Before I begin the tearing open of this newly made wound, let me say a few things.

1. I thought this game would be tough, I didn’t see the Titans fucking winning.

2. I though our loss to the Colts in a divisional game was tough. No fucking way.

3. SHIT FUCK DAMN EAT FUCK YOU CUNTHOLE OF A FUCK SHIT ASSHOLE FUCKING RAVENS!

I got both of my parents’ club level seats for this game. Paid another $250 so I could bring the other Fozz Spawn and avoid a complete fucking free for all in my home. Then the day of the game I strained my back so fucking bad that whenever I raised my arm, the air would go out of me. Hmmm, JUST LIKE THE AIR WENT OUT OF THE WHOLE CROWD AT M&T BANK FUCKING STADIUM!

Okay, sorry. Pouring a glass of bourbon right now. My heart is racing like Lamar Jackson NOT RUNNING DOWN THE FIELD OR MAKING A FOURTH AND FUCKING SHORT!

We left for the game early and were able to be the first people in line to get into the stadium. I am never that early, but the guy we were going with likes to take his time in the club level. Have a few beers, some food, and relax. LIKE THE DIPSHIT PLAYERS WHO WERE RESTED FOR THREE WEEKS OFF AND CAME OUT SLOWER THAN A ZOMBIE WITH FUCKING POLIO!

The atmosphere in the club level was subdued. There wasn’t a whole “We’re gonna slaughter them” feeling. Just a low key kind of vibe. I saw a few Titans fans, and one woman was completely rednecked out: painted on jeans, fuck shit cowboy boots, and this shirt that fitter her tighter than a sausage casing. Classy. BUT NOT AS FUCKING CLASSY AS THE DILDO SUCKING TITANS FANS WHO WOULD NOT SHUT THEIR SLIME HOLES THE ENTIRE GAME!

We settle into our seats and the introductions are made. Glorious. Lamar pumping up the crowd, fireworks going off, an albino calf slaughtered and burned at the 50 yard line. Amazing. It was finally time, time to continue an improbable run by a QB who had lit the league on fire. JUST LIKE MY SOUL WAS SET ON FIRE AND LEFT TO BURN AND SEAR LIKE SHOVING A WOOD BURNING TOOL INTO MY DICKHOLE!

And we stuffed that out of control, steriod jacked man beast. The crwod was going wild, people were cheering, the calf had been sliced up and sandwiches were being served. Huge hunks of charbroiled flesh being flung into the crowd. I WANTED TO BURN MYSELF AND THROW THE REMAINS INTO THE HARBOR!

Then we started rolling. SOP, right? Sure. Then came THE INTERCEPTION THAT RUINED THE WHOLE GODDAMNED GAME.

I have watched thousands of football games, I have coached little league football, I have played football. And I have never seen a team unable to come back after an interception 8 minutes into a game. It was palpable. We all looked around and said, “Hmmm.” And then it began. And it didn’t end. Every time Lamar ran, he was stuffed, apparently the tight ends decided TO HAVE A CONTEST TO SEE WHICH ONE OF THESE DICK ZITS COULD DROP MORE FUCKING BALLS.

14-0 and the place was quiet. As quiet as a Baltimore drug dealer’s crack house when all of the rocks have been smoked, and all the crackheads have left to huff ammonia or smash their dicks in car doors to get some kind of high, some kind of deterrent that will calm the slavering craving of that luscious crack. EAT SHIT CRACKHEADS!

The stadium was quiet, and as the score mounted, a cloud of failure stank settled over all of us. How could this happen? Why in the hell did they not change the game plan? YOU KNOW BECAUSE WE WERE THE NUMBER FUCKING ONE RUSH OFFENSE IN THE LEAGUE!

After their third score a Titans fan in our section was letting out the most obnoxious cheer you ever heard. Imagine a retarded weasel and Edith Bunker caught in a rusty, industry sized fan. That bad. I was mostly sober, and getting angry. And even though my two sons were sitting next to me, and even though I’m 51, I couldn’t resist. I turned around and bellowed SHUT YOUR FUCKING TRAP YOU SHIT EATING HILLBILLY!

Front runners always bring out the bandwagon fans, and those looking to become part of the mania. I hate them. I want to pull their guts out and use them to grease the tracks of our infamous Light Rail. I was lucky enough to have one of these fucktards next to me. And she was in love with the guy who brought her, and they wouldn’t stop fucking TOUCHING the entire time. Holding hands, giving kisses, godawful stuff. THIS ISN’T THE PLACE OR TIME! WE ARE LOSING AND LOSING BAD. FUCK YOUR HORMONES AND YOUR “CUTE” RAVENS SHIRT.

And they lost. They lost big time and looked like a barrel full of rotting monkey shit as they did it. nothing worked. nobody did what they should have. They choked like an amateur porn star trying to take down John Holmes on one of his better days. THEY LOST! HOW COULD THEY?

And we drove home in silence, not really able to fathom what, why, how. I know that I’m heavily invested in football, it’s my thing. It fills the lonely minutes that stretch into eons as I slog my way towards the shit pit of middle age. Now, nothing. No reward, no creaming my pants as Lamar strode deftly into the end zone. I’D RATHER HAVE LIGHTNING HIT MY DICK!

Once I got home, Mrs. Fozz and I got in an argument because I was drinking a beaker full of bourbon and smoking a cigar. Grow up, stop pouting, it’s a game, you have responsibilities, your children are watching.

Good, I hope they watch and I hope they realize that being a fan might be the most worthless thing you can be in this lifetime.

Go paint a picture, eat a raw squirrel, shoot out streetlights, do anything but be a fan because in the end you’ve bled out onto the floor, watching your organs consumed by voracious salamanders.

You are dead inside, but still alive AND WONDERING HOW THE MOTHERFUCKING HELL YOU’RE GOING TO GET THROUGH BASEBALL SEASON AND FUCKING START ALL THIS SHIT OVER AGAIN.

And now, onto darkness….

In Closing…

We’ll see ya next year assholes.  Maybe.  PRESUMING WE CAN GET AN OFFENSIVE LINE TO GIVE LAMAR! AT LEAST TWO SECONDS TO LOOK AROUND A BIT!