I’m not sure what it was that finally woke me, precisely. The warm, mid morning rays of a malicious, gleaming, white sun had been shining directly across my eyes and forehead; through a mangled Venetian blind arrangement somewhere off to my right. I’d been sweating like a whore in church for fuck knows how long and I’d intermittently sensed a lone, courageous fly foraging for sugar residue on my neck – an unfortunate side effect of spilling a gut-wrenchingly sweet hard lemonade all over myself sometime before passing out earlier this morning. There was also an incessant, physically painful, hammering sound ringing in my ear and periodically some sort of goddamn macaque would screech out angrily. Was the beast trying to communicate? Did I hear running water? Was I even awake, or could all of these terrible noises not be my drunken subconscious acting out a cleansing ritual – trying to make sense of the night of awful, wretched hedonism I’d just witnessed? Had we really consumed all of those drugs, that much alcohol and the entire goddamn contents of a 7 – 11 “Late Night Snack” counter in one evening? And what of the midget and the monkey – how did they tie into this horrible carnival of craven addiction and excess? Somewhere, in the back of my subconscious and buried under gallons of alcohol, I knew the answers to these questions; but they were way too dreadful to contemplate this early in the morning on the backside of a hangover so powerful it would prove fatal for a less experienced degenerate. It would be a far better thing to slide back into the peaceful oblivion of sleep, than to deal with the god awful consequences of the nightmare come to life our suite now represented.
Unfortunately, the sudden, staccato ringing of a cheap motel telephone soon made even this pathetic attempt to escape reality impossible. I tried to ignore it for several minutes, but the son of a bitch on the other end of the line clearly had the mutherfucking room on speed dial at this point. Bravely opening one eyelid towards the horrible devastation around me, I fumbled around for the bedside phone while simultaneously regretting preventing the midget from tearing the entire goddamn unit out of the wall mere hours before. Holding the weighty handset as close to my ears as the blinding headache I was now experiencing (in its full glory) would allow, I tried desperately to make sense of the loud, screeching sounds coming from the speaker.
“…fully you’ve enjoyed your night here at Motel 6, Mrs umm, Albom, is that correct?”
“Yes, yes for fuck’s sake this is she. Why are you bastards calling this goddamn early in the fucking morning?”
There was a long, awkward pause on the other end of the receiver before the woman continued, “well, actually ma’am, it’s 10 AM and checkout is in forty-five minutes. We’ve been trying to call your suite for over three hours now but nobody answered. Are you still there Mrs Albom? There have been some complaints from other guests ma’am – something about a screeching rhesus monkey?”
Surveying the carnage around me, I tried desperately to think of some magic combination of words that would make the Motel 6 manager hang up the phone and give me a goddamn minute to think my way out of this horrible, criminally negligent situation. The room was littered with empty beer bottles, half-eaten mircrowaveable burritos and the splintered pieces of what I distinctly believe had been a bedside table only the night before. Someone, possibly Chaz if my memory served correctly, had smashed out the giant mirror at the end of the bed, littering a thousand shards of broken glass all over the carpet because the monkey had been trying to steal his soul through the reflection. The television lay on the ground, toppled from the dresser when I’d offered the midget a crisp half a yard to saloon slide face first through a field of bottles along its lacquered wooden top; in an effort to recreate a scene from Jacky Chan’s Shanghai Noon. Finally, I gasped in horror as my eyes caught sight of the giant burn mark streaking up the middle of the fucking wall, and a dim memory of trying to execute a wallpaper-obsessed fly with my lighter began to flood back into my mind.
“No, no there’s no monkey. That’s just part of my morning ritual thank you, hot yoga you know, it keeps me fit” I stammered with no real idea where the words were coming from. “I’m done now, you can inform the other guests that there will be no more screaming monkey sounds from this suite, even if I have to seal the little fucker’s gob shut with duct tape – alright? Are we finished here?”
