What kind of idiot decides to do a weekly gridiron vignette when the season is almost over? Well, I suppose it takes a special kind of stupid but you can’t decide when inspiration strikes and that’s what ostensibly happened.
As the devil himself said via the Rolling Stones, “Please allow me to introduce myself.” I have been a Rams fan since 1986, and not once have I cried when my squad was eliminated from the playoffs. (ok, well maybe I shattered a few random things against the wall) The question is– will Cowboys fans ever shed their reputation as (literal) crybabies after being outed on national television sobbing en masse like toddlers? Redemption isn’t foreseeable anytime soon, as the memes were flying and people actually stopped watching porn or trolling political forums for a few hours Sunday evening in order to join the melee. Kick ‘em while they’re down I say–particularly those smug asswipes from Texas. Give the song “The Crying Game” a spin if you get the chance, it’s a 1964 classic crooned by Dave Berry and it’s frightfully fitting for the dystopian shit show that occurred in Arlington that day. I think we can all agree that it’s a favorable time to be a therapist in the greater Dallas area.
Tonight’s game in LaLa Land brought back memories of an ex-girlfriend whose father would play bocce ball in the park with his friends while ingesting copious amounts of red wine, prosciutto, and smoked meats. We would lay in the grass while the old men smoked cigars, and she’d read my horoscope–which I thought was a sham–but she was a beautiful Italian girl, and I let her read to me so I could listen to her voice and watch her flip her hair while the sweat would bead above her lips. Her family had transplanted to Phoenix (a desolate, hot as balls, facsimile of hell) and her dad would tell me almost gleefully, “The Rams aren’t worth a shit!” in the New York City linguistic tradition of being biased against pronouncing an “r.” How could I be offended? I’d been hearing that for over 20 years in multiple linguistics to the point of exhaustion, and I was also respectfully shagging his daughter, my fidanzata.
Well, it was a fun game for about 2 quarters, but the contest was in the barf bag pretty early helping Matty Stafford finally get the malicious playoff monkey off his back. I ran out of beer in the 3rd quarter, so I stumbled to the corner store without fear of missing anything. The Rams now advance to play Old Man “Tuck Rule” Brady and the Buccaneers next week in the tropical, and full-on batshit crazy “Land of a Million Strip Clubs.” Brady is 44 years old and apparently still playing because of his vegan diet, a nightly cold cream made from the blood of virgins, and a softer, more humane NFL. Will he be gently touched on the shoulder garnering a “roughing the passer” penalty? Tune in to find out! Earlier in the day, I was aimlessly checking out LA Rams sites where I stumbled upon an (inspirational?) poem written by an 8-year-old called “Keep on Ramming It,” and for some reason, football wasn’t the conjured imagery. Thanks for keeping pigskin innuendo alive, kid–let’s keep the spirit of John Madden in our hearts and in our dirty minds.