I'm pissed. 24 hours ago I would have told you that there was just no way that the Tampa Bay Rays were going to lose that do or die Game 5 in the ALDS. I felt an energy from the team that...well, shit, I haven't felt unless I built it up myself as their biggest cheerleader.
In case you can't tell from the title, they did in fact, lose. And it sucks, and I hate that it's so quickly deflating after such a looooong, looooong season, but that's baseball, kids.
I can take solace in knowing that my ragtag team of misfits and throwaways, that collectively make less money than the top three earning Yankees, gave the best team in baseball absolutely all they could handle. It took their freak of a pitcher, Gerrit Cole, who will win the Cy Young this year, to beat us twice in a best of five series. Without him, we would have done it. We beat Greinke, we beat Verlander when the iron was to our face, and dammit, if only it's not Cole's year!
Cole...Cole...
Weird. That name resonates with me for some reason.
Anyways, I mentioned the energy from the team, but I also meant the energy from the Trop and the fans that actually came out to support the Rays. That was incredible. I honestly didn't think that would ever happen.
I wrote back in June, when the whole weird Montreal thing was happening, that the team should just kamikaze themselves into a championship, and yet somehow those two playoff games at the Trop make me...siggggggghhhhhhh...have hope.
Look, if this is your first trip down to the Studly Pastures and you've never seen a unicorn crap a cupcake before, let me give you some advice: hope, in all it's forms, is the worst feeling you can have when it comes to sports. Also, never eat the cupcakes. It is NOT my first trip to the stables, in fact, I've run this joint for longer than I care to remember, and I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I said that part about having hope.
Hope is for the dumb dumbs. Hope is for the people that refuse to believe in facts. Hope is for those people that know the inevitable outcome, yet despite that, believe it could work out in their favor.
It is a bad, bad thing.
Hope leads to heartbreak.
And yet, after all this time, and after all the Lucy's pulling the football from me right before I kicked it...I have hope.
I believe, whole-heartedly, that I will one day write a Studly talking about the Rays as champions. I really do. And I really hope it's next year because I'm getting tired of how much crap these unicorns produce.
Cole...dammit, I just can't shake it.
Wait a minute! It's like the SAT's...Gerrit Cole is to Cole Hamels as to harbingers of the Rays doom and the newest member on my list to hopefully get penis rot and get shanked by three midgets in a trench coat.
Damn you, Twilight Zone.
Friday, October 11, 2019
Sunday, August 25, 2019
Said The Dolphin To The Horse, Part II
Back in 2011, which might as well be a lifetime ago now, the Studly Pastures was just starting up. At that point, we were around for just over a year and we were struggling to find our voice and our passion. It was rough beginnings. People don't seem to just jump at a sports blog/unicorn stud farm like I thought they would, but eh, let 'em squirm.
Then our passion became clear. The Miami Dolphins were the worst team in the league and being the worst team in that particular year meant that you were going to be set for the next foreseeable future because the universe was going to bestow upon you, Andrew Austen Luck. I forsake everything. I wanted us to not only lose every game but get stomped, absolutely trounced, and leave no doubt! That's how important it was to me. Andrew Luck, as I was convinced, would be the savior and turn our franchise around in a way we haven't even sniffed since The Man retired. I was convinced.
It was clear that we would do it, until a second contender came into the picture. I have never liked the Indianapolis Colts and it really has nothing to do with them other than I consider Peyton Manning a horrible aberration. He was the bane of the Dolphins for a long time and those things don't go gently into the night with me. Never forgive, never forget!
The rest falls ever so perfectly for someone like me living in the Twilight Zone. Peyton has to have his neck fused to his back so he can still be a person and he leaves Indy to join the Denver Broncos. He ends up winning a Super Bowl with them so it's not all roses, but he retires shortly after. However, without Peyton, the Colts, turns out what we thought forever, weren't very good at all. In fact they won two games that year. And my plucky band of idiots, that started 0-7, rallied to win six of their last nine. Six wins?! When you have Andrew Luck sitting in your stupid, stupid hands?! What the Hell is the matter with you? I really can't anymore. I must have drank myself something stupid that year because not even I remembered that we won six goddamn games that year. Jesus Christ...
Anyhoo, the Colts had Manning for decades, won a Super Bowl, lived in the sun the rest of the time, he basically dies, they have one shitty year, and then they get Andrew Luck, the next goddamn Manning.
I tried to talk them out of it. I pleaded with them. I even wrote them a letter called Said The Horse To The Dolphin. It didn't work. They still took Luck.