The long, silent, dead air on the other end of the telephone told me that we weren’t, in fact, finished before she continued “yes, yes of course but you will be checking out as normal before eleven then?”
“Yes, goddamnit of course I will” I snapped back, gaining my bearings and stepping out of bed onto the sloshy, wet carpet that covered the entire room. I distinctly remembered attempting to dispose of an astray full of cigarette butts into the bathroom sink and clogging up the entire goddamn works in the process. Had I forgotten to turn the water off, or had that evil monkey done the deed after we all passed out in the early dawn hours? Did it even matter? “Now, madam, if that is all I will kindly ask you to not call this suite again for the love of christ! As I told your night manager last evening, my companion suffers from an extremely rare, highly contagious sleeping disorder and it is of vital fucking importance that he be left alone to get some goddamn rest. Am I making myself clear? Do you understand me? We have paid for this suite until 11 AM and by god madam that is how long we intend to use it. What is this country coming to when a festering toady like yourself, won’t even let decent, paying customers obtain full value from their motel suites like this?!”
To the best of my knowledge, the outburst had been effective. Something about my snarling, angry condescension triggered years of social programming in her mind. Suddenly, I was no longer a hung-over, disruptive customer who’d checked into her motel with a foul-smelling, hipster man-child and a wailing primate. Now she was dealing with an irate, possibly famous customer who’d just about had enough of being questioned by the likes of a goddamn Motel 6 manager to satisfy the complaints of a meth-head proletariat clientele who didn’t like rich people or hot yoga. Unfortunately, one last piece of official decorum still kept her from hanging up and leaving me to manage the savage, skull-splitting headache I still labored under.
“About the night manager, Juwan, kind of a tall, darker kid with a south of France cut… you haven’t seen him by any chance have you Mrs Albom? He went missing in the middle of his shift last night and one of the other guests says he saw the two of you together in the lobby not long bef…”
“Dear Christ woman, what are you babbling about?! I have no idea who the fuck Juwan is and no I have not seen your fucking night manager! Is it suddenly my job to track the comings and goings of underpaid motel staff through all hours of the goddamn night? Of course it isn’t! This is now getting ridiculous, never call here again” I yelled and slammed down the phone as quickly as I could. With any luck, my tirade would keep the cleaning staff at bay long enough to facilitate my escape from the wreckage. Failing that, I’d have to wake Juwan up from his peaceful slumber on the second bed and pretend to take him hostage, until they agreed to release at least myself and the monkey.
Darting around the room as quietly as possible, I quickly gathered up the remaining weed, bottles of liquor and my writing gear before heading to the bathtub to wake the midget.
“Shhh,” I told him, as I gently shook the diminutive drunk to full waking consciousness. “It’s a half hour till checkout time and I’m almost certain the mutherfucking police are closing in on us. You take my notebook, the hotel towels and round up my monkey. I’ll grab the drugs, booze and Chaz’s car keys; then we can meet out in the parking lot in 5 minutes. Be careful, the loose paper on top is of vital importance to my career” I warned him as I shoved the notebook into his tiny hands.
He seemed to instinctively understand our shared peril because soon we were both scurrying around the room on tiptoes, collecting our assigned treasures before slinking right out the front door. As we walked towards the car and it became safe for normal conversation, my short-statured companion finally asked the question that had been on his mind since well into the evening before.
“Are you really Mitch Albom’s wife,” he quizzed skeptically.
“Of course” I replied without missing a mutherfucking beat, as I slid behind the wheel and closed the door behind me. Soon, we were pulling out of the parking lot and towards the open highway; leaving Chaz, Juwan and the nightmare-inducing scenery of a completed trashed Motel 6 suite behind.
“So where can I take you, um, hey wait, I don’t believe I’ve ever gotten your name friend” I said casually, hoping he hadn’t already told me several goddamn times only for the knowledge to be washed away in a river of psychotropic drugs and unquestionably strong alcohol.
“Reggie actually, and you can take me back downtown Mrs. Albom. I’ve gotta grab a shower before my shift at the MGM where you and that boy with the fedora hooked up with me” he replied cheerfully.
