Man, I can’t even begin to describe how sick I am of steroid talk. I’d rather change George Mitchell’s bedpan than listen to another minute of this crap, but one little nugget has emerged in the past 24 hours that I need to vent about:
Roger Clemens is not going to Cooperstown.
Buster Olney, who’s one of my favorite writers ever and a Hall of Fame voter, went on the radio this morning and stated his belief that Rocket will get shut out. The old assholes, Olney’s brethren on the Baseball Writers Association of America, will make an example out of Rocket and pass him by.
(Ed. note: I saw it after I wrote this post, but check out Buster's blog from a couple days ago. Reasonable, rational, lucid...pretty much the opposite of every other hack that votes on baseball awards and honors. The way to save baseball would be to replace Bud Selig--a small-minded, reactionary weasel--with Buster Olney.)
I hate Clemens. If he decided to fall down a well tomorrow I’d throw a party. But I’ll be God damned if he’s not the greatest pitcher I’ve ever seen, better than Nolan Ryan. Doc Gooden and Pedro Martinez may have been better for stretches, but Roger Clemens is hands down the greatest pitcher of the last 50 years. And now he will take his seat alongside Shoeless Joe Jackson, Pete Rose, Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds—outcasts sitting on a bench outside the gates of baseball’s hallowed Hall.
I’m not crying for Rocket, but this whole thing is a joke. You can’t penalize players who were named in the Mitchell Report, because it’s alarmingly incomplete and unsubstantiated. Sammy Sosa’s name appears nowhere within it. Does that mean he gets in to the Hall now, baseball writers?
Let’s take another example, Clemens’ old Astro teammate Craig Biggio. He was left out of the report as well, and to my knowledge has never been implicated in any steroid controversy. But he’s been a Major League Baseball Player for the last two decades, so let’s just assume he’s been on the juice.
In five years, when both Biggio and Rocket are eligible for induction, Biggio will get in and Rocket--ten times the player--will not. Because no one ratted on Biggio. Nice system.
The easy answer for any of these fucks is don’t do drugs. The odds that someone would say you were cheating if you weren’t is slim. But to think that we’re any closer to solving baseball’s issue with steroids after the Mitchell Report came out, or to placing the Steroid Era in some sort of historical context, that’s preposterous.
I would like to induct any writers who keep Barry or Rocket—the two greatest players of my generation—out of Cooperstown into another Hall. My personal Hall of Fuck You You’re Stupid.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Man, I can’t even begin to describe how sick I am of steroid talk. I’d rather change George Mitchell’s bedpan than listen to another minute of this crap, but one little nugget has emerged in the past 24 hours that I need to vent about:
Following the Cubs' landmark signing of K-Sucky Fuck-You-Do-May, the Rangers decided to not be left out of the jersey market for adolescent stoners. They've got their own K-Fuk, the suave reliever Kazuo Fukumori. Or, Casual Fuck You More, I. The guys at The Dugout have to be dead of heart attacks right now.
Update: They've survived their cardiac arrest.
Second Update: Via Deadspin, here's a name that got both members of the K-Fuk club beat. Man, I love Asia. First gunpowder, now Suck Some Wong.
I have nothing more to add, so don't click on the "Read More" button unless you're a huge fan of wasting time. Read more
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Back in November, the Broncos traveled to Arrowhead and smoothly took care of the Chiefs. Later that week Mike Vick reported to prison. I imagine that shortly before he showed up he had himself a nice conjugal visit with a sweet young lady, whom he smoothly took care of as well.
This week the Broncos faced Kansas City again, this time in the Colorado chill, and Vick learned that he'll be a guest of the government for quite some time. If November Chief- and prison-sex was sweet and tender, the December variety is decidedly forced and painful. Both Mike Vick and Herman Edwards were repeatedly bent over and violated by a man named Elvis. Good times, if you're into that sort of gross shit.
We could talk about the long-term ramifications of this sodomy, but I just heard that the Broncos play a game tonight. And it's on NFL Network, which pisses me off to no end. Because I have the NFL Network, and I'll be forced to watch this team play yet another game. At least Bryant Gumbel is on the injured list, and slightly less annoying play-by-play man Tom Hammond is on the mic. Tommy just informed us that "Serge" Rosenfels will start at QB for Houston tonight, which is great. Because "Serge" is even shittier than his brother Sage. Or, if you prefer, Dr. Rosenpenis.