And wouldn't fate have it, he was as good--if not better--as advertised. The Colts were immediately back in the playoffs and contending for Super Bowls and living in the sun and the Dolphins kept their pasty asses in the dark and I wrote very hateful blog posts to the state of Indiana calling them "grain-eating flat-heads". I apologize for nothing.
But then he started getting hurt, and not just bullshit hurt, but like actually life-altering hurt. The kind of hurt where, say, and I'm just ballparking here, but maybe at age 43 you just wouldn't feel like a person anymore. That's a heavy thought to bear and Luck was smarter than that.
See, let me put it this way, Manning and Luck are both smart but they're different kinds of smart. Manning went to the University of Tennessee, where it's acceptable to do buffoonish stunts like dropping your nut sack on the face of a female trainer and just sit around and lick the icing off of Oreos all day. That's all good and well. He was a savvy quarterback though and could read defenses like they were broadcasting their coverage schemes off of his gigantic forehead. Luck went to Stanford. That's all I have to say about that.
And when it comes to injury? They had to fuse Manning back together! That's insane! Give it up, man, you've done it, you're good! Luck probably saw that, looked at his future, and said 'You know, I think one day I'd like to be able to hug my kids without blowing into a straw first!" And good on him, because I'm sure that's tough as Hell to quit the only thing you've known your whole life but still know it's the best decision for you.
So he retires. It's shocking but not when I break it down for you so eloquently, so get over it, Media Pundits. It's not the same as Jordan going to play baseball--it's not---by a looooong shot.
I reached out to some Colts fans, told them I was sorry for them and then I went about my day.
But I just had this nagging, nagging, little thought in the back of my head that kept going back to 2011. The Suck For Luck campaign did not go my way, obviously, but we have a new campaign this year and it's very much so Tank For Tua, the great quarterback out of Alabama. Our two quarterbacks this year, that are still currently duking it out for the starting position about twelve days from the start of the season, are Ryan Fitzpatrick and Josh Rosen. We're tanking, for sure, and we damn sure better not hit anywhere close to six wins!
And it dawned on me, that, without Andrew Luck, the Colts might not be very good this year. I beg you, Indianapolis, win one more than we do this year. Please! Hold out for Trevor Lawrence next year, he's got that Anglo look that you guys seem to die for!
Please...not again...
Then our passion became clear. The Miami Dolphins were the worst team in the league and being the worst team in that particular year meant that you were going to be set for the next foreseeable future because the universe was going to bestow upon you, Andrew Austen Luck. I forsake everything. I wanted us to not only lose every game but get stomped, absolutely trounced, and leave no doubt! That's how important it was to me. Andrew Luck, as I was convinced, would be the savior and turn our franchise around in a way we haven't even sniffed since The Man retired. I was convinced.
It was clear that we would do it, until a second contender came into the picture. I have never liked the Indianapolis Colts and it really has nothing to do with them other than I consider Peyton Manning a horrible aberration. He was the bane of the Dolphins for a long time and those things don't go gently into the night with me. Never forgive, never forget!
The rest falls ever so perfectly for someone like me living in the Twilight Zone. Peyton has to have his neck fused to his back so he can still be a person and he leaves Indy to join the Denver Broncos. He ends up winning a Super Bowl with them so it's not all roses, but he retires shortly after. However, without Peyton, the Colts, turns out what we thought forever, weren't very good at all. In fact they won two games that year. And my plucky band of idiots, that started 0-7, rallied to win six of their last nine. Six wins?! When you have Andrew Luck sitting in your stupid, stupid hands?! What the Hell is the matter with you? I really can't anymore. I must have drank myself something stupid that year because not even I remembered that we won six goddamn games that year. Jesus Christ...
Anyhoo, the Colts had Manning for decades, won a Super Bowl, lived in the sun the rest of the time, he basically dies, they have one shitty year, and then they get Andrew Luck, the next goddamn Manning.
I tried to talk them out of it. I pleaded with them. I even wrote them a letter called Said The Horse To The Dolphin. It didn't work. They still took Luck.
And wouldn't fate have it, he was as good--if not better--as advertised. The Colts were immediately back in the playoffs and contending for Super Bowls and living in the sun and the Dolphins kept their pasty asses in the dark and I wrote very hateful blog posts to the state of Indiana calling them "grain-eating flat-heads". I apologize for nothing.