“Oh, so you’re a performer? Some kind of freak-show act with midgets or something,” I replied innocently and without much thought.
“Jesus christ, you abelist bitches are all the same – you think just because I’m a little person I can’t get a normal fucking job” he replied with a sense of real frustration in his voice. “No you fucking imbecile, I don’t have an act, I’m a mutherfucking blackjack dealer and a damn good one. My table is hopping all night, or are you too fried to remember me cleaning you out yesterday evening” he snapped.
My god, I thought – he’s right. I had clearly opened my big fat fucking mouth and made an ass of myself in front of my new companion. The only way to break the awkward tension consuming our shared space now, would be apologize and hope that human decency would prevail over my prior, boorish stupidity.
“I’m sorry Reggie, that was a really dumb thing of me to assume and I apologize for articulating my own festering ignorance in your presence. I’m really quite the horrible old lady, in my own twisted way – I sincerely apologize and assure you it won’t happen again my good man.”
He eyed me warily for a moment, before breaking into a broad, open smile. “So what’s this “important” piece of paper you wanted me to look after about Mrs Albom? All it looks like to me are scribbles and some shorthand dick jokes about Joe Lombardi?”
“NFL picks my friend; bets, wagers against the line to fund my fabulous lifestyle of destroying Motel 6 motel suites in a drunken, drug-induced frenzy. I went twelve and four last week, you know. That’s why we were celebrating in the motel” I told him, as we cruised towards the freeway on ramp that would take both of us back downtown; far away from the eyes of police investigating a decimated motel room and the disappearance of a one Mrs. Albom.
(Week 4 NFL Picks: home teams are in caps with my choice to win listed first. As always, our legal department insists on sucking the joy out of life by forcing me to remind you that these picks are in fact, for entertainment purposes only and we are in no way legally responsible if you end up living under an overpass and giving blow jobs for Big Macs because you gambled your entire life away.)
Ravens (-2.5) over STEELERS:
The underlying problem with this match-up is that at the end of the day, one of these goddamn football teams has to actually fucking win the game somehow. This will be a problem for Pittsburgh in particular, because last week’s debacle vs the LA Rams showed the entire world what a Steelers offense with Mike Vick running the plays looks like, and there are still some viewers chewing back Gravol to keep the resulting vomit down. On the other side of course, you have a Raven’s team whose identity thus far this young NFL season seems to revolve around snatching inglorious defeat from the gleaming jaws of victory. In an amusing new twist however, the annual question of Joe Flacco’s eliteness has been rendered largely irrelevant by a Baltimore defense that couldn’t stop a Pop Warner squad and has been absolutely shredded in back to back weeks by the likes of Derek Carr and Andy “the Red Rifle” Dalton. In the end, the only sane conclusion one can come to is that the NFL should cancel this horrible crime against sport before millions of television viewers are rendered violently ill by exposure to terrible football. Since that is unlikely to happen despite the clear, humanitarian need to do so however – I’ll take the team with the raging psychopath at WR who almost single-handedly clawed Baltimore to victory against the Bengals before the defense once again fucked the dog all the way to another, agonizing loss. Besides, would you want to tell Steve Smith the team is 0-4 and likely out of the playoffs, four weeks into his farewell season? John Harbaugh might be a blustering idiot, but he doesn’t have a fucking death wish folks.