First, a pick. The Broncos are favored by three, which is probably bullshit. Even with Serge dangling his digits under center, the Texans just might be a better team. So take the home club and the points. The Pick: Texans +3
Looking around the AFC West, the two clubs in the cellar may have to deal with some coaching shenanigans. Adam Schefter just reported that UCLA is looking at Coach Herman and Lane Kiffin to possibly replace the fired Karl Dorrell. That sound you just heard is Bankmeister screaming with semen-soaked joy. In all fairness, Herman might be a great college coach. They don't let you challenge calls there, the clock stops after first downs, and you can flake on your job any time the going gets rough.
Denver sits two games back of the Chargers, so if they win out and San Diego loses this week against...fuck, who are we kidding? I did get a little wood this week in hearing about the latest Shawne Merriman controversy.
Seems Lights Out gave Vince Young a bit of a shot, and several Titans took exception and spent the rest of the game trying to blow out his steroid-weakened knees instead of holding on to a 14-point fourth-quarter lead. I for one support any and all efforts to injure, maim and shut the vagina-shaped mouth of Merriman. Dear Shawne/Shawn/Shane/Sean/Douche: until you've actually won something, why don't you stick a fucking sock in it. You and your whiny QB, your zit-riddled coach, your petulant, asshole, refuses-to-ever-be-injured RB, your bumbling GM, your buttwipe owner and your casually ball-licking fans, feel free to casually lick my balls.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
According to ESPN.com, The Chicago Cubs signed Kosuke Fukudome, a career .305 hitter and the 2006 MVP of the Japanese Central League, to a four-year deal worth somewhere in the range of 12-14 mil per year. He only played like 80 games last year and will supposedly man right field, which I guess (I hope) might be better than platooning Daryle Ward and Matt Murton. The Administrator's favorite site offers this sobering nugget: "His total performance in Japanese career resembles that of Akinori Iwamura, who is the current third baseman of the Tampa Bay Rays." Not exactly a Dice-K sized recommend. But none of that is important right now.
What's important is that I had a legitimate reason to peck out that title. I've still got a boner.
The Tradition was everything you imagined it was gonna be, fervent follower of the most infrequently updated blog in the new media sportiverse. There were guests from afar, there was snow on the ground, there was a 16-hour journey through each of Hell's nine levels, there was a domi-fucking-nating victory by the home team. There were ribs, friends. There were ribs.
Let's look at some of the highlights of the weekend. The ones I can remember, anyway--and I don't mean that as a joke. I totally blacked out large sections of the last few days.
(I've arranged them, ala an Aspy Peter King, in ascending alphabetical order for no particular reason other than my own Rain Manliness. Uh oh fart.)
Z. The hastily constructed meal at the--ugh--Blue Bonnet that happened after the wife and I panicked and cancelled our 8 p.m. dinner reservations at 4, because we thought Ol' No. 7 and his bride's misadventures would result in their pullin' into Denver concurrently with the entrees. A slight misjudgment on both our parts. But mostly hers. (Kidding! Kidding! In the name of all that I hold dear, namely my genitalia, kidding. Please don't hurt me. I swear I'll be good.) Seriously, though, it was.
Y. The pitchers of margaritas at said meal which resulted in my repeated assertion to Bankmeister's sister-in-law that the second inning of a baseball game is really later than the fourth. By that point I was in extras and Brian Fuentes was taking the hill after drinking a mason jar of mushroom tea.
X. Somehow collecting Waveland from the bar by accident on Sunday night, a condition which unfortunately resulted in both Ol' No. 7 and his mate "sleeping" on a couch big enough for one small dog to stretch out comfortably. If this Christianity thing people talk about is for the reals, that might be the deed that puts me in the eternal red. My back is seizing up just thinking about it.
W. Getting to the parking lot at 8:45 sharp in the a.m., before the guys were even there to collect our dough. There were only two other trucks in the lot for the next three hours. It was somewhere south of 10 degrees and had snowed multiple inches the previous evening. We ate breakfast burritos with chorizo and bacon and drank beer so cold it froze in the neck. Nirvana.
V. The bourbon. Salt-soaked Jesus in a wax tophat, the bourbon.
U. Selvin Mothergoddamn Fucking Young. A try-hard kid with speed and a Rod Smithian attitude. Gimme a double Selvin with extra Hall and no Travis.
