INT Giants’ Practice Facility. Friday. 4:38 AM.

[Giants defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo unlocks the front door, and walks in]

Two more days of prep and then we face the Eagles. Yeah, sure, it’s only McNabb and Andy Reid that we’re up against, but you never know when those meatheads are gonna wake up and actually play like they’re supposed to. Nobody wants to be McNabb’s bitch, and it’s not happening on us this weekend. It’s our last day of prep today, then a walkthrough tomorrow. Game on Sunday. Time to get your gameface on, Steve. Get fired up.

Sigh. I’m exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy about still being in the hunt, but I’m ready for a break. I’m so worn out. I haven’t seen my wife in a month. And I’m sick of looking at these same assholes day after day. I wish I…I really wish I wasn’t so lonely right now.

[stops at receptionist's desk]

Hey, there’s a donut left over from yesterday. Chocolate covered, too. My favorite. Wait, it’s not cream-filled. Still a nice surprise, though. Amazing that Coach Gilbride didn’t eat that donut and the box with it. Thank you, donut. You’re a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.

[pulls donut out of box]

Oh, my, donut. You’re so firm and [licks fingers] sugary. I bet your other 11 friends weren’t so sweet, were they? Hey relax, donut, it’s just me. Don’t act like you do around those other guys. Spags wants the real deal, you dirty bitch.

Tell me how you like it, you little chocolate whore. Don’t act you can’t feel what’s going on between us. As soon as I get these pants off, you’re gonna see a stunt package you’ll never for—mmm, there it is.

Damn, donut, you feel so good. I like the way your glaze flakes off onto my scrote. It tickles so damn good. Maybe someday you can meet my mother, and you two can talk about yeast and all that shit. Let’s go a little faster now…

Oh, God, donut, you’re gonna make me come. Oh, that’s it. Don’t — Aw, don’t stop.

Oooh, goddammit that’s it, you’re gonna…OOOOH GOD!

OOOOOH SHIT!

OOOOOOHHH!

OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHAAAAAAAWWWWWWAWAWAWAWAWAWAW!

UUUUNNNGGGHHH!

OOOOOOOoooooooohhhhh…

Aaaahhhhhhhhh, donut.

Mmmmmmmmm.

You’re cream-filled now, you little slut. Tell Gilbride I said hello.

[puts donut back in the box]

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Vince Young: You know, it’s been hard for me to come to grips with it, but I’m happy for what you’ve done with this team. I’m a competitive dude and I’d love to be out there on that field with a chance to shine on the big stage. But the time was right for you, man. I give you a lot of credit sticking around as long as you have.

Kerry Collins: …

Vince: I mean, who knows what’s gonna happen? Maybe you’ll win it for us this year and you’ll ride off a champ. Maybe even if you win, you stick around for a few years. Either way, you’ve shown me I’ll get mine once the time is right.

Kerry: …

Vince: Yo, man. Something wrong?

Kerry: There ain’t a stiff enough drink to deal with you flapping your big ugly fucking jumbo tar baby lips.

Vince: The fuck you just say to me? Fuck you, you racist piece of shit. I dare you to say that again. I fucking dare you.

Kerry: And if I catch you and your jigaboo friends trying to get that bandwagon fuckwit Snoop Dogg to do a Super Bowl song for us, I’ll get my gun out of my special locker room and spray your meager shit-for-brains all over the walls and play with it.

Vince: Mike, you hearing this shit? This guy is just fucking off.

Mike Heimerdinger: Not my purview, Vince.

Vince: Not your purview? YOU’RE A COACH. Do something before I break my foot off in his ass.

Heimerdinger: You’ll have to take it up with Fisher.

Vince: Coach! Man, you got to hear what Kerry just said to me. He said -

Jeff Fisher: I know, Vince, I know. I believe you. Kerry uses racial epithets. LenDale is a gloating cockhog of a situational running back. Chris Johnson is a high-stepping little shit, too. Haynesworth stomps on people. Vanden Bosch has three servers full of kiddie porn at the team headquarters. Courtland Finnegan kicks pregnant women for his jollies. Rob Bironas plowed my wife. THE KICKER! And I go randomly skydive rather than prepare for opponents.

And you know what? That’s the way it’s going to be. ‘CAUSE. I. DON’T. GIVE. A. FLYING. FUCK.

[Pumps fist]

You know how long I’ve been coaching this goddamn team? Do you? 14 of the most miserable years of my fucking life. I took over when the team was in Houston, back before Bud Adams moved the Oilers and their history to this backwater, pissant, podunk, shitheap in the shadow of Dollywood. People hate the Colts for their skipping town, but at least Indy stole the history of someone who actually did something and not the fucking Oilers.

The only reason people don’t call me a choker is because no one gives a shit about Tennessee. And they shouldn’t. I don’t give a shit about Tennessee. That’s why I respect Kerry. He’s just hanging on for that ring, doing what he has to. That’s gonna make all this bullshit worthwhile. After that, you, Tennessee, the NFL — you can have coaches that are interested in being classy. I tried that shit. Being classy and $5 will buy you a poke with your mom.