Jets (-1.5) over DOLPHINS:
In the words of the infamous Cousin Avi, my advice to the NFL as a whole is “don’t go to fucking London.” Unfortunately, since the league is magnetically attracted to terrible fucking decisions these days, this game will be broadcast at 9:30 in the goddamn morning – hours before civilized Americans can even buy fucking alcohol. On the surface the Jets would seem to be in grievous trouble after an embarrassing loss to the winless Eagles last week – during which WR Brandon Marshall lateraled the ball to precisely fucking no one in what he would latter describe as “the worst play in NFL history.” Of course, Marhsall’s proclamation is spurious at best, especially when you remember he plays for the same team that gave us the “Butt Fumble” and the sublime football stylings of The Sanchize. Furthermore, despite defecating all over themselves last weekend, the Jets are the superior football team in this match-up and they’ve shown remarkable foresight in bringing 350 rolls of toilet paper with them to London. This time, when the shit hits the fan for Ryan Fitzpatrick and the Jets offense, New York will be ready damnit! As the walls close in on the Dolphins and the knives come out openly for coach Joe Philbin; is there anything about this Miami team that would lead you to believe they’re prepared to crawl through a river of excrement just to win this fucking game? Do we even know how many rolls of toilet paper the Dolphins brought? New York will win, not in spite of, but because it’ll be a shitty game and nobody in the NFL can actually beat the Jets in a straight crap-off, not even the Dolphins.
Jaguars (+9.5) over COLTS:
Ladies and gentlemen, we are now rapidly approaching the point in this NFL season where I wouldn’t advise trusting Andrew Luck to successfully parallel park a compact fucking car on an empty street without crashing directly into a goddamn lamp post or something. Absolutely nothing about the Colts 35-33 win over a literally putrid Titans squad last week was impressive in the slightest and betting on Luck still managed to cost me money when the Colts failed to fucking cover. The team continues to fall behind on the scoreboard; deep into the second half and behind a QB that’s turning the ball over at a rate statisticians will eventually label “the Kirk Cousins Zone.” Is team chemistry a problem? Has Mr Swackhammer stolen all of Luck’s QB talent and somehow given it to Tyrod Taylor? Have the Colts secretly been running out Curtis Painter in an Andrew Luck jersey as some sort of desperate attempt to keep their star QB healthy for the playoffs? At this point, your guess is as good as mine but I am done betting on Indianapolis until I see some sort of credible evidence that Andrew Luck hasn’t been replaced by fucking pod people.
FALCONS (-6.5) over Texans:
Speaking of quarterbacks who might actually be an alien imposter trying to destroy their own team, football itself and the very things we all cherish about western civilization – did you know that the Texans are still starting Ryan Mallet despite the fact that he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a football from any distance beyond roughly ten feet? After parts of three full games directing the Texans offense, and I do use the term “offense” quite literally, Mallet is rapidly turning into the latest example of a guy who’s only in the NFL because he physically looks like he should be a great fucking quarterback. From Scott Mitchell, to Rob Johnson, to Blaine Gabbert – NFL history is littered with these glimmering physical specimens of a Unitas-inspired ideal; all of whom, invariably, prove that it’s impossible to be a successful quarterback in professional football if you can’t read a goddamn defense, even if you tower over most of your lineman and can rocket the ball across the Katy Freeway from a planted standstill. Are there any good reasons to bet on Mallet in game against a competent Falcons squad led by a mutherfucking unstoppable mutant werewolf like Julio Jones? In a word – “no.”
Panthers (-3) over BUCCANEERS:
Well, here we are again folks. It’s a new week and we’re looking at another line that proves beyond a fucking doubt that Vegas is trying to lure frightened bettors into wagers on the traditionally chaotic NFC South. This year however, there appears to be almost no chaos in the division whatsoever – the Panthers and Falcons are both undefeated, while the Aints and the Buccaneers are actively battling with teams like San Francisco, Chicago and Detroit for the title of biggest raging dumpster fire in the conference. In this week’s exciting edition of “what has Cam Netwon done to piss everyone off this time”, our beloved fake-smiling field marshal has been accused of besmirching the reputation of the NFL’s most vain, pretentious referee – after muscle-bound moron Ed Hochuli denied telling Netown he wasn’t old enough to get a personal foul call in last week’s game. In a surreal plot twist that absolutely everyone who’s followed the NFL these past few seasons saw coming; everyone sided with Hochuli despite the ref’s reputation as a grandstanding showoff who thinks he’s the star of every game he’s ever officiated and his long, documented history of being overtly chummy with the real talent around him during games. Could this possibly have anything to do with Newton being an outspoken, successful young black man in a sport controlled primarily by octogenarian white republicans who skew slightly right of Vladimir Putin? Of course not, you fucking racist! I’m sure Andrew Luck would be met with the same incredulity if he brokered this discussion after a game officiated by Hochuli, let’s just move on.