But then he started getting hurt, and not just bullshit hurt, but like actually life-altering hurt. The kind of hurt where, say, and I'm just ballparking here, but maybe at age 43 you just wouldn't feel like a person anymore. That's a heavy thought to bear and Luck was smarter than that.
See, let me put it this way, Manning and Luck are both smart but they're different kinds of smart. Manning went to the University of Tennessee, where it's acceptable to do buffoonish stunts like dropping your nut sack on the face of a female trainer and just sit around and lick the icing off of Oreos all day. That's all good and well. He was a savvy quarterback though and could read defenses like they were broadcasting their coverage schemes off of his gigantic forehead. Luck went to Stanford. That's all I have to say about that.
And when it comes to injury? They had to fuse Manning back together! That's insane! Give it up, man, you've done it, you're good! Luck probably saw that, looked at his future, and said 'You know, I think one day I'd like to be able to hug my kids without blowing into a straw first!" And good on him, because I'm sure that's tough as Hell to quit the only thing you've known your whole life but still know it's the best decision for you.
So he retires. It's shocking but not when I break it down for you so eloquently, so get over it, Media Pundits. It's not the same as Jordan going to play baseball--it's not---by a looooong shot.
I reached out to some Colts fans, told them I was sorry for them and then I went about my day.
But I just had this nagging, nagging, little thought in the back of my head that kept going back to 2011. The Suck For Luck campaign did not go my way, obviously, but we have a new campaign this year and it's very much so Tank For Tua, the great quarterback out of Alabama. Our two quarterbacks this year, that are still currently duking it out for the starting position about twelve days from the start of the season, are Ryan Fitzpatrick and Josh Rosen. We're tanking, for sure, and we damn sure better not hit anywhere close to six wins!
And it dawned on me, that, without Andrew Luck, the Colts might not be very good this year. I beg you, Indianapolis, win one more than we do this year. Please! Hold out for Trevor Lawrence next year, he's got that Anglo look that you guys seem to die for!
Please...not again...
Thursday, June 20, 2019
A Tale Of Two Cities
You know they say that life often imitates art and that can be a wonderful thing. In the case of it being a book about the French Revolution though, eh, not so much. Ah Dickens, you crafty old codger! I hope you're rolling in your grave right now!
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness..."
I didn't get much sleep last night so I sort of disregarded the notification on my phone but it said something about the Tampa Bay Rays and Montreal. I've done some funny things on sleep deprivation so I chalked that up to that and grazed about my day. Then I saw it on something else. And again. Then it had my attention.
Apparently the Rays have permission to explore some sort of deal where they would play the first half of their home games in St.Petersburg and the other half in Montreal.
Oh, because that's a thing?!
I just wrote that and I still don't even know what it means! I'm literally at a loss. I don't want to do it, you can't make me!
Sigh.
Fine.
Let's take a trek down the damn rabbit hole.
So here's the problem in a nutshell:
Despite the fact that a team with one of the lowest salaries in baseball constantly overachieves and shits on teams with three times their payroll, and is currently leading the AL wild card, they still can't seem to get people to come out and watch them. They signed a 30 year lease at Tropicana Field, which back in 1998 when this whole thing began seemed like a 100 year lease, it's really only just eight years away now. People blame the Trop as part of the reason why nobody goes to games and I'm one of them. While it's nice to sit in air conditioning and watch a baseball game, well, I can do that at my house. Because of the dome there's an intricate catwalk system that has a very confusing set of rules on what happens if a baseball were to hit this catwalk instead of this catwalk. Added on top of that, it almost has a warehousey feel to it, especially since nobody goes there. The Rays have tried multiple options on new stadiums, including modern waterfront ones in Ybor and actual Tampa, and have been shot down each and every time.
Then there's also the fact that St.Pete is nothing but geriatrics and transplanted northerners. If you are a Rays fan and you go to a Yankee game, you're outnumbered, in your own damn house. I mentioned the geriatrics because you have to get on I-275 to get to the stadium and the ol' blue hairs remember when they built the damn thing and they're not driving on it.
So, in recap, terrible stadium, terrible location, and terrible fan base.
And now the solution today is to split custody with Montreal. Montreal? Let me see, where have I heard that name before...
It's right on the tip of my tongue...oh yeah...the Montreal Expos, the MLB team that is now the Washington Nationals because, wait for it, NOBODY WENT TO THEIR GAMES EITHER! They didn't split them in half and let them play the last part of their season in Boca Raton, no, they just straight up said, "You're done, pack your shit!"
