Now where was I?

So you were just sitting there in your apartment in the alley next to the Circle K thinking about the House of Georges and wondering, what the heck ever happened to that one Cecil dude who used to post here? Did he give up on sports and become a Cistercian monk? Attempt an around-the-world tour by sea kayak? Find his job disappear in the recession and, facing the grim spectre of homelessness, burn his house down for the insurance cash?

Hah, no, my friends, thanks for your concern, but none of that happened--my insurance wouldn't cover it, those pencil-pushing Mussolinis haven't heard the last of me--I've actually been holed up in a Chinese cave drinking mulled wine since the end of the Buffalo game. But I've recovered and am back to offer you, oh Broncos-lovin' fools, a hearty cupful of Hope, Barry O. style, for the incipient New Year.


Although that hope will not take form in a prediction of Denver victory. There's just no way. Even the Christmas spirit--er, spirits in my case--can't make me ignore this particular oncoming bus accident.

Not only are the Chargers a more talented team, not only is their offense starting to look as it did late last year, not only are they playing at home, in the dark, where they're 3-1, but the Broncos are wearing a toilet seat of hardened, enameled Suck around their collective necks.

All there is to it. This team has no heart, no consistency, an inability to seize opportunity, safeties who couldn't play for a team of head-injured kids in the backyard of Stonymoor Special House and practice squad scrubs at tailback. The kicker doesn't vote, Mike Shanahan has evidently decided that he can show up to work in a breakaway leather cop outfit and not get fired, our most feared pass rusher is none other than Gary Coleman and Invesco Field was built on the bones of the poor, their blood as mortar.

So I expect San Diego to crank out an all-timer tomorrow, something along the AFLian lines of 56-7 or 48-3. I expect Matt Wilhelm to depants Cutler during the 3d Quarter to a hearty guffaw by the Line Judge. I expect Philip Rivers to go 20 for 20 and have enough time in the pocket to soberly contemplate his own mortality. I expect LaDainain Tomlinson to score 5 touchdowns, the last of which will come as he swims into the end zone on his elbows and knees. I expect those noble, most assuredly not-Raider-fan fans of the San Diego squad to hurl light bulbs and used syringes onto the field between plays, at least one of which will give our long snapper Hepatitis A.

The hope I mentioned earlier? That's coming in April. It's time to prep for the draft, thank fucking heavens, the one day of the professional football calendar where no one loses...except the Raiders.