Listen. I am the absolute worst. This blog – this haven for hot takes under a veil of anonymity; this breeding ground for overwrought emotions and overwritten potshots; this once proud establishment of frequent musings on the State Of It All – it’s been dormant. This is my fault, and I’ll take all the credit, errrr, blame. I have been Captaining the U.S.S. Disaster for a few years now – HOLY SHIT, THREE YEARS – and I’ve permitted it to fall into a steady state of underuse.
Hell, the last time I wrote something here, it was a few hopeful paragraphs I shat out on the eve of the Bills’ improbable – fuck, IMPOSSIBLE – win against Green Bay, and even that seemed too much. I’m far less suited for this than I used to be – less angry, less energetic, less eager, more annoyed at the sound of my own thoughts in my increasingly muddled mind. I am certainly more busy.
But I’ve also been waiting. Waiting to feel anything about Buffalo sports again … anything new or sudden or interesting or wrathful or worth repeating onto a computer screen beyond 140 characters.
I don’t know that I’ve been waiting for this, exactly, but it seems as good a time as any to take a couple cuts in front of the mirror and see if Dougie can go deep again. Hell, this may only be some easy BP before stepping back into the lineup, but my ability to string out metaphors to ungodly lengths is matched only by Tim Graham’s ability to take any topic, poop genuinely well-crafted sanctimony on top of it, and do so in such a way that makes you question whether the last time the guy had any fun was when Norwood went wide-right and a teenage Graham (I’m guessing) wrote 5000 words on why kickers are the Miracle Whip of sports – completely pointless and lacking any discernible quality beyond their traditional role in ruining Sundays.
It’s not even what he says, but how thoroughly awful he makes my head feel with the way that he says it.
Wait. Actually it’s often what he says, too.