Early last eve I returned home to watch a game, fresh from wading through a sea of bustling arm wattles and middle- to senior-aged men sporting a universally perturbed look on their faces that seemed to indicate they showed up at the polling station expecting to cast their votes in the time it takes to place an order at the local fast food restaurant drive-through.

My vote for the ghost of John Candy dutifully placed, I settled in with some spicy lamb curry and turned on the Monday night football contest only to see something just as boring as a Canadian election. The Cheating Sex Criminals wasting no time steam-rolling the hapless and overly shiny Jets. At least the players only painted black under their eyes.

A quick scoring drive, an ill-advised throw to someone not wearing Eagles green at their own 20-yard-line, another scoring drive, and a fumble return for a touchdown all before I could finish my second* beer. Nary a minute later it was 24-0 and New England put it in cruise control the rest of the way.

*Second of the two I had on the table so I wouldn’t have to get up as often.

There was no fight in that New York dog last night. On a plus note, Booger McFarland continues to impress me with how much better he is in the booth than being carted around the sideline on the scissor lift they use to film practices. Boog knows his football.

I also watched some games on Sunday.

And just as one day, god and mothra willing, Robert Kraft will be forced to pleasure a trafficked migrant for far less than the going rate, so did the Seahawks get beaten by a quarterback they couldn’t contain. Instead of trying the San Diego Chargers method of using safeties at linebacker to reign in QB Jackson’s speed, Seattle stuck with the base 3 LB set they’ve been using for the majority of the year. This didn’t seem to work in the second half and Lamar ran a fair bit wild. An early poor pass, indeed one so poor I haven’t seen from Rusty as long as I can remember, intercepted for 6 points and a late fumble return for another 6 ended the chances of a Seahawks comeback. No need to fret – it’s get-right time in Atlanta next week.

I actually didn’t see the whole Dallas-Philly game, due in large part to the Eagles refusal to prevent the Cowboys’ smugness from coming back to full boil this year. Does Zeke Elliot actually still want to keep doing that asinine spoon feeding bit? Or does he just feel obligated now, like a band that wants to try new things but fears alienating their insipid, moronic fan base? Nah. He doesn’t think any more about his own actions than he does a woman’s repeated and insistent refusals.

With that uplifting slogan I bid you adieu and return to the dull meat grinder that is the work week.