BILLS (-5.5) over Giants:
Okay, I’ll be the first to admit that I was wrong about Rex Ryan and his impact on the Buffalo Bills. Sure, he’s a bloviating, nonsense-peddling, toe fetishist with a well established track record of losing to and thus obsessing about the New England Patriots; but by christ is he a likeable bloviating, nonsense-peddling, toe fetishist with a well established track record of losing to and thus obsessing about the New England Patriots! Ryan’s clownshoes act may eventually wear thin with the Buffalo press, but his players are clearly thriving in the media maelstrom that Rex creates wherever his custom-painted pickup truck will take him. After all, it’s much easier to go out and maul the other team when no matter what happens on the field, the big story next week will be about whatever bizarre shit the clearly insane coach said about the Patriots this time, and not what a complete piece of human fucking garbage Richie Incognito is. Are the Bills legitimate Superbowl contenders? Fuck no! The Pats are so far into Ryan’s skull that the poor bastard will probably never beat New England again, and there’s almost no way a wildcard playoff team is making it out of the AFC to the big game this season. The Bills are however good enough to be the kind of team that consistently beats and covers against actual bad fucking teams – which is why I’m taking them over the Giants, who are in a word, a giant, oozing “clusterfuck.”
Raiders (-3) over BEARS:
Look folks, I’ll be the first to admit that laying actual fucking money on the Oakland Raiders to win football games is a habit that will eventually have catastrophic consequences for your bankroll. You know and I know that god himself hates the Raiders and that there’s no way a Mark Davis/Reggie McKenzie tag-team could build their way out of a My Little Pony kiddie pool if you spotted them twenty feet of rope and a fully functioning stepladder. With that having been noted however, the Raiders roll into Chicago this Sunday to take on the only team in the NFL that started actively tanking for the 2016 number one overall draft pick, before the calendar year hit October. After getting shut-out by a Seattle team that could be best described as “extremely disinterested” in playing football, Bears management promptly started trading defensive starters for late round draft picks to ensure they didn’t accidentally win any games against the equally putrid Detroit Lions later in the season. This is blatant tanking at its mutherfucking finest and there are already rumors floating around pro football media circles that star Bears halfback Matt Forte is available for less than twenty-five cents on the dollar. Naturally, this desperate desire to keep losing means that there is almost no goddamn chance whatsoever that either QB Jay Cutler or WR Alshon Jeffery will be back in the lineup because why on god’s green earth would you rush back from injury to suit up for a football team that is actively trying to fucking fail? That leaves us with Amari Cooper and the Raiders facing down a Bears team that hasn’t stopped anyone from passing the ball and is seriously rolling out Jimmy “the human tackling dummy” Clausen at quarterback – this one might be over by halftime.
Eagles (-3) over RACIAL SLURS:
How fucking awful is this game? Well, there’s a chance it’ll be postponed until the beginning of December because even goddamn hurricanes are sick of Dan Snyder’s racist bullshit and Chip Kelly’s paint-by-numbers offense. The Eagles are by no means a “good” football team, but they managed to tighten up enough on defense last week to squeak by a New York Jets squad that seemed hell-bent on shooting itself in the foot at every single available opportunity. By sheer coincidence, they get to play on Sunday against Kirk Cousins, a guy who specializes in shooting himself in the foot at every single available opportunity – except with fourth quarter, backbreaking interceptions instead of laterals aimed directly towards the nearest defender. Precluding a divine intervention by Odin, the Norse god of storms – the Eagles should win this game easily and send Snyder weeping into his overpriced nachos, surrounded by empty seats and jeering, racist fans dressed up in redface. Of course, even if the Racial Slurs were to somehow manage a victory here, I’d still be largely unconcerned because I’d rather set fire to my money than bet on an inept, neanderthal bigot like Dan Snyder and his bullshit, racist football team.
