Let Us Pray…
My Glorius Raiders play tonight. My wife is out picking up beer and snacks. I fear that Madden may talk trash during an important play, and an important vein will burst in my big brain, and I’ll be found, mumbling incoherently at the television, both middle fingers extended and locked in rigor.
Prognosis is not good. The Orange Alert is appropriate. I hope that Homeland Security snipers are in the stands, alert for any potential suckiness, ready to shoot the first Raider player that drops the ball and then shrugs and grins about it…you hear that, Jerry Rice?
How many quarterbacks have they broken this year? 3? 4? Fuck. Don’t mock me! You soccer-watching eurotwats! Four of my Raiders linebackers, in full battle regalia, could kill an entire field full of your girly-shorts wearing, skipping and hopping homos…and then stomp your festive little checkerboard ball flat. So just shut up!
I saw the Glorious Saints lose all hope for the season yesterday…because of their parapelegic retard of a kicker they all have to go home and contemplate how much they suck. They should have just handed out short blades and let them all kneel and commit Honorable Seppuku. “There, rookies! Now let that be a lesson to you!”
I think I’m getting a chest pain…
What kind of dirty cheater uses his Dad’s death to get them stoked up to beat my Glorious Raiders? Curse you, Brett Favre, and your hot sexy wife, too!
Update # 2:
There is only one hope for my Glorious Raiders…someone needs to go kill Brett Favres Mom, too. Right now. Quickly.
That is all.
Update # 4:
It was cruel of me, I know, to suggest that Brett Favre suffer even more loss just to try to insure that my Glorious Losers win a stupid game….oh, who am I kidding, his whole frigging family could die, if that meant my Raiders winning! I’m a FAN, dammit!!