I did NOT appreciate having the cold-sweats on top of the fever-sweats.
It wasn’t enough that I was already sick, already feeling like death’s cold hands were closing around my neck, but the Steelers had to go and almost blow a 20 point lead in the fourth quarter.
To the Bungles, no less. To Chad OchoStinko and What’sHisStupidTeethyHorseFace. No, not Shannon Sharpe. The other one. Yeah, Terrell Owens.
If my hate for the Flyers is biblical, my loathing of 85 and 81 together on the same team is inconceivable. Exponential. Gargantuan. Gruesomely, gruesomely huge. They haven’t yet invented the numbers that could describe the degrees that the fire of my repugnance blazes.
But, let’s get into the game.
1. The game started with the gods of football shining happily on the Steelers, caressing them with charmed fate.
Fumbled opening kickoff return? Yes, please, thankyouverymuch!
Yes, please, thankyouverymuch!
Whambamthankyoumaam, the score is 7-0, then 10-0, then 10-7, then 17-7, then 20-7, then 27-7? Twenty point lead? Yes, please, thankyouverymuch!
And all of Pittsburgh said, “I think we got this. Pass the mini-wienies.”
It took all of one quarter to send us from our triumphant, arms-raised, texting smack to our Cincy friends, in-your-faceness to whimpering, rocking, eye-covering balls of OMG-I-can’t-even-look fear.
That cannot happen again. My constitution can’t take no more of that topsy-turvy shit.
2. For everything that DID happen last night, one thing that was NOT happening was another Heath Miller fumble. He protected that ball like it was his newborn baby.
At least that’s how I sing it to my kids.
Speaking of singing to my kids, I’ve had a glass and a half of shiraz, so let me share this with you. The other night I went to sing my daughter her songs before she fell asleep. I started with the Barney standard “I Love You” and then when I started on “Row, row, row your boat,” she said, “No, Mommy, sing me ‘Duele el amor.'” Hand to God.
It’s SPANISH and a pop song to boot. I know three or four words of that song. So I sang, “Duele el amor. Sentir. Duele blah blah blah. Duele el amor. Somethinnnnng. Duele blah blah blah. Duele el amor. Sentir. Duele blah blah blaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
My finest performance of made up crap ever.
Also, when we go to Mexico next to visit her Abuela and Abuelo, I am going to have some ‘splainin’ to do when she’s all, “Duele blah blah blahhhhhh!”
3. “We’ve replaced their normally sucky special teams with this new and improved set. Let’s see if anyone notices.“
4. What the wookie?
I’m so confused. It’s like Teen Wolf and Chewie had a stupid baby.
5. Can we talk about the beauty of this?
The beauty of the trick play that worked. The beauty of Randle-El’s throw. The beauty of Mike Wallace’s catch. The beauty you might not have noticed: Benny’s tackle. Watch for it.
Have a slut for that one, Benny!
And you’re in luck. They’re already called “Ben-gals!” and they are big believers in hairography.
I said ONE, Benny. Don’t be greedy. You have to save some for Jeff.
He did make a 53-yard field goal after all.
6. Jeff Reed. Lowest rated kicker percentage-wise going into yesterday’s game and he nails a 53-yarder right down the middle and I was like, “Whoa. Dude is BACK. He’s fat and he has back fat now, but he is BACK.”
Then he goes and misses a 43-yarder.
What is going on with him?! Is it just harder to kick with the extra weight, and I’m seriously asking that, not to be snarky, but as an honest question. It’s got to be harder to kick when you have extra fat on your belly, right?
Either way, he was surely pissed that he didn’t profit any sluts due to Mike Tomlin’s newly instituted “One slut forward, two sluts back” rule.
7. Mike Wallace needs to slow the hell down or Benny needs to throw harder, because boy got underthrown several times yesterday where had the ball sailed far enough, he’d have had an easy catch with defenders left eating his smokin’ hot dust.
In addition, Mike took two helmet to helmet hits in a row yesterday. Looking forward to seeing if they’re fined by King Goddell, Most High Muckety Muck of Football Ruindom.
8. Let’s talk some more about 85 and 81. On a scale of severely to shock and awe, how hard do YOU want to punch them in the donkey-omelets?
The constant whining and jawing and fighting and shouting and pleading and pouting. Beyond annoying.Worse than whining children.
9. Now, seriously. What the hell happened in the fourth quarter?! The Steelers hexed? The Bengals possessed? Something else? Something worse?
I don’t know what it was, if it was the magical fart hex or what, but I really don’t want to go back to that thing where we blow leads in the fourth quarter. We’ve been there last season. We’ve done that. I did not enjoy it.
Play four quarters and play them well.
I can’t even stand it.
The Patriots and Justin Bieber.
I’m going to start now to come up with a list of words to describe how I feel about him.
Detest. Abominate. Loathe. Abhor.
Odious. Repulsive. Pestiferous. Smells like poo.
I’m just getting warmed up.