It'd be nice if we can all just pony up and admit that if sports wagering was never invented, pro football would not become the bloated overfed pustule of a sport that it is today.
The players we hear about are strictly cookie-cutter. Dancing after a touchdown? How original. There are only 1,487 of your ilk in that rarefied air. Want to truly break the mold? Flip the script? Run in, hand the ball to the ref and run back. The sporting community will take a collective shirt in its collective pants. Promise.
Oh, gosh, what's this? A post-game press conference where even the winning coach looks suicidal? I'm shocked. In no way can I tell that these poor surly bastards are working 100 hour weeks and napping in their offices. Christ, what happened to Bum Phillips? These guys have all the charisma of oatmeal.
Wow, a loud fast-paced program packed to the ribs with ex jocks screaming about guys getting "jacked up?" Amazing. This makes me long for the subtle lilting voice of John Madden.
Look...the game sucks, the culture around it sucks, it all sucks. I'm usually not so over-the-top absolutist except to those close to me, but if this gets one person to never watch a pro football game again, it'll all be worth it. Gun to my head, I couldn't name last season's MVP. I can't name this year's MVP. And this is a point of pride.
Even if my "home team" ever makes the Super Bowl, I'm not watching it. First I'll go upstairs and masturbate. Then maybe I'll clean the magazines off my bedroom floor. I'll see if there's something good on TV, like a marathon of movies based on Danielle Steele novels. I'll empty the catbox and clean it, twice. Maybe I'll masturbate some more. We'll see. Then, for exercise, I'll go outside and hit myself in the nuts with a ball-peen hammer.
Anything but this present dreck.