That was at least fifteen years ago, so now you're telling me that Montrealians are now suddenly salivating over the possibility of getting a team for half the time they used to get and it's roughly the exact same team that they used to have and didn't bother to show up for in the first place? Oh, and I should mention that part of the deal they're exploring is to have two new stadiums, one in each city. Because what do you do when you keep losing at poker? You fucking double down and really go out with a bang!
I'm not even going to bother with semantics on this one because it's just so ridiculous to me that I don't even want to ponder whether they'll wear different uniforms, play in different leagues, or who holds claim to the title if god forbid, they win something. That's all stuff for other people to deal with. I'd rather just kick this in the nuts.
The only positive I could see coming from this is that we could probably have a pretty sweet national rivalry with the Toronto Blue Jays and that's meant entirely as a joke and I would probably eat a bullet if I ever saw the Clash of the Canadians and one of them was my favorite baseball team.
What's the real solution here?
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."
End it. You have, hopefully, eight years left, go for goddamn broke and stop with the sustainability bullshit. Win a title, drop the mic, and literally blow up the Trop. I'll miss them terribly, I was there Day One back in '98 and they've pulled on my heart strings ever since. But what a fantastic epic ending that would be if they went all in, took home the World Series, gave the middle finger to everyone that stopped us from being, and that was just it.
My solution is definitely not for the faint of heart but it's one I could at least live with.
To the bitter end, boys.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness..."
I didn't get much sleep last night so I sort of disregarded the notification on my phone but it said something about the Tampa Bay Rays and Montreal. I've done some funny things on sleep deprivation so I chalked that up to that and grazed about my day. Then I saw it on something else. And again. Then it had my attention.
Apparently the Rays have permission to explore some sort of deal where they would play the first half of their home games in St.Petersburg and the other half in Montreal.
Oh, because that's a thing?!
I just wrote that and I still don't even know what it means! I'm literally at a loss. I don't want to do it, you can't make me!
Sigh.
Fine.
Let's take a trek down the damn rabbit hole.
So here's the problem in a nutshell:
Despite the fact that a team with one of the lowest salaries in baseball constantly overachieves and shits on teams with three times their payroll, and is currently leading the AL wild card, they still can't seem to get people to come out and watch them. They signed a 30 year lease at Tropicana Field, which back in 1998 when this whole thing began seemed like a 100 year lease, it's really only just eight years away now. People blame the Trop as part of the reason why nobody goes to games and I'm one of them. While it's nice to sit in air conditioning and watch a baseball game, well, I can do that at my house. Because of the dome there's an intricate catwalk system that has a very confusing set of rules on what happens if a baseball were to hit this catwalk instead of this catwalk. Added on top of that, it almost has a warehousey feel to it, especially since nobody goes there. The Rays have tried multiple options on new stadiums, including modern waterfront ones in Ybor and actual Tampa, and have been shot down each and every time.
Then there's also the fact that St.Pete is nothing but geriatrics and transplanted northerners. If you are a Rays fan and you go to a Yankee game, you're outnumbered, in your own damn house. I mentioned the geriatrics because you have to get on I-275 to get to the stadium and the ol' blue hairs remember when they built the damn thing and they're not driving on it.
So, in recap, terrible stadium, terrible location, and terrible fan base.
And now the solution today is to split custody with Montreal. Montreal? Let me see, where have I heard that name before...
It's right on the tip of my tongue...oh yeah...the Montreal Expos, the MLB team that is now the Washington Nationals because, wait for it, NOBODY WENT TO THEIR GAMES EITHER! They didn't split them in half and let them play the last part of their season in Boca Raton, no, they just straight up said, "You're done, pack your shit!"
That was at least fifteen years ago, so now you're telling me that Montrealians are now suddenly salivating over the possibility of getting a team for half the time they used to get and it's roughly the exact same team that they used to have and didn't bother to show up for in the first place? Oh, and I should mention that part of the deal they're exploring is to have two new stadiums, one in each city. Because what do you do when you keep losing at poker? You fucking double down and really go out with a bang!
I'm not even going to bother with semantics on this one because it's just so ridiculous to me that I don't even want to ponder whether they'll wear different uniforms, play in different leagues, or who holds claim to the title if god forbid, they win something. That's all stuff for other people to deal with. I'd rather just kick this in the nuts.
The only positive I could see coming from this is that we could probably have a pretty sweet national rivalry with the Toronto Blue Jays and that's meant entirely as a joke and I would probably eat a bullet if I ever saw the Clash of the Canadians and one of them was my favorite baseball team.
