Thursday, June 18, 2009

Thursday Blursday: An Extremely Late Take on Brandon Marshall, and Mountain Biking Hits the Big Time


Hello, friends and the rest of you. I've missed you all, too. Hey...don't start, it's OK, we're back together now and that's all that matters.

So you might have heard that Broncos wideout Brandon Marshall wants either a new contract or a trade. At least, I hope you have. Otherwise I'll send someone in to check on you, make sure you have enough Ensure Plus and that the cats are fed.

I've got some opinions on this, naturally, which I'll share with you below the coding, alongside a Sapphic blast from the Durango past.



Ahem. Allow me to address Brandon directly, as he's a regular reader:

Brandon. Dude. I've defended you beyond all sense of reason. Every time you pulled out the Sharpie, squinted and drew a bullseye on your girlfriend's left cheek, I was there to offer up some half-cooked justification on your behalf. Oh, I'd say, but he seems like a really nice guy. He works with kids! The Reverend Leon Kelly loves him! He playfully throws snow in the midst of a blowout! He's trying to honor John Carlos and Tommie Smith!

I just can't do it any more, Brandon. Not because I've come to some epiphany about your two (or more) personas, no. Not because you want to get paid; I know that the owners hold the whip hand in the League and I'll never fault a player for trying to squeeze a little more juice from the orange. Not even because you've evidently demanded a trade.

Nope. I can't stick because you're clearly just fucking dim. Just really, really stupid.

I admit, discovering an echo in your cranium surprised me somewhat. You had always seemed like a relatively bright dude--you have a political consciousness, for instance, which is about as rare in modern sports as an inside-the-park grand slam or a wooden tennis racket. But the way you've gone about your business in recent months leads me to the conclusion that you are, finally, nothing but yet another hammerhead.

Seriously. ESPN just aired a whole Outside the Lines special about your history of domestic violence, a special in which you reportedly couldn't have come off worse. (I didn't watch it, because I prefer to look Outside the Leader for my investigative journalism. Sorry, Bob Ley.) Your name is being spat from the mouths of fans who can't find Denver on a map of the U.S. Yet you evidently thought that now was the perfect time to engage in a pissing match with a new front office team, headed by a dude who just left a system that 1. doesn't value the wide receiver position the way most other teams do and 2. has a locker room image to protect.

What the fuck? No matter what you or your agent says, who actually believes the Broncos are working feverishly to grant you your wish? Who actually thinks that they aren't just going to play hardball with you? Who actually thinks you have even a tiny piece of ledge to stand on, here?

You, Brandon. That's who. I don't care if Pat Bowlen said they would--and there's no guarantee he did--because Pat Bowlen frequently speaks as if his mouth is disguising a pipe that blows insanity.

This, Brandon, is a no-brainer. And the fact that you think otherwise means, well, that you have no brain.

OK. Finished.

In other news, ex-Durango mountain biking superstar Missy Giove was just busted with 200 pounds of dope. Holy Cats. I recall stories of her being a massive cunt with entitlement issues; but, as No. 7 mentioned to me earlier today, she *was* a pretty big fish in the ol' lily pond, way back when. Now, she's just another lesbian convict with a vial of her dead dog's ashes around her neck.

3 comments:

bankmeister said...

She was one of the Tami Graham Clam Clan. That's for sure.

Oh, and, uh, the story I read said her dead dog's ashes were being kept in a vile .

Hercules Rockefeller said...

Ah, Missy Giove. Classic. I smoked with her once at a house party at that place at the bottom of the hill. 808 9th? 909 8th? Something like that?

old no. 7 said...

Inside the park grand slams are easy.

Signed,
Mike Greenwell and Greg Cadaret