Vonta Leach KTFO Award - Week 10
Nov 10, 2008 Disturbing (yet accurate) Metaphors, This whole award was DT's idea, Vonta Leach KTFO Award
Even Texans fans have to look at what the Rams are going through right now and feel a little pity. I mean, we theoretically have Pro Bowl talent at a number of positions and can see where we need to improve. The Rams… well… is implosion an option?
Anyway, you KNOW the wheels are coming all the way off when a corner blitz is not only effective but also results in your QB getting flung to the ground like a used rubber in a $20 whorehouse (complete with football-shaped spilled ejaculate!)
That hit resulted in two things. First, Abram Elam takes home the prestigious DGDB&D Vonta Leach KTFO Award for Week 10, which I have no doubt is and will remain the highlight of his (or any) career.
Second, Marc “I spell it with a ‘c’ because I’m a douche” Bulger…
YOU JUST GOT KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT!!!
This shit is between you, me, and Mr. Soon-To-Be-Livin’-The-Rest-Of-His-Short-Ass-Life-In-Agonizing-Pain Rapist here.
Oct 8, 2008 2008 Season, Anger, Awfulness, Colts Shmolts, Disturbing (yet accurate) Metaphors, Pulp Fiction, Rosie Rosenfels
I spent Sunday nursing what was either a flu bug, the mother of all hangovers, or a combination of the two. Which meant that I didn’t even bother to open my eyes until the alarm clock went off at 11:30 AM. I turned to the appropriate Sunday Ticket channel just in time to see Sage Rosenfels warming up spliced with shots of Matt Schaub standing on the sideline, looking dejected.
“The fuck?” I thought. Thankfully, a Gumbel was on hand to tell me that, yes, Sage was starting because Matt was battling an “intestinal infection,” which we all know is a euphemism for “the shits.” (As an aside, is there a better excuse for skipping work than “I have diarrhea?” It’s common enough that no one doubts you and it’s vile enough that no one wants details or even wants you to come to work. But I digress.)
You know the story by now, of course. The Colts scored early. Then, for roughly 50 minutes of game time, we dominated the dogshit out of them. Judging by the Colts’ collective reactions on the sidelines, they were a ball-gagged Marsellus Wallace and we were Zed. Hell, if you listened carefully, you could actually hear The Revels’ “Comanche” playing in the background as Super Steve Slaton notched his second TD of the day.
Little did we know that the role of Butch Coolidge was to be played by none other than Sage fucking Rosenfels.
Lest ye think I am torturing this metaphor a little too much, consider:
**Butch gets free, knocks out the gimp, and things begin unraveling for Zed even though he has no idea at the time. This is right when Sage gets free and starts pointing out blocks as if he were Steve Young.
**Butch decides against saving himself and, instead, picks a weapon to go rescue Marsellus. This is Sage forgoing the “save yourself” route of sliding and, instead, going into helicopter mode. (Bonus metaphor goodness: Butch used a sword, Helicopters have blades! Yay, me!)
**Butch goes into the rape-a-torium, surprises Maynard, and kills him. You immediately see abject fear in Zed’s eyes. Obviously, this is Sage’s fumble and Gary Brackett’s return. The fear in Zed’s eyes was mirrored on the Texans’ sideline as well as on the face of every Texans fan.
**Butch taunts Zed with the sword, daring him to reach for his pistol and looking for an opening to kill him. On the Texans’ next possession, Sage rolls to his left again, dangling the ball in his right hand and gesticulating wildly with his left.
**Marsellus tells Butch to step aside, racks the shotgun in slow motion. Sage is tracked down from behind and has the ball stripped by Robert Mathis.
**Marsellus blows Zed’s dick off. Manning to Reggie Wayne over the unturned head of Jacques Reeves.
**When Butch asks “what now,” while still holding a weapon, Marsellus replies: “What now? Let me tell you what now. I’ma call a coupla hard, pipe-hittin’ niggers who’ll go to work on the holmes here with a pair of pliers and a blow torch. You hear me talkin’, hillbilly boy!? I ain’t through with you by a damn sight. I’ma get medieval on your ass.” Sage asks what now, throws a final INT, and leaves us to be tortured with the football equivalent of a pair of pliers and a blowtorch—the victory kneel-down in a close game.
And there ya have it.
I’m not totally sure what the lesson is in all of this, since Butch gets away and gets a new motorcycle chopper out of the deal, but I know this: If Matt Schaub had played the role of Butch, we probably don’t get our collective dick blown off. I’m just sayin’.
On booze and losses
Oct 29, 2007 2007 Season, Beer, Boobies, Demarcus Faggins sucks, Disturbing (yet accurate) Metaphors, Gary Kubiak might be high, Inanity, Injury bug
I suppose it goes without saying that this is not exactly where I hoped we would be at the halfway point. But I am going to say it anyway.
I hoped that this season would be the equivalent of sipping Clos du Mesnil 1995 with a supermodel on board your private jet.
I expected that this season would be the equivalent of enjoying Chateau Mouton Rothschild Pauillac 1986 on the patio of your 12,000 square foot oceanside villa.
Right now, this season is the equivalent of sucking stale PBR out of the G-string of a male stripper in the bathroom of a truckstop in Shamrock, TX.
You could say it’s not quite living up to expectations.
Look, I realize that we have been ravaged–decimated even–by injuries. Not many teams could lose their biggest weapon, their starting running back, both of their kick/punt returners, a starting safety and the safety’s first replacement, and their starting center and expect to contend for anything. Well, unless they were in the NFC, but that’s a different story.
The injuries are still no excuse for the play we’ve seen since kickoff of the Atlanta game. Poor (at best) defensive play-calling, mediocre clock-management, questionable roster decisions, the continued employment of Petey Faggins…any one of these would be troublesome. Having all of them? Well, that explains the current record.
I am currently trying to answer the question of “where do we go from here?” At our current level of play, the answer is 3-13. A more realistic number, barring some major changes, is probably 6-10. A best-case scenario would be 8-8.
I am going to split the baby and peg us at no more than 7 wins. Which would be the equivalent of drinking Chimay Bleue poolside with a couple of hot redheads who are milking you for free drinks and will absolutely not sleep with you.
Sad part is, with the taste of warm PBR still in your throat, that overpriced cocktease seems like a win.
