I spent a good portion of yesterday with the shakes and a nauseous stomach and a general feeling of being on the precipice of an epic anxiety attack.
THAT’S how much I hate the Ravens.
Fire. Brimstone. Pestilence. Tribulation. Apocalypse. Jerkitudey buttheads.
Pretty sure that’s in there somewhere.
I see Ray Lewis, pre-game, amping up his team all, “Let’s leave our legacy. Let’s make them play us. Let blah blah blah nonsense bullshit I murder people,” and I want to jump through my television, find him, and maybe take a week’s worth of anger and frustration out on his donkey omelets like they’re miniature punching bags.
I just had a hilarious mental image of a mouse using Ray Lewis’ balls as punching bags and now I can’t stop laughing.
The Ravens give me hateful rage.
I’m not proud of it. But I do soak gloriously in it.
Let’s talk foosball, Bobby Boucher!
1.The big story of the game was of course the The Duke of Fug and the Earl of Gross was riding a lame horse, as in, his foot is broken, so he was wearing a giant clown shoe to protect his tootsies.
But as if that wasn’t enough, the Ravens went and immediately broke his fug, gross nose, making it fuglier. Grosser. The Kingdom of Fug and Gross gains acreage right before our eyes.
Normal ugly straight-ish nose.
After, taken from Mikey’s twitter account:
It looks like a sour gummy worm is trying to break free from his schnoz.
The best part was the announcers were saying, “We’re being told the Steelers are saying Ben’s nose is bloodied, not broken,” meanwhile I’ve seen Zs straighter than that nose.
It reminded me of that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the knight gets his arm chopped off and he’s all, “IT’S JUST A FLESH WOUND.”
Also, I’m embarrassed to admit that when Benny came to the sidelines with blood pouring from his nose, I got my sports confused and almost said aloud, “They drew blood! That’s an automatic penalty right?!”
Hockey on the brain.
Benny, the beast that he is, soldiered on through the broken foot, the broken nose, and the “NO MEANS NO!” chants in the crowd.
The crowd that cheers for murderers.
2. Michael Phelps was there and seemed to be having a jolly good time cheering on the Ravens.
Why do I have the incredible desire to feed him a carrot? Or a sugar cube?
3. If kicking multiple 40+ yard field goals last week wasn’t enough of a challenge, Shaun Suisham took on a whole new challenge yesterday when Daniel Sepulveda tore his ACL again forcing Suisham to serve as both kicker and punter.
And then if that challenge wasn’t enough, they decided to keep getting penalties during the punts, forcing him further back five yards at a time.
And then if THAT wasn’t enough of a challenge …
God. Give the boy a rest.
He’s been perfect. Let’s not wear him out lest he pull a Jeff Reed and morph from a clean cut college boy into a bloated bag of sexually transmitted diseases.
Speaking of, here’s Jeff Reed and his spare tire kicking a 44-yard field goal for the 49ers yesterday.
He might want to get himself checked for a tapeworm.
4. Did I mention Daniel Sepulvedanomnom is out for the remainder of the season?
5. I realize smiling is kind of Hines Ward’s thing. He smiles. All the time. Most of the time it’s endearing, but when we’re playing our mortal enemies, locked in heated battle of wills and testaments … or something, when blood has been shed, noses broken, ACLs torn, and you drop an EXTREMELY important pass on a third and long and you smile about it?
To quote my exact words yesterday, “Chingas a tu putisima madre, you smiley son of a bitch.”
Which translates roughly to, “I would prefer you not smile when you drop a pass, you smiley son of a bitch.”
I’m good at Spanishisimo.
Ask my husbando.
6. Bryant McFadden couldn’t cover a pimple, let alone a receiver.
I also wish his putisima would be chinga-ed … or something.
7. Third quarter, Heath Miller is the victim of a vicious helmet-to-helmet hit. Knocking him into some weird state of existence where his arms are tightened up in a scary and eerie fashion. I worry he’s paralyzed.
I wait for the flag.
You know. The flag. The flag that would have been thrown with joy and abandon like rice at a wedding had it been James Harrison that delivered the hit.
The flag. El flago? Flagito? Donde esta los flagos?!
No flag. Heath lies while the sound of the helmets echo through the stadium. Still no flag. Ben asks what’s up.
These refs are jokes.
8. So the entire game practically, we’re hanging in there at 6 points to their 10 when finally A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE.
Troysus karate chops Flacco’s arm sending the ball hopping away to be retrieved by the Steelers who run it to near first and goal.
Troysus saves. Always.
1st and goal. Benny avoids a sack and frantically tosses the ball away like a blind drunk working a paper route. Finally. After YEARS of shouting “GET RID OF THE BALL” at my television screen, the Duke finally heard me.
2nd and goal.
3rd and goal.
And here’s Redman. Stopped at the five yard line. I’m angry at the world. Angry at Ben. Angry at Hines. Angry at Arians for being as predictable as a menstrual cycle. I prepare to unleash a string of Spanish invectives unheard since I destroyed my husband at Mario Kart.
But wait! He eluded. He eluded again!
This is followed by a defensive stand that ended with Flacco mis-firing on 4th and 2, which, in 20/20 hindsight, they should have tried for the field goal to tie.
Steelers win a tough one, take over first place, and they paid dearly for it. They did it for Heath’s battered brain and Ben’s gummy worm schnoz and ogre foot and Daniel’s knee and Flozell Adams’ ankle and oh my God, how are we going to continue to win with our team as healthy as emphysema?