So here we are. We are here. And that’s a shame, because on a bright, shiny Fall day we should not be indoors, chained to our computers like slaves to their oars in a Roman galley. We should be outside, feeling the cool air of Mother Nature’s Menstrual Period rushing through our hair. And not just our head hair, either. Spring Cleaning is all well and good for your house, but your Crotchal Region deserves a good airing at least once a year as well. The [DFO] Politburo has long had a semi-official anti-pants policy, but I am calling for stronger action. It is no longer enough to merely encourage people to throw off the loin-shackles forged by Levi Strauss and Cornelius Haggar- it is time for definitive action. So go outside! Shed your bonds! Roam free! Just don’t jump in any leaf-piles, because ewwwww.
So Week 6 is in the books, and that’s fucking scary because after the long, dark tea-time of the Soul that is the off-season, we are already more than a third of the way through the regular season. Or as we Bills fans like to call it, “The Season.” For fuck’s sake, Ice Footbaw is starting up, and that just finished like a month ago. I can’t even count on the Draft for a tide-me-over fix, because I know my team’s first two picks are going to sprain their tongues or twist their meniscuseseses or fall into an alternate dimension before they play a meaningful down. Fuck.
Also, a friendly reminder from the Pulpit: remission of sins is still available for anyone who brings me Belichick’s hood. Foxboro delenda est.
BRING FORTH THE ACCUSED!
RAYNE DAKOTA PRESCOTT
CHARGE: Making Oliver Stone look reasonable
Ok, “Dak”. I get it. I’m impressed. You’ve parlayed the spectacular running game of Easy-E into a quarterback controversy. Forget that by most measures Brian Fucking Hoyer is having just as good of a season on the Bearistocrats. You’re the new hotness, and having a 7-1 TD/INT ratio is impressive for a rookie.
But now, now you’re starting to piss me the fuck off.
I dislike the Cowboys. They are slated to be fourth against the wall when Mayhem’s America finally comes to pass. (For reference, the top of the list is 1. Patriots, 2. drivers who cause traffic by slowing down to look at a wreck even though it’s not blocking traffic, 3. Rush Limbaugh, 4. Cowboys, 5. any surviving Bee Gees). And because of the above-mentioned inadequacy of my own football team, I depend on two things to get me through the season: Patriots Schadenfreude Day and Romonobyl. And you, Mr. Prescott, are endangering my Romonobyl.
Jerral Jones and Co. are allegedly not putting a timetable on Romo’s return because Prescott is going all Steamin’ Willie Beamon out there. And when life begins to resemble anything created by Oliver Stone, it’s time to take a long fucking look around and see where things went off the track.
I get it. Tony is getting old. Tony is fragile as a dudebro’s ego. A day may come when someone else will have to fuck up horrifically in December to ensure the Cowboys don’t get to the Super Bowl. A day may come when I will have to give up Romonobyl because he will be 50 and even Jerral won’t want to send him out there to get his bones ground into paste by someone who wasn’t born when Romo was nailing Jessica Simpson.
But it is not this day.
I maintain hope- remember, Vince Young was Rookie of the Year and Rick Mirer was runner-up. Prescott is getting to the point that there is finally enough film for other teams to start scouting him effectively. I pray that this will result in a rapid decline, losses for Dallas and the restoration of Tony to his rightful place in time for him to self-destruct (football-wise or physically) in December.
Because I need my fix, Dak, and no one is going to get in my way unless it’s Johnny Fucking Football.
YOUR NEW YORK JETS
CHARGE: Intentional Infliction of Priapismic Distress
So Dak is harshing my buzz, but that may actually be a good thing. Because otherwise I would be dangerously close to disproving the Krieger Principle
Because yes- I get to check off a second item from my Preseason Wish List. CUE UP THE SCROLLY THING, BECAUSE GENO SMITH IS THE STARTING QUARTERBACK FOR YOUR. NEW. YORK. JETS!
Oh men. MEN! Jestiness abounds, and for once it doesn’t involve abusive language to women, buttfumbling or awkward conversations with silent lockers. Not that this can be considered unexpected. My own Bills showed you exactly what happens when you give Ryan Fitzpatrick a contract of any significance. Six years, $59 million. One year, $12 million. Jesus, it’s like Wall Street. THIS RYAN FITZPATRICK, I CALL HIM GOLDMAN SACHS, BECAUSE HE’S AN OVEREDUCATED IVY LEAGUE TWAT WHO UNDERPERFORMS WHEN GIVEN A SHIT-TON OF OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY.
Still, kudos to Geno Smith. He even appears to have the support of his teammates. When reached for comment, Brandon Marshall allegedly said “It’s been amazing to see this guy grow and really punch adversity in the face.” No, wait, actually he did say that. Alrighty then….
CHARGE: Grievous Bodily Harm
Seriously, sharp things. You gotta stop this shit. First, it’s a drone rotor slicing up a starting (?) pitcher on Your American League Champion Cleveland Indians. Now it’s a knife which allegedly turned on Dez Bryant, brutally attacking him while he was innocently making soup.
When will professional athletes learn to stay away from dangerous sharp objects and stick to normal, safe tools like handguns or sweatpants or handguns in sweatpants?
BONUS FEATURE: WORD OF THE DAY
ABOYNE (vb.) To beat an expert at a game of skill by playing so appallingly bad that none of his clever tactics or strategies are of any use to him.
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