Scooping My Own Non-Jackson

I'm not even going to pretend I know what that title means. Here's the deal, oh loyal readership of the HoG--we've let you down. The other two legs of thisyere Iron Triangle (which was a superb heavy metal band from Leeds, late '70s) have genuine excuses, i.e. work, for the infrequency of their posts. Me? Well, I've been huffin' a lot of rubber cement recently. Makes me think everything is better. It does, however, carry with it a few unfortunate side effects: dizziness, death of brain cells, neglect of blog.

I'd like to say things are going to be different from here on out. So I will: things are going to be different from here on out. Christ, that felt good.

Of course, that was a lie. The implosion of the Broncos' season has put me in about as foul a mood as I've been in for more than a decade, since the first time the McRib was discontinued. I can't enjoy my usual dose of Too Much Sports Opinion By Too Many Besuited Idjuts. I can't take my usual pleasure in fall Sundays--no one happily anticipates being the catamite in the prison shower. I can't even drink the pain anyway, though I've tried. Lord knows, I've tried.

So I'm just gonna sit here, cross-legged and angry, until my team starts playing like the contender I'd expected...or at least until Friday, when I'll be jetting out to the barbecue capital of eastern Kansas for a certain footballing contest between YOUR Denver Broncos and the Chefs of the plains.

More on that to come. But I'll throw you slavering dogs a bone--can KC run for the usual 200 yards Denver's been allowing without LJ? Me thinkest no...





And here is the rest of it.