The Lions have led in all 12 games this year. They are
3-8-1. That is the kind of chaos nonsense fuck your luck bullshit that has
always torn at our broken asses. Now some would say that this is evidence of an
oh so close just need a little patience baby kind of deal, but fuck all that.
If The Patriot Way is a bunch of coin flips with shitty luck then fuck it and
the con men trying to sell it to us.
Of course, I’ve already railed about how incompetence is bad
enough and when mixed with evil becomes a nightmare of hellfire and shit no one
should have to deal with, and I’m not going to keep nattering on about that,
but I mean, fuck, man, come on.
The worst part about this whole deal is I feel like the
whole “led in all 12 games” thing is going to be a get out of jail free card
for these fuckers, which means next year is just more of the same and I don’t
know how much more I can take of this. I mean, obviously, I will take just
about anything and I am a coward as I have already proven by dragging my ass
back to these shitheads with my mouth open begging for more shit to be shoveled
into it year after fucking year. But there are children right now who are being
introduced to this nightmare, which is honestly kind of abusive, and if this
damn team can’t get its shit together for me, at least it could do it for them.
That’s right, I’m at the point where I am flinging innocent children
into this shitstorm in the hopes that it doesn’t all land on me. I am past the point
of decency and I fail to see why I should start trying to pretty this up now.
Anyway, it was yet another quarterback being thrust into the
fire and poor David Blough never stood a chance, did he? And now Mitch Trubisky
of all idiots gets to play the hero while Ford Field burns and Bob Quinn plays
his fiddle and Matt Patricia rapes all the women trying to flee the stadium. This is not a good scene, man, not good at
all, and the only ones left alive will be the vampires and ghouls feeding on
the flesh of the dead, sucking at our souls like the greedy little monsters
they are. Welcome to Detroit, baby, you’re gonna die.
It was a bad day, just like it always is with these
shitheads. I ate too much and I feel like shit and I managed to escape and flee
back to the compound here where I am with my cat who can sense that something awful
has happened and I just fed her and she will probably shit all over the place
later and I will too, and this is what it means to be an American and a Lions
fan in this outhouse year of our lives, a wretched people, a loathsome bunch of
gluttons stuffed with our own hubris and poison holiday food, waiting to see
what end it all oozes out of before we pass out in a pile of poor choices as
our cats eat our sick.
But fuck all that. I was loaded with leftovers and sent on
my way, as my dear mother worries that I waste away in this addict’s skin, and
I love her for it, but I honestly just want to puke it all up and never have to
think about it again, and now I have a refrigerator stuffed with food that I
don’t even really want which makes me feel guilty as hell in this consumerist
hell world we have made for ourselves in which so many go hungry, but I am too
cowardly to give it away and I will stuff my idiot face with it all week long
and feel like shit about myself and about this whole fucking country and about
my shitty football team.
But that is all psychic emotional baggage that none of you
need to hear about, and I guess I can feed some of it to my deer sweet kitty,
who is already starting to show signs of being a hefty lady, but what the hell,
we will die together in our gluttonous misery, both victims of one too many
poor choices.
So yeah, anyway, back to football related miseries. I still
have the rest of my Gambling With Sanity picks to fire off either tomorrow or
Saturday depending on how wretchedly loathsomely I spend my time between now
and then, a victim of my own insatiable gluttony for this comfortable holiday
food and poor choices that will leave me feeling like fucking Caligula
stumbling out of the vomitorium with who the fuck knows attached to his dick
and poor choices in his heart.
It is always good to see a ne’er do well quarterback get the
chance to rise up and make a name for himself on Thanksgiving, but sadly for
David Blough he failed where so many others have failed before. I don’t even
know what happened to Jeff Driskel, such is the shitty state of my fandom these
days, but I can only assume he was eaten by Lions Disease or maybe just by Fat
Matt in between courses of rape and vomiting.
I like our new running back, that Scarborough kid, which
means he’s, what, the 5th string dude or some shit and also that he
will likely suffer a gruesome career ending injury before we even get to really
know him. But fuck it, that is life in the NFL meat grinder, and dudes like him
will be lucky to even get their medical bills covered before being sent to the
glue factory. This is a hideous league
that takes no prisoners and leaves its players broken and destitute more often
than not, much like ancient gladiators back in the day. Sure, there are less
killings now, but don’t tell that to OJ or one of the many soup brained
warriors who puts a gun in their mouth or against their chest so their brains
can be studied by ghoulish scientists eager to figure out where man exactly
loses his ability to comprehend his own concussed existence. At best, you go
out a tragic figure, a cautionary tale of what this fucked up sport can do you.
Or you can go out like Chris Benoit and have the Bixes of the world snorting
your brains through specially made straws which liquify it before being
greedily swallowed by the fat maws of our troubled youthful muckrakers.
None of it is good, man, none of it at all, but at least we
got to watch you boys die for our sins on Thanksgiving as we stuffed our fat
faces with blood food commemorating the genocide of the native peoples of this
fair land. Everybody wins except nobody
really does, maybe the Failure Demons and cardiologists, all so your racist
uncle can stuff his face and talk about how he’ll only eat white meat with a
knowing guffaw.
So Happy Thanksgiving, from me to you. I’m glad we could
spend it together with our beloved Lions as we vomit into the nearest house
plant and listen to grandpa bitch about the Jews and Mexicans while grandma
weezes her way through cleanup, nobody helping her, and she thinks bitter thoughts
about people with darker skin than her because she’s also horrible, just like
the rest of them, and then she’ll cry because you don’t call her enough and it’s
all you can do to not vomit into her wrinkled old face and send her nasty ass back
to hell.
But that’s just life in America in these strange and
terrible times, brutal and uncompromising in its miseries. At least you got to
eat yourself into a coma and watch a football game played for the delight of
fascists everywhere and a league full of corrupt and evil billionaires who
would sell you to some Arabians for a second helping of that pumpkin pie. Eat
until you puke, my fellow Americans. Eat until you can no longer control your
own bowels. Eat and watch more football as men destroy their brains for your
dumb enjoyment. Happy fucking Thanksgiving.
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