BENGALS (-4) over Chiefs:
In my opinion, this is arguably the most dangerous game this week for degenerate gamblers who have to bet the entire schedule, like myself. This is because there is almost no way in hell the Kansas City Chiefs are as bad as they’ve looked through two consecutive losses and there is an equally microscopic chance that the Cincinnati Bengals are quite as fucking good as they’ve looked either. Someday, probably in the very near future, Andy Dalton is going to vomit all over himself against a heavy-blitzing defense, turn the ball over four fucking times and make you wonder how the fuck someone so bad at football made his way into the NFL. Is that day going to be Sunday against a Chiefs defense down one starting cornerback and working another back from a three game suspension? It seems highly fucking unlikely, besides – how is an Alex Smith lead offense going to work against a disciplined, ferocious Bengals D that’s looked solid against everyone except a 36 year old steroid freak who may or may not be trying to literally murder the defender across from him on every single goddamn play? I won’t be shocked if KC finds a way to win this game and save their season, but Jeremy Maclin is no mutherfucking Steve Smith and on paper, all the matchups seem to favor the Bengals unless Dalton shits the bed – personally, I’m terrified.
Browns (+7.5) over CHARGERS:
Sweet mother of god, there are some questions you just don’t ask a woman three bourbons and four thousand words deep into an NFL picks column. Questions like, “what the fuck is wrong with you”, “why would anyone read four thousand words about gambling on football” and “if you spotted them seven and a half points, could the Cleveland Browns beat the San Diego Chargers on the road?” The sheer, stupefying horror that goes into just imagining the correct answer for something like that has been known to cause a fatal fucking aneurism in four out of five lab mice, at least seventy-six percent of the time. Furthermore, once you start asking yourself who’s going to win a match-up like this, you invariably realize that tens of thousands of people have tickets to this atrocity against professional football and the poor sons of bitches are actually expecting to see an entertaining game! Christ on a crutch, the potential suffering and mass carnage involved is simply too goddamn much for one immoral, drug-fuelled alcoholic’s conscience to bear. Folks, if you know someone going to this game, I urge you, no I desperately implore you to do the right thing and kill them mercifully with the nearest garden tool you can find. Trust me on this one; you’ll be doing them a favor.
Packers (-8) over 49ERS:
Did you know that if you stretched out every blood vessel in the human body, it would make a line over sixty thousand miles long and you could easily wrap it around the entire globe, twice?! Good, because this gory, sixty thousand mile long line of blood vessels only represents roughly half the distance between Aaron Rogers and Colin Kaepernick in terms of class, intelligence and talent for playing the Quarterback position at an NFL level. Furthermore, the 49ers defense is allowing the most yards to wide receivers in the NFL and now has to find a way to stop a Packer’s offense that can literally plug in fucking street free agents at the position while still producing yards and touchdowns at an elite level. The Packers are clearly gearing up for a goddamn Superbowl run in the NFC this year, while the 49ers are still trying to simplify the offense for a petulant, lazy, man-child QB who hasn’t had a lick of success at this level without Jim Harbaugh screaming down his throat to stay in the pocket, read the defense and make plays with his arm. Sometimes, winning football bets is as simple as picking the team that isn’t a festering pile of steaming dogshit just waiting to dry out in the hot California sun folks.