What's the real solution here?
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."
End it. You have, hopefully, eight years left, go for goddamn broke and stop with the sustainability bullshit. Win a title, drop the mic, and literally blow up the Trop. I'll miss them terribly, I was there Day One back in '98 and they've pulled on my heart strings ever since. But what a fantastic epic ending that would be if they went all in, took home the World Series, gave the middle finger to everyone that stopped us from being, and that was just it.
My solution is definitely not for the faint of heart but it's one I could at least live with.
To the bitter end, boys.
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
Red Herring, Sick Mammal
I have the privilege of being privy to several literary techniques, you know, because I've been classically trained by Plath, Vonnegut, Hemmingway, and Kerouac.
For example, I had to have a minor, and that sounds terrible but journalism school required that in order to be through the program you had to have a lesser degree in something else. Dolla dolla bills, y'all. So I picked English writing, which should have been a cake walk but it was way more technical that it sounded. I actually had to learn the business side of it and that brings us here: teaching me the inside workings of the whole establishment was the worst thing you could have done.
I know too much now.
One of the classes I took to finish that English writing minor was a science fiction writing class that was held online. The final grade was an original written short story based on the techniques that we have learned throughout the course.
The following is 100% true. I tell no lies.
I wrote the entirety of that short story in a hotel room in Chicago across the street from Grant Park. The room did not have any hot water but I got free porn on the television. That seemed like a fair trade off at the time. I was across the street from Grant Park because that's where Lollapalooza was being held and that's a three day music festival that I traveled to alone in a city that I had never been to before. My cab driver told me a story about how he got so fed up stuck in traffic that he just up and left the cab with a guy in the back seat. He told me this, while we're stuck in traffic, in a city I've never been before on the way to my hotel. No hot water, free porn.
I was there to see the The Shins and some guy named Kanye West that just so happened to be from Chicago. I also really enjoyed Gnarls Barkley.
It dawned on me when I finally got to the hotel that I had not even attempted the final grade for my science fiction writing class. So I sat on the bed, whipped out my trusty MacBook, and wrote an odyssey. Well, it wasn't The Odyssey, but all you could do is buckle up and ride along. It was a parody of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and it was completely absurd but it was also a deus ex machina.
That's Latin, doll, but it's also a literary technique for basically having something save the day, when all hope was lost, and it was never mentioned before. It's a cheat. But I thought it was hilarious and it made perfect sense in my Frankenstein parody, which was titled The Aardvark's Bane.
NOW, when I tell you, that I use a deus ex machina, purposely, regardless of what kind of porn is going on in the background while I'm writing it, you should know that it's all meant as absurdity! It's fucking called The Aardvark's Bane for Christ's sake! I'm not mocking the class, the professor, or anybody else who took that class...I'm mocking myself? Okay, I don't really know who I was offending there but the professor definitely took offense and that was the day that I almost lost a shot at a minor in Chicago at a music festival. Again, the wording of all this sounds a bit awful.
And now I can't help but think of the Miami Dolphins, dear Lord, why do I think of the Miami Dolphins?!
The Dolphins have traded my favorite Fuzzby in the whole-game, Ryan Tannehill, to the Tennessee Titans. We thought he'd be right at home in purgatory with the rest of the teams that don't ever seem to do anything ever.
With Tannehill gone, the only other quarterbacks on the Dolphins roster were two guys that just got done with their shift at Dairy Queen and said, "eh, whatever." I'm not even sure if I'm shitting on Dairy Queen at this point or if it's the Miami Dolphins. Lines are blurred, factions crossed, and I'm just rambling because what the Hell is the point of all of this? There's just under a month before the draft and I can't see my team winning more than three games next year.
Fuck! I even forgot to tell you that we just signed Ryan Fitzpatrick! This guy might as well be me as an NFL quarterback in that I have no fucking business being an NFL quarterback. Fitzpatrick is the guy that would work for different gas stations and if that doesn't tell you anything, 'cigarette bribes' will. He's the guy you can get to do things for cigarettes. "Hey Ryan, I'll throw you two packs of Marlboro Reds if you help my Sister-in-law move her new couch in next Tuesday."
"Hell ya, brother!"
All of this makes me want to watch that Jay Cutler show that's on tv, and then I quickly remember I'd sooner chop off my left hand, and now we have Ryan Fitzpatrick. And I referenced it as the "Jay Cutler" show but he's just really the supporting role because when can he actually take control of something for once in his life and I feel for you Kristen Cavallari because what the actual fuck..
