So we, "we" being the Family of Terrapinality, have this beautiful hunk of running back named Lance Ball. Lance is a fucking monster, fast and huge and powerful, a classic quick back with tremendous leg power. Lance is The Man, and has emerged as the most used of the Terps' three perfectly fine running backs. Lance ran for 115 yards in the Terps' ridiculous 27-23 loss to those annoying little fucking bees from Atlanta on Saturday.
Here's when Lance didn't run: on fourth and two from the annoying little fucking bees' 41 yard line, with about 7 1/2 minutes left in the game. Lance had run for 20 yards already on that drive, but Ralph, he of the fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind, and who is generally billed as an old-school, smashmouth kinda guy, didn't seem to understand that the best way to get two fucking yards would be to squash you some fucking annoying little bees and gut Lance Ball's well-muscled studpuppy ass up the fucking middle. I mean, if you can't get two yards running when you desperately need it, you ain't shit.
Ralph ain't shit.
He had our boy Sam Hollenbach, who is a more-or-less competent quarterback, throw on fourth and fucking two. Interception.
Here's when Lance also didn't run: on third and fourth down after those fucking annoying little bees managed to miss a figgie on the ensuing drive, and Sam pitched the ball FIFTY-SIX FUCKING YARDS to freshman phenom Darius Heyward-Bey for a first down on the fucking annoying little bees' 8 yard line. On 3rd and goal from the 5, Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind, decided to throw the ball again, even though those fucking annoying little bees have themselves quite a pass rush, and at this point only have about 15 yards of field to defend, so we know what's coming, right?
Of course they're blitzing. I mean, duh. So let's get our quarterback chased until he grounds the ball and we lose a down and we're on the fucking 20 yard line, shall we? Sure, sounds like a plan.
I've had an interesting 36 hours or so since those moments (good times!) on Saturday. I have some weird pains in that whole upper body area that I worry about so much. As the whole thing was going down and I was screaming in a murderous rage at the top of my lungs and sputtering and turning various colors (good times!) and shrieking threats and vile imprecations and death at Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind, Ilse was quite concerned. Now, these pains have been accompanied by some other stuff (gas and shit, mostly, if you must know) that suggests a cause for these pains other than Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head that should be impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind. But there you have it.
In other news: Joe El Senor Jesucristo Super Mayamaya Jefe Gibbs is a pussy, but it didn't matter as much. Or maybe it did. Down 16-3 to the Unusually Large Blue Persons of Northern New Jersey, and facing a 3rd-and-1 on the Blue Persons' 24 yard line, of course El Senor runs uberstud Clinton Portis up the fucking middle to preserve the drive and maybe get a touchdown that keeps hope alive, right?
Nah. Of course he didn't. He threw the fucking ball over the middle incomplete. To try to get one fucking yard. PUSSY.
So now it's fourth and one, on the Blue Persons' 24. Of course, El Senor runs uberstud Clinton Portis up the fucking middle to preserve the drive and maybe get a touchdown that keeps hope alive, right?
Nah, of course he didn't. He sends out John Hall to try a field goal at the edge (yes, that's right, 42 yards is the fucking edge of our vaunted and expensive placekicker's range) of his range. Wide left. PUSSY.
I've wanted Joe El Senor Jesucristo Super Mayamaya Jefe Gibbs crucified since the day he got here. But wanting Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind? Tipping point, baby. Thanks for the chest pains, you braindead chunk of testosterone-poisoned blubber. Now get the fuck out of town.
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