Today is a sad day. It’s the last day of football season. My fantasy season was over long ago, having had a miserable showing. Technically right now I’m playing for 9th place. Out of 12. Having come in 3rd last year, this is a bit of a downer. Tis life, right?
Except my Buccaneers, my REAL football team, started off with the best of playoff hopes and will finish out the season on a 6-game losing streak because there’s pretty much no way in hell they’re going to beat the Falcons today (I AM, however, wearing my lucky shirt…the lucky part has no real foundation in fact, I just happen to notice that sometimes we win when I wear it. Not scientific at all). I don’t have a “secondary” favorite team, where’s the loyalty in that?
Bucs or bust. So I’m bustin’. Damn you, Josh Freeman, and all you adderall-taking cornerbacks…I mean, you’re football players. What do you need adderall for? Learning the play books? I doubt your self-diagnosed ADD affects your football-playing abilities. You know better than that. Or maybe you don’t, that’s why you play football. Whatever.
Football players can be real assholes. Yeah, they get paid too much. So do a lot of people, though. Like garbage men. But they probably deserve it more. Then again, getting slammed to the ground by 400-pound men repeatedly doesn’t sound like a blast, either. Maybe they all need some cats.
I bet they would be much better people. Just not Michael Vick. He should be put in the pound himself. I can’t believe that jackass has a dog now. I hope it bites his hand off. No, then they would euthanize the dog. Ok, I hope a random dog bites his hand off and runs off into the sunset.
Yes, I’m rambling. But in addition to my sad football day, it’s also “that time of the month” where perfectly normal women become whiny babies curled up in fetal positions contemplating hysterectomies. So that’s where I’m at. I think it’s time to start drinking.
FOLLOW-UP: The Bucs WON. And they actually looked GOOD. I’m pleased. Not like it got us into the playoffs or anything, but at the very least it gives me hope for next season. Maybe not quite hope, but a less bitter taste in my mouth to take with me into the offseason. Super Bowl XVIII, here we come!