I Don't Even Know I Can't Even

I want to start off by saying that I OBVIOUSLY should have written this post sooner, like, well before the game instead of well after. But I'd like to blame Shawn (because it's easy) for my slacking, as he was out of the office on Thursday and Friday (I'm sure with a legit reason), so I couldn't really get into a shit-talking mood. Good thing, turns out.

This Ravens - Steelers game was uglier than the population of Pittsburgh. Both sides were awful, but it turns out, the Ravens were more awful. Let's not discuss the on-side kick that was ruined by an offside penalty and by MVP of the Year Justin Tucker touching the damn thing too early then getting SMOKED while he was trying to recover it. (1:22 shows the close-up.) 

Then you have Troy COMPLETELY blowing the timing on a field goal snap. It wasn't his first misread of the game, although it was certainly the most "WTF" to watch. Because he's been spending too much energy trying to read the QB's/snapper's minds, I think he's started living 3 seconds in the future. (That's a thing, right?)

So here's what Shawn wrote as a way of...I don't know...trying to be clever. I spent most of the week in a simmering, art school kid seethe about it. I mean, if you're going to write a parody of a form poem, you need to actually maintain the form (meter, rhyme scheme, etc.). But whatever. The rhyming got better towards the end, and as Shawn said, "YOU try writing something creative in two minutes!" Please see my (unfinished, thanks to a creativity drain at the end of the week) poem at the end of this post. It took me one minute to write.

"Twas the week before the Ravens Steelers game and not a player was stirring, not even a Ryan Clark Twitter posting. The jock straps were tightened with care in hopes that no fumble pile crotch shots would be there. The coaches were nestled all snug in their film rooms with visions of helmet-to-helmet collisions and Troy's flowing hair. When out on the ketchup field arose such a clatter as Brett Keisel's beard shouted, "Whatsa matter?" Joe Flacco sprang from the pocket with a flash to throw another check down to Ray Rice at the hash. Lawrence Timmons screamed, "On Haywood, on Taylor, on Williams and Jones RIP apart these damn Ravens, tear their skin from their bones!"

#Steelers 19 #Ravens 16 FINAL Ah, this is reminiscent of a time not so long ago when the outcome of this game would actually mean something.
— NOTSportsCenter NFL (@NOTSCNFL) October 20, 2013

Nikki's Poem
Twas the night before game day
and all through the streets,
not a person was shit-talking,
not even Ryan Clark's tweets.

Terrible Towels
were strung far and wide
so crying Steelers fans
had somewhere to hide.

The Ravens were sleeping
all snug in their nest,
dreaming of last year
when they were the best.

Perhaps I'll finish writing this poem for the Thanksgiving Night game...WHICH I'LL BE ATTENDING AT HOME IN BALTIMORE BECAUSE MY DADDY GOT ME TICKETS!!!!!!...but we'll see.

Ray Lewis at Home

Found this AMAZINGLY HILARIOUS comic on Reddit. 

This is the source site.

Nikki Post: Whatever Happened to...

It started when my Ravens friend Caroline sent me this gif of Mark Sanchez running into his own player's ass, fumbling the ball, and not even trying to stop the Patriots player who ran off with it:

I shared it with other Ravens friends, and we all had a good laugh at "Hotdog" Sanchez's inability to do ANYTHING right. My friend replied with standard "Man, he sucks" comments, and one of those comments got me thinking...

"How long will it be until Hotdog Sanchez is finally booted from the NFL into obscurity?"

We find ourselves five years into the future in a sleepy southwest border town in the United States. Former Jets quarterback Mark Sanchez is now teaching PE at the only all-girl Catholic school in the area. He's changed his look a little - shorter hair, a scruffy beard, let himself get a little bit of a potbelly - and pretends that he doesn't speak English very well, so he blends in and has an excuse for not talking to outsiders very often. Mark has a little adobe house in a lower middle-class neighborhood where he lives alone except for his pitbull mix "Rex," an unspayed female who spawns litter after litter of adorable puppies that Animal Control volunteers spay/neuter and return to him so he can give them to various people throughout the small town. Almost everyone in that little village has a pitbull puppy that came from Rex.

One day, a football scout's car died in this town. The scout had just been passing through but decided to walk around town while the mechanic waited for the car part. He stopped by the girls school, thinking he'd see if there were any good soccer players he could tell his wife (a college scout for Holyoke) about, when he saw Sanchez's 4th-period gym class practicing field hockey outside. The scout - a man named Gary who loves his job - swore to himself that there was something familiar about this mild-mannered, average-looking teacher, so he sat on the bleachers to give his brain time to figure it out. Most days there's usually a group of men, mainly drunks and unemployed field hands, lazing away their afternoons staring at under-aged girls while passing around a bottle of tequila someone made in his garage. On this day, Gary asked around casually about the teacher, and the men revealed that Sanchez - Señor Marco, as everyone calls him - came from New York ("la gran ciudad" they called it) several years ago with just his dog and a green duffel bag. He seemed haunted by something, failure most likely, but then again, who in this town WASN'T haunted by a failure of some kind? He was nice, although clumsy, and his students loved him. Gary thanked them for their conversation and made his way back to the garage once the girls' game was finished.

It wasn't until he was zipping down the highway at 85mph, blasting Journey that Gary realized who the youngish man coaching that field hockey team was. The realization that someone so famous could fall so far so quickly almost made him swerve off the road with shock. He meant to call someone, a colleague perhaps, and tell them the news. He meant to turn around and go back to that nameless, sleepy town, track down Mark Sanchez, and ask him how he had gotten to this place after his spectacular fall from grace in the NFL. Gary meant to do a lot of things...but then his boss called and said there was a 20-year-old kid in Taos, New Mexico who could run faster than Larry Fitzgerald and catch better than Jerry Rice, so Gary pushed Sanchez's new life off to the side of his mind, intending to return to it later. He never does, of course. Ever since he left the NFL, Mark Sanchez has been easily put out of mind, and frankly, he prefers it that way.