T. The sheer vastness of 7's tailgate repertoire. The guy could fry a turkey in an Antarctic blizzard. And the fact that, even though he got in an accident on a snowbound mountain pass hauling a small trailer, the only item of substance that he lost was--drum roll, Jimbo--some Eddie McCaffrey mustard. Jagpot.
S. Bankmeister's choice of footwear, a pair of hiking boots he rescued from a dumpster back in the college days, which it pains me to say was like 14 fucking years ago. At one point they had to be dried on the grill in an aluminum pan.
R. Elvis Dumervil. 11 sacks on the year and the best game(s) of his young career against our biggest rivals. He's also named Elvis.
Q. 7, Bank and I traversing the wilds of Invesco's upper level concourse in search of tamales. Hell to the fuck yes, tamales. Gorgeous, husk-sheltered tubes of masa and carne. They even stayed hot until we got back to our seats; which some might say was because of the insulated foam boxes, but which I prefer to think of it as a kind of pre-Hannukah miracle. And I'm not even Jewish.
P. Downing--upon the beer, blended Canadian whiskey, American bourbon, carbombs and who knows what else--a good shot or two of Nyquil to end Sunday. You lika the good decisions? I make you some good decisions. Felt like I left a party at Terrence Kiel's crib. Does Lil' Flip regularly hork like I did that night? Because that's murder on a grill, I'm sure.
O. I think I already mentioned the bourbon, but if I didn't, I'll quote myself on Saturday evening: "Bourbon is good!" (delivered in a cartoonishly high sing-song.)
N. The cornhole. The cornhole was wet, and heavy, and kinda measty. The cornhole was tougher than Andre the Giant's personal bodyguard. Despite my loosest-limbed efforts to the contrary, I simply couldn't penetrate.
M. Breakfast on Monday at the incomparable Lucile's Creole Cafe...a breakfast I could only watch congeal on my plate while I weighed the relative merits of shitting my pants versus standing up and convulsively vomiting. But the gravy looked delicious.
L-A. The whole durned affair. It'll be a long year waiting for the next installment.
I've had the better part of a day and-a-half to lick my dastardly wounds from the heretofore unmentioned drubbing. The wife and I have travelled far from the site of said debacle and plan on attending a contest of another sort this evening. It's the sort we like to call hockey. The sport has gone wholly unnoticed on the HoG this season, and, what with my alleged "team" de football sucking six ways from Sunday, it's time to ante up and talk some sticks and pucks.
Naturally, this will thrill the Waveland22s and the Rustoleums of the world. Heck, even the Cecils and the Sevens will be aroused by it. But more on that later. THe wife and I are headed out to maim the weak and the young here in the Louis of Saint. Just wait, though. I've got lots of hockey up my sleeve. Hockey that I'll get to once I'm done with the complete, unabridged "Remove Herman From My Live Forever" thesis. It's coming. And it's a doozy. Read more
Sunday, December 9, 2007
It's game day here in the mile-high city, and the wife and I are pumped to hoof it down to Lot N for some breakfast and booze with the other HoG couples. Considering it's probably 35 degrees out, and it snowed like 80 feet (somewhere) yesterday, we're thankful that none of us have yet born offspring. Especially us. That would've meant we would've had to bundle up another body, feed it and ask it to trudge through the drifts with us, 'cause I ain't carryin' nobody.
Not to mention that the lil' fucker would've woken us up some time ago, instead of when we chose to. But anyway, after the jump, check out what I'll be digging on as we trod through downtown.
Ah. You made it. Nice. To answer myself, that'd be pretty much nothing. We won't see The Scout overlooking Penn Valley. We won't hear The Tomahawk Chop (loudly), we won't hear the "First Down!" for the Chiefs. We will, however, aside from our own, see sorry excuses for tailgates -- Seven and Cecil put together a pretty good gig but they sort of feel pressured to, you know, since they're tailgating with a Chiefs fan (and a smoothly handsome one at that) -- and we will see dumb statues of horses everywhere, and we will see lots of ugly -- namely orange and blue -- colors, and we will hear the gayest stadium -- In-Com-Plete -- chant in the northern hemisphere and we will suffer through the "protect this house" retardedness with which the PA assaults one.
Most importantly, we will see a victory! And we hope it's by the visiting team! Let's go, Chiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeefs!
