Monday, September 08, 2008

Fuck with Less F's...

Sorry to be the prick that pushes shit on down the page here, but as one of the announced 67,115 in the stands yesterday I feel like my two cents are worth at least a buck thirty seven right now. That and I've been far too quiet and passive throughout my promise to stop doing just that.

There were a few observations from yesterday that did not go unnoticed. First, the trolley is a trainfuck of an operation out here. If the subway system in that shit pit town on the other side of the country operates anything like the shit I was working with yesterday, load that Hebron Collider thing that's supposedly ending the world on Wednesday on a plane and turn it on in Times fucking Square. That bright red bloody dookie of a train running through Mission Valley is fucked cookies. Cattle being lead to slaughter have a better time and a classier ride that that.

Second, well, let's call it the second layer. From down numbering one, Wilhelm had his transmission jacked firmly in reverse. I have to say he is the most mobile linebacker these eyes have ever seen if you need somebody to attack a blocker moving backwards and make a tackle 13 yards down the field. If that was a valuable trait in a linebacker, he'd be Ray Lewis from his ultra-pro bowl years without all the murder. I refrained from texting my frustrations to fellow Bolters throughout the defensive atrocities out of respect for the guys during week 1, and the fact that I couldn't come up with enough accurate swear words to truly depict what I was seeing. Believe me, I've got the next level in my vocabulary to nearly get there, but it was week one and I wasn't feeling like pushing the ticker into the red zone just yet.

Third, adjustments. Here we are again. It's turning into a fucking shit word around here. The offense obviously got it mostly together the better part of the fourth quarter, but as was already mentioned, too little too late. The guys defending our end zone were absoulutely gassed on that last drive. Hey Offense! Those guys are mostly fat and mostly chased down those fucking turquoise wearing Nascar backwoods fucks all day. Give 'em a fucking break okay? Sweet fucking Christ.

Four, Shawne and Antonio. The walking wounded. Merriman looked okay in person. I didn't have the benefit (loosely used here) of commentary, but I heard he left before halftime with 'brace issues'. Not unlike the entirety of the defense, Shawne was rather ineffective. I think we got to that Cajun fucker twice and once was called back by a bullshit hold on Cromartie on the other side of the field and Crawfish Fucker wasn't even looking his way. That's what happens when you are averaging about 13 yards per carry to that point in the game. Antonio looked fine to me, running routes and catching the ball. Now he says he doesn't feel well. Rad. RAD.

LTD looked anxious. I counted at least three occasions of what I'll call a lack of patience and instead of letting his blockers get out in front of him, he just ran flat into them. The end result is the smaller 200+ pound guy getting knocked on his shitmaker by a 350 libber. That's fucking physics holmes.

Okay, time for the positives. Our seats were great, and gratis, and the beer was still quite reasonably priced all things considered. Better than the track and/or the manure pit that houses that infestation of smegma that doubles as the baseball team. The weather was great, and there was plenty of pregame eye candy as well. Unfortunately, our awesome front row end zone seats were at the end of the field where only one touchdown was scored all the day long. ONLY ONE TOUCHDOWN!! Can you guess which one?

If you look up you'll probably see me in all of my glorious disappointment in any photo of that last play. Rad. R*A*D. Except that one.

So. Week one is in the book. We lost. It sucks. It's not the end of the world. The Chefs still suck rocks through a tennis racket, and I'm sitting and watching the Raiders go on out and meet and/or exceed all expectations of them once again. I was completely unaware that all it takes to be an elite quarterback anymore is the proper amount of insulin and a case of the Raiders. Now don't get all crazy you fucking donkeys out there that may be reading this. Jamarcus Hustle has flat out dropped the ball in the face of a defender everyone, including Mike Ditka knew was blitzing after being completely untouched. And everyone knows Ditka is off his medication and may be in a dead heat with Madden at this point for having no idea what's going on. So, Raider football is yet again in full swing. That should make next week so much more invigorating should the boys get their shit together. Somebody go swap that insulin out for some low grade Tijuana black tar or something like that...

Better picture to make up for that last one...

That's Jennifer. From her bio:

"Every year her family enjoys gathering at her Irish Grandma's house for a traditional St. Patrick's Day celebration with authentic Irish cuisine. Jennifer is currently finishing her degree in Psychology and teaching dance classes for preschool and elementary age children. She loves dancing, working with children and has a strong passion for the culinary arts. She plans on attending culinary school to become a chef."

See, she cooks, didn't know that did you? Totally want to do her more now huh? You're welcome.

1 comment:

Maximum Colossus said...

Hebron Collider? Try "Large Hadron Collider", dummy. Geez, it's not rocket science; It's only particle physics.

I'll give this a couple of hours before I push this down the page, but let me tease it by asking, "How many paid sports mouths are clicking away at their Macs right now and picking the Donks to run away with the West now?"