Monday, September 15, 2008
You Sir, are an A--hole
Can you smell that, Eric? No, not the meat-stuffed ravioli's baking in Mama's oven. It's the fear. The fear you emit from your greasy, clogged pores. You make me sick. You went out like a fucking coward yesterday, and made a prophet out of this bumbling retard.
Did you forget that Spaghetti Arm Pennington wasn't sitting in the pocket? Did you forget that the new QB can throw it more than 7 yards downfield? Did you forget that your boss spent $17,000,000,000 on Free Agents just so the Jets wouldn't suck? I assume you did, because your play calling through Schott Jr. was not just abysmal, but also disgusting. And infuriating. And retch inducing. and painful. And any other adjective I can think of before I lob myself off of a ledge.
And by the way, Eric, here's a little inside info - Three runs at the goal line is shit high school teams do. Ever hear of fucking PLAY-ACTION?? HUH? You fat fucking idiot, go wipe the sweat from underneath your flabby tits and get your fucking act together. Three straight fucking runs?
Give me a break. I could call a better game drunk. And asleep.
You deserved to lose. You soiled yourself when you realized Matt Cassell wasn't made out of salt and strategically placed duct-tape. Fuckhead. And Belicheck showed the world once again why he owns your tub-of-shit ass.
Go have a coronary alone and struggle to find the portable phone.
(Squeezes fists in rage, weeps softly into Dunkin Donuts napkin)