Oh, and eff those mothereffin' In-Com-Plete homos. That's how I know you're gay, BroncoNation.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
When I was a Colorado resident, people always wanted to know why shit was so expensive in Colorado. To this question, I always responded with: "Blame it on the mountains."
Of course. They are gorgeous, but they must be traversed when hauling groceries and fuel and whatnot. Plus, their scenery is what makes the real estate as pricey as it is. Therefore, when Old No. 7 and Mrs. No. 7 must re-route, engage in whiteouts, accidents, snow embankments, hour-and-a-half-long trooper waits and near arrests, all because of alpine winter conditions, the blame must go somewhere. So why not Ma Nature and her splendid Rocky Mountains?
Fear not, though HoGsters. The Sevens are alive, uninjured, well, and persistent. Giant bummer for Mrs. 7, though, as she must operate the vehicular module with trailer in tow for the duration of the drive here. And the one home, too. Those are some good times I certainly don't envy.
Posted by Blair Johnson at 5:22 PM
I can think of very little I enjoy more than wearing Chiefs apparel in Denver on Tradition Weekend. Even now, when our teams (epecially mine) are pretty damn hurtin', it's a big tall glass of good times. And if the Donkey lovers are anything like me, it really irks them to see me rollin' through their hood with my gear. But I be doin' it. Then I leave and come back again, and I be doin' it some more. That said, there is a considerable amount about tomorrow's game that fans of both clubs should consider. I mean, aside from the fact that, collectively, we all want the Chargers plane or locker room to spontaneously implode. But it's factor time, and we should pay close attention. Let's have a gander 'round the Chiefs/Broncos UniBlog for a listen in to what be bein' said.
Chris at Arrowhead Pride dug up this ultra-savory clip from the StubTubes. Gotta love parents that get the kids geared up at an early age.
Speaking of StubTubeage, the Best Brothers of Springfield (a.k.a. Arrowhead Addict/Fan-Sided Blogs) shared this odd clip of The Inverted Vagina Symbol talking about, well, typical LJ stuff.
Earlier in the week, Adam Godson over at Predominantly Orange, put together this list of the Top Ten Choncos in My Briefs contests in the last 15 years. Not a surprise that there are more Denver victories than KC wins on the list, but it is a good list, especially numero uno. That game was savory.
Mr. Hercules Rockefeller, proud founder/writer of Orange Bucksnorts, weighs in on the Donkeys cutting Sam Adams, and how embarrassing it is to lose to Za Raiders, a feeling to which both Chiefs fans and Broncos fans can relate. Ol' Herc' has yet to paint his picture on tomorrow's contest, but we'll see if he doesn't come through before kickoff.
The big boys over at KSK have a funny take on the ol' T-Henmeister. Good stuff.
Speaking of big boys and T-Hen, the Deadspinsters linked to Westword for still more coverage on how to be a clean-urine stoner and daddy of the year at the same time.
Here at the HoG, however, we're waiting for the final segment of the Iron Triangle. Cecil, of course, calls Denver home, and as Old No. 7 mentioned yesterday, the wife and I caught one of those plane thingies from KC. Seven himself, however, ran into a bit of an Avalanche this morning attempting to summit Wolf Creek Pass. So, he, his wife, and their trailer in-tow (surely loaded with nothing but absolute necessities), were forced to turn around, matriculate across the lovely land of enchantment known as New Mexico, and procure an alternate/safer route to the mile-high city. They're certain to arrive prior to our 8:00 dinner reservations as Seven has never been late in his life, demanding intravenously administered grain alcohol. Cecil and I will oblige, and times will indeed be good.
Not near as good as kickoff time tomorrow, but pretty good nonetheless. Read more
Friday, December 7, 2007
Yes. Coming at you from an alleged 10-minute walk from AmVesCoInCap Field at Mile High Stadium, the wife and I are holed up in a neighborhood basement discussing just how bad our Kansas City Chiefs might be on Sunday when they take on the hometown Denver Broncos. We're sure of a few things: a)the temperature has continued to plummet since our arrival and Cecil has assured us of a low-30s/possibly snowy kickoff come gametime; Brodie Croyle might be removed from the playing surface via a cart or a stretcher; and Travis Henry is an outstanding Denver County citizen employed by the most well-loved, humblest coach in the NFL, and together their salaries are paid by the most attractive, intelligent, polite ticket-holding fans in the wide wide world of sports.
