Worst to First #16

The pre-season has begun and our collective semi-bone is creating a bulge that neither sandbags nor concrete dam could prevent from exploding in less than a month's time. With that said, allow us to stroke the fire, so to speak, and preview all 32 teams. Beginning with who we think will suck the most, and ending with who we think will suck the best.

Paging Dr. b. Lee,


The Savages


Or, Snyder's Millions.

Did you know that the Washington Redskins are the NFL's second-most profitable team? Indeed, next to the Cowboys, the Skins are pulling it down more than any other club in the union. How? I have no fucking clue.

But word on the street is that Dan Snyder has been ciphering a few million of the top in order to purchase Portis jerseys in order to compensate for the complete lack of interest that this team generates beyond the confines of the Maryland swamp region.

The irony here is that Clinton Portis, while representing the only semi-successful offensive maneuver achieved under the Snyder regime, cost them perhaps the best defender ever to don a Redskins uniform in Champ Bailey... AND a second round draft pick! Of course, Portis has been no doubt the brightest spot in this offense since he arrived, but that's kind of like calling that piece of corn the brightest spot in your turd sandwich.

Since then, when not hiring bad coaches or drafting mediocre quarterback in the first round of the draft, Skins management has been focusing strictly on the defense either out of preference or necessity. The latter when tragedy struck, and the former, well, during just about every draft or free agency move in the last 5 years.

Not even a top five defense can satisfy this team. They want MORE, clearly subscribing to the Baltimore theory (or is it the Singletary theory?) of professional football. And so they took more in the 2009 draft, picking up a a cornerback, a defensive end, and linebackers with their first four picks. Maybe they think the offense will be fine (Santana Moss still has gas in the tank!) or perhaps they have realized that every offensive decision they muster is futile at best (Campbell) and catastrophic at worst (Patrick Ramsey anyone?).

And how could I forget about the showstomper, Big Al Haynesherwayworth (I sure know Andre Gurode hasn't)? Although Al and I are not currently talking due to his poor treatment of our lord and savior in last week's pre-season game with the Patriots, there is no denying the biggest defensive acquisition of the offseason, and it's clear improvement of an already above average defense. Enough so that the Skins will probably be able to compete with most teams in their MONSTER division, at least long enough for their offense to sputter and blow it in the waning minutes of the 4th quarter.

Unfortunately, none of this information is capable of keeping my attention long enough to even consider watching this Redskins play this year. A difficult feat this will no doubt be, but if there games are even as remotely hard to watch as this preview was to write, then it will surely be a worthwhile endeavor.

Fuck... Can I stop talking about the Redskins now?

Peter King needs a cigarette and a sandwich...

"Brett Favre is a Viking and I want to kill someone." - Le Ginge

(resident Purple People Eater)

Pending our BFF's ability to pee into a cup, complete 25 jumping jacks and turn his head from side-to-side, the Minnesota Vikings have a new, old quarterback. Oh, BFF you sly ol' fox; letting the whole universe believe you were officially gone for good, off to tend to the finely manicured fields and plains of the Mississippi Delta... Just to pull a rope-a-dope on us all. Absorbing blow after blow, jab after jab, just to bounce back off the ropes tossing haymakers-from-hell into double coverage. Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.

Oh yeah...and why don't you go ahead and literally FUCK YOUR OWN FACE.

Deuce, I've Got Drew Rosenhaus on Line 1

In an effort to avoid compromising the historic cultivation of the first human child spawned using only the sperm of three mostly-Caucasian males (Romo, Witten and Garrett) in his secret underground laboratory, the Dallas Cowboys Big Dick In Charge released Terrell Owens late last night. So now, a quick-hitter analysis of who may be interested enough, masochistic enough, or just straight-up ballsy enough to give Popcorn Abs a umpteenth chance. Or, just some teams that would be really damn entertaining with TO along for the ride:

Washington Redskins: Because Daniel Snyder is Jerry Jones before he was potty-trained. Highly unlikely that they've got the cheddar to afford him, but I'm sure Snyder's balls dropped a little farther at the thought of pairing TO along side Santayana on the offense.

New England Patriots: Corey Dillon. Randy Moss. Rodney Harrison. The Patriots crave character. Plus, he might be able to help them lure Pac-Man. Also, I believe Belichick and Owens were molded by Lucifer from the same pile of dogshit-encrusted lava rock.

Oakland Raiders: Because Al Davis just had his first erection in 3 decades.

Baltimore Ravens: Spurn me once, shame on you. Spurn me twice, and Ray Lewis will invest in some throwing knives. Unless Coach Harbaugh was planning on employing the 3-Fullback system again this year.