The fact that we didn't send Tannehill off in a Viking funeral really makes me mad. Fuzzby deserves better than the Titans. I think everybody deserves better than being the back-up to Marcus Mariota. What a weird web we weave.
Float on, graceful swans. By the way, in case you didn't know, the entire first part was a Red Herring. Love ya.
For example, I had to have a minor, and that sounds terrible but journalism school required that in order to be through the program you had to have a lesser degree in something else. Dolla dolla bills, y'all. So I picked English writing, which should have been a cake walk but it was way more technical that it sounded. I actually had to learn the business side of it and that brings us here: teaching me the inside workings of the whole establishment was the worst thing you could have done.
I know too much now.
One of the classes I took to finish that English writing minor was a science fiction writing class that was held online. The final grade was an original written short story based on the techniques that we have learned throughout the course.
The following is 100% true. I tell no lies.
I wrote the entirety of that short story in a hotel room in Chicago across the street from Grant Park. The room did not have any hot water but I got free porn on the television. That seemed like a fair trade off at the time. I was across the street from Grant Park because that's where Lollapalooza was being held and that's a three day music festival that I traveled to alone in a city that I had never been to before. My cab driver told me a story about how he got so fed up stuck in traffic that he just up and left the cab with a guy in the back seat. He told me this, while we're stuck in traffic, in a city I've never been before on the way to my hotel. No hot water, free porn.
I was there to see the The Shins and some guy named Kanye West that just so happened to be from Chicago. I also really enjoyed Gnarls Barkley.
It dawned on me when I finally got to the hotel that I had not even attempted the final grade for my science fiction writing class. So I sat on the bed, whipped out my trusty MacBook, and wrote an odyssey. Well, it wasn't The Odyssey, but all you could do is buckle up and ride along. It was a parody of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and it was completely absurd but it was also a deus ex machina.
That's Latin, doll, but it's also a literary technique for basically having something save the day, when all hope was lost, and it was never mentioned before. It's a cheat. But I thought it was hilarious and it made perfect sense in my Frankenstein parody, which was titled The Aardvark's Bane.
NOW, when I tell you, that I use a deus ex machina, purposely, regardless of what kind of porn is going on in the background while I'm writing it, you should know that it's all meant as absurdity! It's fucking called The Aardvark's Bane for Christ's sake! I'm not mocking the class, the professor, or anybody else who took that class...I'm mocking myself? Okay, I don't really know who I was offending there but the professor definitely took offense and that was the day that I almost lost a shot at a minor in Chicago at a music festival. Again, the wording of all this sounds a bit awful.
And now I can't help but think of the Miami Dolphins, dear Lord, why do I think of the Miami Dolphins?!
The Dolphins have traded my favorite Fuzzby in the whole-game, Ryan Tannehill, to the Tennessee Titans. We thought he'd be right at home in purgatory with the rest of the teams that don't ever seem to do anything ever.
With Tannehill gone, the only other quarterbacks on the Dolphins roster were two guys that just got done with their shift at Dairy Queen and said, "eh, whatever." I'm not even sure if I'm shitting on Dairy Queen at this point or if it's the Miami Dolphins. Lines are blurred, factions crossed, and I'm just rambling because what the Hell is the point of all of this? There's just under a month before the draft and I can't see my team winning more than three games next year.
Fuck! I even forgot to tell you that we just signed Ryan Fitzpatrick! This guy might as well be me as an NFL quarterback in that I have no fucking business being an NFL quarterback. Fitzpatrick is the guy that would work for different gas stations and if that doesn't tell you anything, 'cigarette bribes' will. He's the guy you can get to do things for cigarettes. "Hey Ryan, I'll throw you two packs of Marlboro Reds if you help my Sister-in-law move her new couch in next Tuesday."
"Hell ya, brother!"
All of this makes me want to watch that Jay Cutler show that's on tv, and then I quickly remember I'd sooner chop off my left hand, and now we have Ryan Fitzpatrick. And I referenced it as the "Jay Cutler" show but he's just really the supporting role because when can he actually take control of something for once in his life and I feel for you Kristen Cavallari because what the actual fuck..
The fact that we didn't send Tannehill off in a Viking funeral really makes me mad. Fuzzby deserves better than the Titans. I think everybody deserves better than being the back-up to Marcus Mariota. What a weird web we weave.
Float on, graceful swans. By the way, in case you didn't know, the entire first part was a Red Herring. Love ya.
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