Rest assured, HoGnation faithful, 2:15 MST on Sunday will be some contest. Upon the OT conclusion of last year's contest and the coolest horse-laden facility east of Reno, I was certain my Chiefs had crossed the proverbial streak of winless campaigns in Denver. And, had this exquisite three quarters of a season not gone as swimmingly as it has, I'd still be on track to predict a home-team loss. Things, however, have included a five-game losing streak, five losses at the cherished Truman Sports Complex (one of which was to these same hapless Broncos) injuries to three quarterbacks and two running backs, and handfuls of hair being pulled out by Chiefs fans every time Coach Herm makes a "decision."
Believe it or not, I could go on. And on. And on. It's a bitter bitter pill to swallow when it's realized that your team is not on the path to championship football. Of course, that pill must be washed down with rusty-razor-spiked sewage water in the form of knowing that one year's draft won't even solve a fraction of the problems. Thus, the Chiefs must plod along through the sad, sad remainder of this season with zero playoff hopes and very little to go on for next year. We know that the Damion McIntosh project has been so-so; he's about half of a Willie Roaf when he can stay healthy. It's time to close the door on the Kyle Turley/John Welbourn chapters, and the Ty Law/Pat Surtain saga must end. Now. In other splendid news, Larry Johnson's big-money summer appears to have been for naught, and, oh by the way, the Chiefs have a mild situation to deal with in the place-kicker department.
Brodie Croyle, though he was hurt after a mere two starts, shows promise. He's got his own version of a laser rocket arm, more mobility than any Chiefs QB since the short-lived Rich Gannon era, and in a word, promise. And try as I might, I cannot separate myself from football season, or from my team; we're attached at the heart. For sanity's sake, I've got to have something. Something that shows the positive in this club. And here, right now, in the hub of enemy ground, it's come to me. It's a love I've had before, one I've welcomed back on more than one occasion, and it looks a little like this:
That's right. It's the defense. And I credit the man in the yellow glasses. So, my wish, and my wife's wish for Sunday is damage. Damage in the form of dashing Donkey playoff hopes, annihilating T-Hen's (non-stoned) knee, and giving Cousin Cutler a smackdown sandwich. More to come as kickoff nears. Read more
Posted by Blair Johnson at 5:51 PM
We're now 48 hours from kickoff, and the news from Dove Valley, league headquarters in New York and whatever the Chiefs call their practice shack is pouring in at a furious pace. Banky is in the air as we speak, matriculating his way toward DIA at several hundred miles per hour. I hope he lands safely, but all the other Chiefs fans on that plane can slide off an icy runway for all I...
Whoa, whoa. My inner monologue sort of spilled over there. I don't hate Chiefs fans, not in the slightest. They
amaze amuse me with their subtly brilliant football observations drunken parking-lot Zubazzery. Let's get to the latest, shall we?
Brodie Bangs is back, baby! The slack-jawed husband of lovely Kelli will start at Invesco on Sunday, just like he did at Arrowhead a few games back. Let's hope Denver has the good-hands team employed in the secondary, because Bama likes to put 'em up for grabs. KC, worried about their severely boo-booed quarterbacking club, is trolling for backups at various homeless shelters and soup kitchens. Worry not, mighty braves of the Missouri River valley, Dick Curl can whip anyone into an NFL QB with a weekend's worth of pep talks.
Protecting young Mr. Croyle is another question mark, as Coach Herman currently has tackling dummies filling his depth chart at LT and RT. Kyle Turley's mom, who is a hulking, handsome woman, has volunteered to man one of the spots, and Herman just may take the old broad up on it. Other options include Tony Mandarich, The Rock, retired Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Colin Powell and some dude named Will Svitek. I don't know if he can pass-block, but he does craft a seriously tough envelope.
On the Broncos' side of the football, Coach Shanahan has once again dipped himself in some hot water with the National Football League. Details after the jump...
In its infinite wisdom, the office of the Commissioner slapped a $25,000 fine on Shanny for his comments on the bizarre Travis Henry piss-test case. T-Hen famously submitted to both hair samples and a polygraph in an effort to clear his name. These tactics worked on his coach, who publicly stated that he believed the RB afterward. Problem was, these methods of testing are not endorsed by the league, and Shanny was reprimanded for (I guess) validating procedures that are outside the scope of the collectively bargained substance policy.
