Sent to a fellow Hoosier, 6-Jan-2009
From: Bren
To: Michele
Subject: GAAAAAAH!
I'm fucking through. I am never, ever, ever watching another football game ever. It was better when the Dolts were fucking 4-12 every year, at least then we didn't get our hearts broken, and hey, maybe we'd beat Buffalo once, or the Tampa Bay Fuckinears. This... seriously, I can't fucking take it. We needed TWO YARDS to ice the game. TWO MOTHER EFFING YARDS! But noooOOOOOooooh. Our "high powered" offense can't get them. So what do we do?!? We put the ball in the hands our of defense, which, frankly, couldn't stop A*** from getting to the wapatoie bowl. I mean, honestly.
We have seven consecutive years of 12 plus victories, and we win one effing Super Bowl?!? Here's an idea - WHY DON'T WE LOSE TO A FEW MORE SHITTY-ASS TEAMS in the playoffs?!? Home, with the bye, playing Tennessee? Heartbreaking looss. Home, with the bye, playing San Diego with a backup QB named BILLY VOLEK? Devastating loss. And don't... don't even talk to me about all the times in Foxboro against the fucking cheaters. Let's book Ben Davis HS, or Terre Haute South, or the Cincinnati Bengals for the playoffs and see if we can manage to not fucking piss away a game to THEM! "What a good game!" the fuckers say on TV or in the paper. Well, yeah, fuck you. It's not a good game. It's not a good game when Peyton's touchdown total equals the number of Henry Lee Summer hits. It's not a good game to get gashed for more yards than laps in the fucking 500. It's not a good game when a team that had to rally from 15 points down to beat the fucking CHIEFS to even make the sunuvabitchin playoffs - the CHIEFS! - beats your ass up and down the field. It's not a good game when Anthony fucking I can't catch the ball when it hits me between the ONE and the fucking ONE on my GODDAMN JERSEY Gonzalez can't make a play when he needs to. Just like he didn't last year in the end zone in the Dome against the Patriots in the regular seaason. Oh, holy hell, I'm gonna throw up again thinking of that one.
Just... just fucking shoot me now.
I... honestly, Michele, I can't fucking take it. Honestly. The Marvin Harrison jersey? Back of the closet, until he's traded, and then it's going in the rag box. the Peyton Manning jersey? Going to my favorite sports bar. The Colts Hoodie? Just the right softness to buff my car after a wash. And then check the oil. And then go into the trunk in case I get stuck in the snow here in San Diego. The yellowing front pages from the Star from Monday, February 5, 2007, hanging on my wall? Shredder. Okay, alright, box in the back of the closet, but they aren't ever coming out.
I mean... I've seen Maury a few times. Why DO smart people stay in shitty relationships? Why!?! Well I'm done. Done. I don't care how many times they come crawling back to me, I am THROUGH. They can plead like a Pacer in front of a judge, I don't care. They are dead to me. As dead as my playoff hopes. Again.
Oh man. I hope this doesn't get you fired, but I needed to get that off my chest to someone who gets it. Hope you're still drunk. Wish I was.
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3 comments:
Hilarious that you would alternate between the suggestive-but-certainly-less-offensive "effing" and the overt use of the "f dash dash dash word".
Then again, you were, shall we say, a bit touched at the time of writing.
Do you really know how to check the oil? You were car-less so long....
Big love!
Yes, I do know how to check the oil, I did grow up in Fowler - not much more than that, mind you, but that I got. And yeah, Ken, we shall say I was a bit touched. Gaaah! Glad it amused you. It amused me to write, and was clearly cathartic.
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