Miami Dolphins: Bill Parcells has the nuts to pull it off, J-Peezy has the insanity to not put up with his shit and Chad Pennington has the vagina to throw him the damn ball every play!

Tampa Bay Buccaneers: Out with the old (stockpiling mediocre QB's) and in with the new (stockpiling knucklehead WR's with not an arm to throw it to them). And their new coach may potentially hate white people as much as TO. Plus, it's warm.

Arizona Cardinals: Since nothing else they do seems to make any sense. And between Warner's Bible Study groups and Leinarts Pooty Train, Owens' life would be complete.

New York Giants: TO's never shot himself in the leg, and I personally would like to see Tom Coughlin's Face create a previously-unattainable hue of red that would provide lighting for an entire block of strip joints.

New York Yankees: Hank Steinbrenner likes his leadership capabilities, and his willingness to change positions to fill a hole at 3B. Plus he'd be their cheapest player.

Minnesota Vikings: This is the one place where fans might actually be supporitve of signing TO. Only for the sheer possibility that he murders Brad Childress in cold blood on the sidelines with a kicking tee.

Cincinnati Bengals: Because Armageddon is upon us.

Bed's Too Big Without You, NFL

The nights are growing shorter, but somehow the darkness is pervasive. A thin veil dims the hours of my waking life like the shadow of a rain cloud unwillingly orbiting my corporeal being. My interest in the mundane sinks into an expanding gap alienating me from my former life, pushing me deeper into nothingness. Across the void is a life to which I cannot return. But would I want to, after what you have done to me? If all you know is the black of night, would your eyes even be able to handle the white of day?

Oh NFL, my one true love. Annually you come to my door, invade my space, offering me all kinds of joyous wonders. And for a time, you fulfill them. But continuously the only promise you can keep is that of gravity. You lift my spirits, carrying me blindly, blissfully into the throes of the dead season, only to drop me fearfully and deep into the decaying brush where I will be covered by the angelically vengeful snow.

Oh NFL, you sultry minx, with your long legs and dashing appearance. Week to week I descend further into debt. Believing that the more resources I set aside in your honor, the more capable I will be of keeping you around all year long. I bet on you, I give you my emotional and financial support, I put all my money into your collection plate. I see no returns, I see no appreciation, I see only embezzlement.

Oh NFL, you haunting spectre. Vague reminders scattered about the landscape in the form of Mel Kiper, the Scouting Combine, and various pundits. The "stink", strong and decadent at first, wanes even before such trinkets are cast aside in a huff, like a dog shedding his collar. If it is a yoke with which you seek to bind me, then you will need a whole lot more Erin Andrews, and a whole lot less Marshall Faulk.

Oh NFL, you gluttonous cougar. You say that you enjoy the finer things in life, but it is I who on the second Sunday of February is left lonesome, with a case of PBR, and a fifth of Jaeger. The bratwurst sitting atop soggy, kraut-infused bun. The cheese curls soft, stale, now unsatisfying. The chili putrid and diarrheal, but somehow, still inviting. Much like you.

Oh NFL, you cold-hearted man-eater. Upon leaving you are always sure to call, keeping me on the line long after you have disconnected. Faint recollections of our conversation include topics such as a "Pro Bowl", and how we may even be a good fit. Have you still not come to see the quality of my taste? I am here not for friendly, meaningless games. I am here only for fateful outcome and genuine gain. I am here because I am lazy and unimaginative. Have you forgotten? You provide the spark that lifts me from my armchair for one brief, impenetrable moment before falling back under the weight of my own bloated belly. You are the artist that portrays the most wondrous playoff scenarios on the pallet that is my own underused, oft abused brain pan.

Oh NFL, you twisted whore. You treat me as if I am the only one. Yet for 5 months of Sundays.And Mondays. And a handful of Thursdays and Saturdays; you sell yourself to any man, woman, or even child. Some for the right price, some for no price at all. You claim that I am jealous, and of this charge I am unapologetically guilty. For jealousy, in this case, is warranted. For all the other imposters seek only to gawk at you, use you, bore you, and manipulate you for their own purposes. But it is I alone that wants to hold you forever. All I ask is that you be there for me. Be there all year long.

But NFL, you eternal cocktease, this is something that you refuse to provide. I offer you love, devotion, and perpetual homage. But all you have to offer me, is a 6th title for the Allegheny Whitefish, months of Brett Favre aggravation, and Trey Wingo.

Keep it.

All of it.

For I just saw NHL walking around here somewhere, and she is looking FOYNE!



Spitefully yours,
B. Lee



PS. I'll be waiting for you in September... Come back to me.