Vikings (+7) over BRONCOS:
Has there been a less impressive 3-0 team in the recent history of the NFL than this year’s Broncos? Granted, Denver’s pass rush is almost as good as everyone expected it to be this season but the offensive line is still hot, fetid trash, they literally can’t run the ball to save their fucking QB’s life and the secondary is constantly gambling for the big interception. Furthermore, Manning’s arm is clearly living on borrowed time and near-constant blood sacrifices to dark, arcane spirits that can somehow delay the effects of aging. The Broncos haven’t played a bruising pack of maulers out to physically punish opposing QBs (legally or illegally) like the Vikings yet this year and they sure as shit haven’t had to stop a running back so inhuman he’d savagely whip his own four year old child about the legs, ass and testicles until the lad was bloody; just for crossing him! Boy, it sure is great to have All Day back in the NFL, isn’t it folks? Denver probably wins because the game is at home, but I’m not comfortable laying seven points on a team that’s one Viking cheap-shot away from loading its ancient quarterback into an ambulance and/or nursing home.
CARDINALS (-7) over Rams:
Oh Carson Palmer, when will this strange, beautiful, magical trip you, my money and your anterior cruciate ligament are on come to a painful, tragic end? Hopefully not this week as the Cardinals welcome Aaron Donald and the fierce Los Angeles Rams defensive line to an overpriced patch of grass out in the middle of Nowhere, Stupidsville – aka Glendale, Arizona. Have I mentioned that the Lions passed on Donald to draft a mutherfucking tight end? Oh, I have? Good, now that we’ve got that out of the way I’m contractually obligated to remind you that the Rams are still coached by Jeff Fisher – who hasn’t been a good football coach since the first fucking Clinton administration and just guided his team to an astronomically pathetic six points against a Pittsburgh squad down Ben Roethlisberger and desperately trying to give the game away. Frankly, the Cardinals could probably win this game with Drew Stanton under center, which they’ll prove beyond a question of a doubt by substituting him in for Palmer in the fourth quarter of the massive blowout this game is going to be.
Cowboys (+4.5) over SAINTS:
Once again, the Saints game proved difficult to get an accurate betting line on this week due to the uncertain status of QB Drew Brees. I’ve seen anything from -7 New Orleans to a straight “pick em”; many bookies have simply taken the game off their board altogether – and frankly, who could blame them? Asking a rational fucking human being to choose between a team lead by Brandon Weeden and a team with Luke McNown under center has absolutely got to be a violation of the goddamn Geneva Convention, or at least cruel and unusual punishment as defined by the American Supreme Court. How the fuck is this game on Sunday Night Football? Isn’t a traumatizingly awful slap-fight to the death such as this one, precisely why the concept of TV flex scheduling was invented? Are you seriously going to subject millions of innocent Americans to this awful shit because of some arbitrary goddamn decision that games can’t be flexed before week 5? Lord save us all from the pinhead bureaucrats folks and make sure you have plenty of fucking alcohol around the house if you intend to actually watch this bullshit on Sunday night.
SEAHAWKS (-10) over Lions:
Speaking of games that have no fucking earthly business being broadcast on prime time television; the hapless 0-3 Lions walk into the valley of the shadow of death this Monday night to take on the Seahawks and the Legion of Boom. After struggling through two humiliating losses without designated enraged lycanthrope, Kam Chancellor, the Seahawks welcomed their hybrid monsterback home by embarrassing the holy shit out of Jimmy Clausen and the Bears. Granted, embarrassing a guy who looks like a cross between a raging douchebag and a fucking gecko, isn’t exactly an accomplishment worth writing home about – but then again, neither is beating the shit out of the fat Matty Stafford and the Detroit Lions. Will the Lions beleaguered signal caller survive the night after the Seahawks are through with him? Will idiot savant offensive coordinator Joe Lombardi be able to summon up more than a handful of plays the Seattle defense doesn’t recognize before the snap? Will Golden Tate run his mouth against a secondary full of hard assed mutherfuckers who will absolutely knock his dick in the dirt if he pisses them off? Does anyone outside of the greater Seattle area even care? In related news – the Detroit Red Wings regular season opener is on October 9th, at 7:30 PM, at home against former coach Mike Babcock and the Toronto Maple Leafs.
Last Week: 12 – 4 – 0
Season: 24 – 23 – 1
- Nina Illingworth