My friend Goth, a Bears fan, writes in another (secret) place that Da Bearss are going to "celebrate their victory" over America's former sweethearts by "killing some kittens and eating babies. With a fine chianti." His sentiment best encapsulates my feelings about the week-long slobber job that the Aints have enjoyed at the hands of the media, right up through their death throes in yesterday's game.
Let me clarify my base position. My wife, the lovely Ilse, calls herself both a Redskins fan and, at a secondary level, a Bears fan. Since this is mathematically impossible, and I have no way to address it without resorting to saying bad things about my wife, I have concluded that she's just stone fucking batshit. There's a Daddy thing here, too (he inexplicably taught her that this madness was okay), but I will leave this and continue to love my wife and her Daddy without reserve.
Like any actual Redskin fan, I hate the fucking Chicago Bears, in a primal, atavistic way. Ilse questions my sanity with the insouciance of those who can't manage to respect their elders, boggling that this atavistic hatred is based on events that occurred 20 years before I was born. Of course it is. That's what fandom is about. It's about carrying on traditions of hatin' and doing your level best to ensure that peace can never be restored--which, in the case of football, it should never be. The Bears' grandfathers once beat my grandfathers 73-0 in an NFL championship game--the game that saw the introduction of the T formation, by the way--and this can never be forgotten or forgiven. Ever. Do you fucking hear me, wife? Ever.
Understand, then, my dilemma of the last few weeks--of the whole season, really. I've actually had to hope that the reprehensible, T-Rex-to-my-mastodon, herpes-embracing, Grossman-loving, Ditka-worshipping punkass bitch Chicago Bears win football games. And it's been a unrelenting succession of no-brainers, because the Bears schedule has been an unrelenting succession of pansies and dickheads. I'm not trying to diss the Bears here; they've won two tough playoff games to get to the Stupor Bowl, so it's not like I'm saying they're undeserving. But until yesterday, the only team they played all season that approached minimal competence was the Seahawks, and "minimally competent" is a pretty dubious assertion even there.
Not that I haven't enjoyed this. That bizarro Monday night game when the Bears nearly choked on the fucking Cardinals was one of the most entertaining evenings of my life, mostly because I had no real stake (I hate the Buzzsaw with a passion born of remembering well when they were division rivals of the Skins) and got to fan the flames of my wife's twitching, spastic nervous breakdown. That shit is what we call pure comedy gold, ladies and gentlemen.
Which brings us to yesterday. We only got to watch the first half on television, because we had to make a 5-hour journey into the winter wonderland of the DC metro area to go fetch the childrens. But the one thing that CBS and Westwood One (the radio carrier) had in common was their shared love of gobbling the penii of Sean Peyton, Reggie Bush, and Mamasboy Brees. I thought Bob Trumpy (Westwood One's color guy) was gonna have to take a shower after Bush's touchdown catch/run (which, courtesy of YouTube, I now understand was a really fucking dumb thing to do--can you imagine a world where taunting a diseased felon like Brian Urlacher is a good idea? Conveniently, Trumpy and his radio broadcast didn't tell us about that part of the play.).
This, coupled with the week-long suckfest that has been your American sports media, pushed me way over the edge into open, unabashed Bear-loving. When former Dallas Cowgirl (NEVER FORGET!) Billy Cundiff missed a figgie and the Bears subsequently went up 18-14 on Brees' badly timed grounding, the radio guys still swore that the Aints had the momentum and the Bears were foundering on the rocks. Perfectly content with not having been paid in advance, these morons kept slobbering away until the very end, hoping for that yummy, humiliating money shot. Pack of fucking diseased whores.
We missed most of the other game, too, although we got home in time to see the part that counted and, more importantly, the look on Dreamboat's face when the Colts went up for good. The Patriots and Manning-bashing are another pair of playoff-time media sex obsessions. I've told you that I'm not a Manning fan (and I don't like his coach or his team, either), but to pretend that yesterday's result wasn't righteous is to admit that one is a pure Patriots fan. If that's what you are, fine, you're entitled to it. But owing to its perpetuity, the annual media suckoff of Dreamboat and Homeless Bill is far more galling than their temporary insanity over the Aints. It was also pretty satisfying that the game's outcome revealed what a mannerless piece of fuck Belichick is. His appallingly rude postgame snub of Manning and his monosyllabic interview outside of the locker room after the game were classics of childish passive-aggression. Homeless Bill is a cast-iron fuckhole who should be punched in the fucking mouth.
Who to pull for in the big game? I'll save myself the tsuras and sort of half-assedly support the Bears. The whole thing will be a bit of a yawn for me unless I make my own entertainment. But with Mister Laser Rocket Arm and the Jizzmeister competing for my satirical energy, I ought to be able to get somewhere with that.
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