Oh men. MEN! Lend me your ears;
I come to bury Rex, not to praise him.
The naughty shit that men do lives after them;
The bitchin’ is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Rex. The noble Doug Whaley
Hath told you Rex was raucous:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Rex answer’d it.
He hath brought many skanks home to Buffalo
Whose pussies did the teammates tube:
Did this in Rex seem obstreperous?
When that the Mafia have cried, Rex hath wept:
Drunk and disorderliness should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Whaley says he was o’erboisterous;
And Whaley is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Saturnal
We thrice presented him a fuckin’ snack,
Which he did not refuse: was this rambunction?
Yet Whaley says he was incompetent;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Whaley spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?

Fuckin’ hell, men. It’s a dark fucking day here at the papal residence of The Vagican. Rex is gone. Rob is gone (for the second time in 13 months).

Carrie Fisher died.

George Michael died (though his butt will outlive us all).

We have less than a month until His Imperial Trumpness takes power, and if he immediately plunges us into a nuclear war with China, well, at least we won’t have to watch the P*triots in the Super Bowl, as now seems almost inevitable.

Rex’s demise in Buffalo has been strongly rumored since they dipped back below .500 , and losing to the Jets this year could be considered a firing offense unto itself. When Rex hired Rob, everyone pretty much knew it was going to be make-or-break for both this year. Rex Unleashed the Dragon (that is, un-banded his stomach) for his brother- he sure as hell wasn’t going to fire him, even if Buddy’s Ghost would call him a sniveling little pukesack for such sentimentality. Had the defense played well, perhaps he would have gotten another year with a new offensive coordinator. But play on both sides of the ball was wildly uneven, both in scheme and execution. These issues were thrown into stark relief this past Saturday, when the Bills (who had just taken the lead and had their slim playoff hopes on the line) only had 10 defenders on the field late in the 4th quarter and Jay Ajayajajajaia ran for 50+ yards to set up the tying field goal. It’s shitty to lose. It’s really shitty to lose to the fucking Fish. It’s inexcusable to lose on this sort of Keystone Kops bullshit.

I suppose it was as good a time as any to put the Ryan Boys up against the wall, although one wonders if putting Anthony Lynn in charge and handing the reins back to EJ Manuel for one game is going to be too little, too late in the tanking-for-draft-position sweepstakes. Hell, keeping the Wolfman in at D-Coordinator would probably been a better move if they’re trying to lose.

In the end, Rex was what I was (apparently wrongly) taught was the Tragic Hero- a man whose character is both the source of his strength and the cause of his downfall. He was a brash charismatic, pussy-tubin’, nickname-givin’ rebel in the No Fun League. I’m not sure he would have gotten a second coaching gig if not for that. But if you talk big, you better deliver big. If you take that punch-em-in-the-nose philosophy, someone will usually be there to return the favor by hitting you in the dick.

And that’s what today is. The Feast of the Immaculate Crotch Punch. Eat a Twinkie, tube a pussy (or get tubed, depending on your equipment and orientation), and mourn for the loss of Rex, who (freed of his team-associated bonds) now ascends to his appointed place as Our Patron Saint.

“We’d gone in search of the American dream. It had been a lame fuck around. A waste of time. There was no point in looking back. Fuck no, not today, thank you kindly. My heart was filled with joy. I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger, a man on the move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.” -Hunter S. Thompson