You know what? I've fucking enjoyed not writing for this site. It's the off-season for the Bills and Sabres, the English Premier League ended with a whimper for my surging Liverpool Football Club, the Mets are meats, and the rest of sports news is on my simmer setting while I look ahead to a World Cup in which the US team has a better chance of scoring zero goals than it does of pretty much anything else.
Everything is pointless. Everything is lost.
Why the check-in, then? Obligation, I suppose. Not to you pissants, mind you. To myself and my own need to get up to speed on our beloved teams and get myse..... fuck it I can't lie to you. I love you too much.
It's because of dick jokes. I want to make some dick jokes and call someone a douchebag and I wanted to do it in long form. Fuck off.
Rich White Guys Who Want My Football Team.
The steady beat of time marching on has ensured that each passing week brings another notch of excitement - or something we want to call excitement but is more akin to watching our skin sear under the heat of a hot iron skillet - regarding the future of our Buffalo Bills. Specifically the ownership of the team and not anything else in the future, since we all are painfully aware that the future of the team is written in the stars right next to God's most recent memo to us wherein he requests, again, to stop sticking our dick everywhere. To love the Buffalo Bills is to love an unknown destiny that we can only guess will be outrageously shit.
Ownership, in the grand scheme of things, is irrelevant when compared to the cosmic forces of sadness that have been working so diligently all these years, spinning us on the back of giant elephants standing on a turtle, elephants and turtle all equally intent on watching just one more Johnson/Losman/Edwards/Fitzpatrick/Tuel/Manuel/Lewis pick six.