NY Jets (+10) at Indianapolis
This is just a dismal game between two teams caught up in various rebuilds, or whatever the fuck they do every year in Jets land to dupe their fans into believing it isn’t the same ground floor level team every fucking year. The Colts have not really been much better post Peyton Manning, but have always managed to at least put up a white milk alternative to the chocolate stylings of the rest of the AFC.
Indiana is really, really white is what I’m saying, and at points in their history they actually had the largest per capita Klan membership of any state. This isn’t the South, it isn’t even really the Midwest, it is just grimy dirt sucking shitheads who have plotted themselves on the soil for so long they manage to fertilize the corn and wheat fields which are only occasionally threatened by the runaway whip of an Amish cart racing hootenanny where the losers have to fuck their cousins and the winners get to do that too except they can also claim fucking privileges over the second cousins.
It is a horrible state, where the further South you go, you enter into some horrible vortex that doesn’t belong to anywhere geographically, but is the place that produced the howling rage of Axl Rose or methed out degenerates creating their own wrestling federation so that they can lure in unsuspecting dweebs and steal their money or female wrestlers so they can get them hooked on Fentanyl and fuck them until their skin literally oozes off and then they make that into a public free for all slop bucket where the winner dips his head into the mix, which is that oozed off skin, diarrhea and piss from assorted carnies, maybe some jacked off cum from the mutant the mayor keeps in a cage and pokes at with sticks for laughs.
There is nothing redemptive about Indiana, and it’s only fitting their only success football wise came from stealing a team from a soulful city like Baltimore and hooking it up with a cyborg Home Depot Manager named Peyton Manning who really likes the extra white for the paint on the picket fences which separate Indiana from reality like barbed wire flesh mutilation lines separate them from sneaking out in the night to fuck their cousins.
It is a miserable scene, and yet it will likely even be even more miserable for the Jets, who will fly into town and go straight to their hotel without making eye contact with whatever Jethro has the largest cellar and hope they can sneak back out of town with a win and a promise not to tell anyone what happened with those half-retarded ring rats they picked up at the local indy ‘rasslin event, especially since the one said she had to be home to study for her big math quiz in 7th grade.
There are only bad things that can happen to a man in Indiana, and even worse things for women. The Jets, of course, like to think of themselves as cosmopolitan and above these fiascos, but the reality is that most of the team is made up of horny Southern men who would probably fuck some John Waters horror show in a cornfield while some truly ratchet hip hop filled the night air, leading the citizenry to go get their hangin’ ropes.
At some point a football team will be played between two teams going different shades of nowhere, the Jets to Step Two in their never ending Ponzi scheme of a team, and the Colts to somewhere hopefully pretty quickly before Frank Reich gets sandbanked by Carson Wentz and the Colts fall apart leading to the forced conscription of young Arch Manning, who was probably created with the mixed semen of all the Manning brothers stirred into a nice porridge for whatever Sister Manning they have strapped to a bed like thing in the basement, and hopefully they won’t have to bury the next litter in a place even the local rats won’t infest, just a ruined land of fucked up mutant bones and tiny skulls, half malformed penises dying in the cruel light of Hell.
That is football life in the greater AFC South really, where Tennessee looks to win a de facto division title even if Derrick Henry is hurt and Ryan Tannehill of all people has to step up as the alpha in a division littered with ruined experiments and sex criminals, the rapes of which you only see on the news, the impossibly obese flesh of the rest of the Indiana men pressed away from the cameras and headlines onto the chicken bones of whatever hollowed out methed up stripper fell off the stage and couldn’t get back up to protect herself as the frenzy began.
Joe Namath is sitting in an Indianapolis airport bar and slurring to the bartender that he used to fuck a black broad up in Gary, which is almost Chicago before Sam Giancana had all the black whores sent in cages to Kentucky leaving Namath holding his dick and shrugging his shoulders as he is given Giddy Bowers, the 19h daughter of Jethro Bowers, in recompense. Giddy, as the 19th daughter, doesn’t stand to inherit much and, frankly, Jethro can’t tell which are his daughters and which are his wives, but sometimes you have to give the fancy men from out of state like Joe Namath something to go away so they can return to the Children of the Corn existence which dominates Indiana in all respects, culturally and civilly. They really don’t even have laws, the winners of court cases are decided by how many heads one of the Bird brothers can suck off a chicken before the bell rings, at which point a town orgy takes place, the people go feral and Willie Taylor, the only black guy in town is dragged behind a truck before being tied to a tall tree while the men recite the Pledge of Allegiance and the women ritually declit all the female babies because Tom Pence says sex should only be for procreation, not pleasure, before he drinks from mother’s tit and the next Supreme Court Justice is pulled from whoever won the town rape contest.
Pick: Colts