Pardon me while I rinse the lawyer-speak from my mouth and genitals. This decision smacks of nothing more than retribution for the league getting their asses handed to them by Henry's attorneys. What, exactly, did Shanny do wrong here? His star back was accused of a serious offense that would have knocked him out for a year. Henry claimed he was clean, and used modern technology to back it up. Shanny looked at these results and stood behind his guy--what's the crime, Goodell? Maybe the Lone Reader is correct in his assessment of your heavy-handed and goofily inconsistent discipline. That, dear friends, was my feeble attempt at a joke. The Lone Reader is never correct.
Now if Shanny lies on his injury report, that's a different story. That affects fantasy football and casual gambling, and those are unforgivable sins. You wanna fine him, fine his ass--you knew who he was, why let him off the hook? Same with the salary-cap malfeasance (if you want a link ask Banky, he has that documentation tattooed to his wrist). Or crimes against tanning humanity. But this charge is bunk, blue.
One more thing: next week's Chiefs home game against the Titans may be blacked out locally. That's right, kids, the game is not sold out. I just went on Ticketmaster and was able to purchase two seats. So the next time any fat dude in overalls tries to tell you that the best fans in America reside in Kansas, City Of Losers, you just ask them where they watched the Tennessee game. And if they say on television, they're lying. And fat.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Be honest: how often are you truly shocked anymore? Surprised, yes. But shocked? It takes a lot. When I heard that Travis Henry got off on his pot suspension, I was floored.
For a long time, I thought T-Hen was simply delaying the inevitable with his legal chicanery, and that he would eventually have to take a year off. On several occasions I heard about the possibility of a reduced suspension, similar to when Jared Allen found Jesus and O'Doul's and had his four-game DUI break cut to two.
But it never entered my mind that he'd get off.
What's it mean to the Broncos? I don't know. I suppose this could produce an unexpected victory or two in December, provided Henry can hold on to the fucking football. It damages my fantasy teams, which had been built around a Henryless ground game (as of last week, on one squad, I owned Selvin Young, Andre Hall and Cecil Sapp).
What's really important, though, is that we've revived an entire industry of athlete excuses. As fans we've surely tired of hearing these lame lines every single time a jock gets busted: It was a tainted supplement. That's my cousin's backpack. I never knowingly took it. And until now, we've called bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. But who knew it would ever work?
Travis Henry wants you know that he's totally honest and respectable, and would like to issue the following statements (more after the jump, and feel free to leave your own in the comments)
That’s not my sperm.
She swore she was eighteen.
I told you it was oregano.
I ejaculated in self defense.
It must have been a poppyseed muffin.
Coach told me to hit the hole harder.
Can I buy you a fish sandwich?
My dog ate my playbook.
If I offended anyone I apologize, I’m really high.
I thought it was flaxseed oil.
She told me she was on the pill.
If necessary, my attorneys can provide you with pubic hair samples.
Rectum? Damn near killed ‘em.
If I’m such a deadbeat dad how come I dance so good?
Jay Cutler gave me a Vitamin B-12 shot.
I ingested steroid-fed beef, but I did not inhale.
She was impregnated through second-hand semen.
Liquor? I don’t even know her.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Since the Oakland Raiders now own both the Broncos and the Chiefs, we gave them the keys to the House. They could not, however, get in the door, so we offer apologies for the lack of content over the past few days.
Turns out they couldn't figure out our passwords. Mine is "1234." Banky's is some variation of "firecoachhermandotcom." And Cecil's was recently changed by his wife, you'll have to ask her what it is.
The Iron Triangle has been busily engaged in our various day jobs, trying to get caught up before the weekend of debauchery ahead. That's right, kids, Week Of Shit Part Two (Week Of Shit is a registered trademark of House of Georges L.L.C.) is upon us. The Broncos and Chiefs meet Sunday at Invesco to determine, with utmost authority and finality, who is indeed the lousiest team in the NFL's lousiest division (sorry NFC South, that title is ours).
We'll convene in the N Lot at 9 a.m. for a festival of meats, cheeses and beers, so feel free to join in. Stay tuned for further updates throughout the week on non-suspended running backs, out of work fat people, weather patterns and God damn this game is going to suck.
Posted by old no. 7 at 10:32 AM