you, fucker, unless you take your hands right now and wash them for a solid twenty count in hot water with soap and friction. That's what we're gonna need to see from you right now. Contagion never sleeps, and neither does Jim Harbaugh. Now go wash your fucking hands and enjoy the game. And after that, forget the dog: go get yourself dewormed before the wife finds you dragging your asshole across the carpet for relief, you filthy, filthy bastard.

Oh, and purchase Stanford season tickets immediately! We bow to no man or germ!

(Photo credit: Dave H.)