As we get ready for the goriest autumnal FITBAW ORGY EVAR, it’s time to bury the dross.  I am giving up on both MLB and JV hoopsball.  They have both disappointed me beyond all Festivus limits.

This year’s Fuck Off Four will be fellated endlessly by the media, but it’s horrid for sport.  I won’t watch one second, even on mute.  Who exactly is one supposed to even half-heartedly root for?  Bill Motherfucking SELF?  I think not.

Don’t even get me started on “We are good with 80-85 wins, thanks, but here’s a bullshit vanity/nostalgia signing to sell tickets and undermine the new manager” #BFIB.  And to be honest, we haven’t exactly been setting the standard for excellence of late.  But now we aren’t even TRYING – and that’s unforgivable.  Go home already, Albert.  We know you’re like 50 years old, and sub-replacement level for at least 5 seasons.

Not that footy (FIFA, UEFA, The Shield) is without its warts, but it’s fucking entertaining.  At least so much so that the good well outweighs the bad, for Hippo’s mental state (Other Hippo is just too far gone).  I will set my alarm for 8 tomorrow morning, so I can bitch about Everton’s XI, as always.  Then, I will live and die with every mediocre kick as my side fights not for glory, but rather mere survival.  It’s real tension, with real consequences.  I don’t like it, but I feel it with every fibre of my being.

Soon enough, it will be August – and Wolven Legend Russell Wilson will be slinging charm in mango and navy. While equally Wolven Legend Bradley Chubb leads the defensing unit.  The AFC West is loaded for bear, and I will love every second of the fight.

Booky-books are also very nice.  I don’t think I will ever run out of them, even with quality standards.