Monday, January 16, 2006
The 6th Quarter
Hey, um, what now?
Law and Order reruns on TNT?
PBA Bowling on ESPN?
Read a book?
Clean my apartment?
Take a shower?
All these questions are answers to a bigger question: "What the hell am I supposed to do on Sundays now that the Patriots aren't in the playoffs anymore?"
Nope. I'm not going to rehash the game, it's painful enough. Turnovers. Uncharacteristic plays. Bad turnovers. Bum calls.
All of these things have happened before, but somehow, the Patriots found a way. This time, in Denver, they did not. Oh well, ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on.
But for all of you muckrakers, W-E-E-Idiots, and nincumpoops out there - up to and including Ron effing Borges - the dynasty is not over. Rumors of a demise are greatly exaggerated. Like Tedy Bruschi said, and I paraphrase, we didn't lose anything more than a game in Denver.
Tom Brady did not have his greatest game. He threw untimely picks and, when throws required timeliness, he missed. Oh well. If that fat shampoo Meatloaf thought two outta three ain't bad (a .667 winning percentage), then 10 outta 11 is simply divine (a. 909 winning percentage). I can live with that, you?
And with the 10-outta-11 thing in the back of his mind, you think Tom Brady isn't going to toss and turn in bed (albeit, with supermodels) until next January dreaming of another ratio: four-outta-six. The man is going to take this one hard and he's going to take it out on the rest of the NFL come this August. Like Rick James, he's Tom Brady, bitch. And like Major Harris, he's Tom Brady and you're not.
As for the rest of the NFL season, to quote my good friend The Bitch, "whatever." My bitterness comes out when I say I'm glad it's not Peyton Shampooing Manning and that idiot kicker Vanderjackass.
Way to call out your teammates ("We had protection problems..."), especially the big fat guys who protect your pixie ass and put up with you doing your best caucasian version of Morris Day's "The Bird" everytime you approach scrimmage. Everyone has an essence. In my existential world, your existance occurs prior to your essence, which as we've seen quite plainly throughout your NFL playoff career, involves losing.
I'm also glad it's not the Giants and Peyton's bitch-ass brother.
I dunno who I'm rooting for now, definately nobody in the AFC. If either Carolina (John Fox worked with Belichick at one point in his career) or Seattle (Hasselbeck's dad was a Patriot), I'll be happy.
And I'd like to see Pittsburgh make the final game...and then lose...badly...embarrasingly... because I love watching that slapdick Cowher's chin stick out when he watches his squad get flushed down the toilet.
It might sound like sour grapes or point-blank bitterness, and you're right. I gotta have some fuel to get me through the day. You have your caffeine and Red Bull, I'll take my demons anyday of the week and twice on Sunday.
Speaking of which, the demons are wondering what the hell to do on their double-shot Sundays, too. I'm going to suggest yoga.
One.
Law and Order reruns on TNT?
PBA Bowling on ESPN?
Read a book?
Clean my apartment?
Take a shower?
All these questions are answers to a bigger question: "What the hell am I supposed to do on Sundays now that the Patriots aren't in the playoffs anymore?"
Nope. I'm not going to rehash the game, it's painful enough. Turnovers. Uncharacteristic plays. Bad turnovers. Bum calls.
All of these things have happened before, but somehow, the Patriots found a way. This time, in Denver, they did not. Oh well, ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on.
But for all of you muckrakers, W-E-E-Idiots, and nincumpoops out there - up to and including Ron effing Borges - the dynasty is not over. Rumors of a demise are greatly exaggerated. Like Tedy Bruschi said, and I paraphrase, we didn't lose anything more than a game in Denver.
Tom Brady did not have his greatest game. He threw untimely picks and, when throws required timeliness, he missed. Oh well. If that fat shampoo Meatloaf thought two outta three ain't bad (a .667 winning percentage), then 10 outta 11 is simply divine (a. 909 winning percentage). I can live with that, you?
And with the 10-outta-11 thing in the back of his mind, you think Tom Brady isn't going to toss and turn in bed (albeit, with supermodels) until next January dreaming of another ratio: four-outta-six. The man is going to take this one hard and he's going to take it out on the rest of the NFL come this August. Like Rick James, he's Tom Brady, bitch. And like Major Harris, he's Tom Brady and you're not.
As for the rest of the NFL season, to quote my good friend The Bitch, "whatever." My bitterness comes out when I say I'm glad it's not Peyton Shampooing Manning and that idiot kicker Vanderjackass.
Way to call out your teammates ("We had protection problems..."), especially the big fat guys who protect your pixie ass and put up with you doing your best caucasian version of Morris Day's "The Bird" everytime you approach scrimmage. Everyone has an essence. In my existential world, your existance occurs prior to your essence, which as we've seen quite plainly throughout your NFL playoff career, involves losing.
I'm also glad it's not the Giants and Peyton's bitch-ass brother.
I dunno who I'm rooting for now, definately nobody in the AFC. If either Carolina (John Fox worked with Belichick at one point in his career) or Seattle (Hasselbeck's dad was a Patriot), I'll be happy.
And I'd like to see Pittsburgh make the final game...and then lose...badly...embarrasingly... because I love watching that slapdick Cowher's chin stick out when he watches his squad get flushed down the toilet.
It might sound like sour grapes or point-blank bitterness, and you're right. I gotta have some fuel to get me through the day. You have your caffeine and Red Bull, I'll take my demons anyday of the week and twice on Sunday.
Speaking of which, the demons are wondering what the hell to do on their double-shot Sundays, too. I'm going to suggest yoga.
One.
