Foot-fuggin-ball

I wrote a very delightful rant on how filthy football people wear baseball caps on the sidelines. I’ll not go into that now but damnit! Come up with something original: overdeveloped, underevolved monkey men!

So, what’s a brother to do when faced with a postseason like this? Can’t perzactly cheer for the Iggles. Swine. I hate the Steelers with only slightly less bile than I reserve for the Yankees but I’ve got to pick those fellows on account of people I respect being great fans. And hell, they dominated pretty much all their games. Congrats.

Now then, Carolina and Seattle. Who cares?

I’ve chosen to go East Coast. Keep it in the family. The hell with anyone west of the Mississippi. Bunch of pioneering wankers. Hurrah for Carolina! Where the hell are they from, anyway? There are two Carolinas and one hell of a lot of cities. I hate state-named teams. It’s like someone being called the Dakota Wastelands. Man, there’s a lot of Dakotas. And a lot of wastelands.

The real solution to this miserable state of affairs: wait breathlessly for my 2003 & 2004 Red Sox films to show up so I can absorb something delightful. Blame my cousin for buying me – at my request – the Sports Guy book for Christmas.

I so intended to get a photograph of myself in front of Legends Field in my Sox gear. Missed it on the last trip south, but there’s only two weeks until the next. Something similar to my famous V sign to Buckingham is well in order.