1. the act of inflicting excruciating pain, as punishment or revenge, as a means of getting a confession or information, or for sheer cruelty.
Tell me. What is this punishment or revenge for? What did I do to deserve this? Oh, my apologies. This would fit into the “sheer cruelty” clause of the definition. I blame my mother. Yes, that’s right. She who brought me into this world. My Brooklyn-born matriarch, the one who adopted both the Mets and Jets with open arms and hath passed along fandom of these two pain-inducing franchises to her first-born. It is she whom I can thank for this wretched cross I now bear.
For those of you familiar with my allegiances, this rant was about as predictable as an ill-advised, off-balance, cross-field, leave-your-mouth-agape-in-horror Favre pick. I really can’t take this s&!t anymore. Seriously. This is getting freakin’ ridiculous. Two epic collapses was bad enough. Two late summer meltdowns topped off with a Phillies World Series win should be all I am asked to handle. But now this? This…this…I can’t even describe it.
Can someone tell me what happened to the team that manhandled Tennessee? And what exactly is going on in the heads of Schottenheimer and Man-retard? I’m sorry is 4.6 yards a run inadequate for you guys? Do you have something against Thomas Jones and Leon Washington? Hell, Tony Richardson ran for 34 yards on five carries. Oh yes, it was snowing and miserable. But, of course. That makes total sense. In that case, I completely agree. We should abandon the run and have Brett chuck the ball up 31 times and see how many of those can be in-game hail marys.
Lest we leave you out Mr. Sutton, you oh master of defensive scheming. Perhaps we should forget about the blitz for this weekend, eh? Why put any pressure on a career backup in horrible conditions? No, let’s see if we can crank up our defense enough to rack up an enviable zero sacks. And since we were so admirably locking down the always-potent Maurice Morris, let’s not even run blitz, on the oft-case we select the right hole and cut a runner off from advancing seven yards unscathed through a vacant gap.
And, oh yes, Mr. Mangini. You, you inspirer of men. What’s the matter? Couldn’t find the right movie to fire up the troops on another west coast swing? No local boxers available to light that fire? It’s alright. Your expressionless countenance evokes tremendous confidence and an urge to fight from this fan, so my guess is it has a similar effect on your players.
Are you comatosed? Or was your face just frozen? You looked like you wanted to go inside and put on your warm and fuzzy socks in the first quarter. Alas we forget about your well thought out fourth-and-two decision with 2:20 left in the fourth. Hmmm, maybe taking this “risk” from our own 20-yard line with all three timeouts left wasn’t the best of decisions. Perhaps? Moron.
And, of course, we can’t forget the players themselves with special kudos to Mr. Favre. One awful interception and a series of horribly underthrown balls only added to the joyousness of yesterday’s abortion in the Pacific Northwest. We’d rake the defense over the coals, but 13 points is not entirely deserving of chiding (although one could certainly make the case that the 100+ yards from Mo Morris certainly is).
Honestly, it sounds cliche, but I do feel it would be immensely easier to be a fan of the Bungles, or the Pirates, some perennial loser where futility is a foregone conclusion. Instead, I’ve got the Jets and Mets. Perpetually just good enough to make you think they’re not what they really are…LOO-WHO-SUUURS.
When do pitchers and catchers report so I can start this whole dreadful process again? At least we can watch Matt Cassell and Belichick try to make another run, and have Chad stick it to us on Sunday. So, I’ve got that going for me…which is nice.
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About the Author: Cecilio's Scribe is the founder of The Legend of Cecilio Guante and a generally pessimistic fan of the Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers. A fine NYC-based gentlemen who hones his marketing skills as his primary trade by day. Husband, chef, father of a newborn and after-hours blogger by night. Proud alum of the mighty Big Red of Cornell. University. Hot sauce devotee. Staunch protester of the continued wussifcation of American sports. Sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick.