So, if I can sell you that I left a beach that was filled with cold beers, warm sunshine, and hot girls hanging out doing smokin' hot chick things with us at a swim up bar to watch that crap on Saturday night, I might be able to sell you a DVD with Paris Hilton making out with Lindsay Lohan, oh, and me...
That game unfortunately was watched right next door to the Caliente Betting House in Cabo San Lucas. After parting with the smokin' hot chicks, who by the way promised to meet up with us for our victory celebration (more on that later) it was on to place the bet. Caliente made me ill, the line was terrible, and I obeyed my gambling rule of never putting the Bolts on the ticket to win. To much to risk in the way of a massive coronary watching that team, let alone wagering some tequila money on them. The fact that the line was ridiculously high in the Bolts favor made the point line look good. So, I decided, in Mexico, let's gamble! Little did I know that there was a downpour in San Diego, and Marty was going to reel the offense in like a thousand pound marlin. More on the coaching flaws later...
During the debacle, I mean, game, I had to keep reminding the Jets fan in the group that we did in fact have a loaded twelve guage shotgun aimed squarely at our own genitalia, figuring eventually we would either empty both barrels into our swimtrunks or figure out a way to pull it out of there and knock down the Jets. Never happened. The referees were determined to dry the field off with their yellow hankies every time the Bolts were on offense. I stopped counting after the tenth penalty, I think it stopped there, but then again there was a bit of tequila involved...
Halftime came and went. As did the buckets of beer and my mind began to drift to victory celebrations and smokin' hot chicks that were going to meet with us later at the Squid Roe. All that stood in our way was that annoying gang green, but then again, we can handle them, that is if Marty would just open up the offense a bit and quit running the same three plays out of the same two formations. The offense looked like a drunk and retarded flock of geese flying around a blind full of hunters armed with howitzer cannons. All lined up the same way and running in circles all night long. But we will get into that some more later, oh this I promise...
Highlight of the first three quarters, my favorite receiver E. Parker. That's right #88.
The wrap up tomorrow...
(Yes, it will include the smokin' hot chicks, I swear)
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