So, why don’t you sit your prima-donna, score-of-8-on-the-Wonderlic, bust-of-a-first-round-pick, suicide-hotline-code-blue, dipshit-sidearm-delivery ass on the bench and maybe YOU might get a ring too for being nothing but a drain on my goddamn time.

Vince: …

Can I at least take my shirt off?

Fisher: …

Fine.

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Bob Junior: There go the Painthers, flying under the radar. Which is funny, ’cause everybody knows Carolina was FIRST IN FLIGHT! Even if the Wright Brothers were from Ohio, THEY DONE CAME DOWN TO OUR EMPTY WINDSWEPT BEACHES LIKE A BANKER LOOKING FOR A LOW COST OF LIVING!

Soon we’ll be first in football too. I cain put a Super Bowl chaimpions license plate frame around my FIRST IN FLIGHT PLATE!

Eustice: Yessir. FIRST IN FLIGHT! CRADLE OF ‘CUE! PAINTHER PRIDE!

Bob Junior: Panther pride!

Eustice: PAINTHER pride!

Bob Junior: They don’t know about no barbecue in Arizoner. Probably be tailgatin’ at the B of A with some tofu Tex-Mex bullshit.

Eustice: Keep that chili con cockmeat out of The Vault!

Bob Junior: I am worried about their quarterback though. He’s scaled the mountain. He seen the promised land.

Eustice: But Delhomme’s got experience.

Bob Junior: Oh yes. He’s bona fide.

Eustice: Definitely bona fide.

Bob Junior: What’s even more bona fide is our running game. No fly-by-night Edgerrin James fluke game out of the Caroilina ground attack. DeAngelo Williams got shortchanged on that MVP vote. JUST ‘CAUSE HE WAITED UNTIL WEEK 8 TO DO ANYTHING. WE GO AT OUR OWN PACE IN THE SOUTH! I don’t care what nobody say, he and Stewart IS THE REAL SMASH ‘N’ DASH LIKE WE WAS THE FIRST IN FLIGHT!

Eustice: WE ARE FIRST IN FLIGHT!

Bob Junior: We was robbed out of our deserved championship in 2003 by them Yankee cheaters. Not this time. All the pieces are in place for a title run. It’ll be a fine prelude to a Tar Heel national championship.

Eustice: …

Begging your pardon, friend.

Bob Junior: What?

Eustice: What’s this Tar Heel shit? We all know them Blue Devils’ll be cuttin’ down those nets this year.

Bob Junior: What you like them uppity Duke faggots for? You didn’t go there!

Eustice: YOU DIDN’T GO TO CHAPEL HILL!

Bob Junior: I WENT TO UNC-PEMBROKE! THAT’S CLOSE ENOUGH! IT’S PART OF THE STATE SYSTEM!

Eustice: Don’t got no room for Tar Heel bitches in the Panther Pride Parade!

Bob Junior: WELL THEN FUCK PANTHER PRIDE! PSYCHO T ALL DAY! FOOK DOOK!

Eustice: THEN I’LL SEE YOUR ASS FEBRUARY 11. THAT’S THE REAL SUPER BOWL!

Bodean: Let’s not forget Davidson now! Go Stephen! Wooooooooooo Wildcats!

Bob Junior and Eustice: FUCK YOU!

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

See, Peezy be an appreciative man. He try to soak in the achievement he team has made going from 1-15 to 11-5 division champions. He wants to reflect on leading the AFC in sacks. He like seeing them Patriots and they asterisks at home. He like all bitches in South Beach get excited for a winner.

But then his boy text him saying we underdogs at home in the playoffs. We meaning the Dolphins? The Dolphins meaning Peezy? Aw shit.

THAT’S DISRESPECT!

How some punk-ass Baltimore bitches who can’t even win they own division favored over us? IN OUR HOUSE! WITH A ROOKIE QUARTERBACK WHO SHILLS FOR WENDY’S 3CONOMICS! PEEZYNOMICS SAYS THE MORE I STUFF YO HEAD UP YO ASS SIDEWAYS, THE MORE I GETS MY CHEESE!

You best fix them lines, Vegas. I’mma lay some money on me going Moe Greene on that ass, Vegas.

Don’t let me see anyone take that line. I’mma find all y’all that that bet and –

Tony Sparano: AY, JOEY!

C’MERE A MINUTE, YA EXCITABLE FUCKIN’ MOULIE!

What’d I tell youse about making with the big mouth? This guy, givin’ me the ol’ mal de testa, over here, I swear.

I gots youse running around and making a fuss while we’re trying to work on running the Wildcat formation that didn’t work the first time we played Baltimore.

Porter: They sayin’ we should lose, Tony. Ain’t you a man of respect?

Sparano: I got you respect right here. [Grabs crotch]

Porter: Funny guy. You gonna let Cam Cameron show you up like that?

Sparano: Let me worry ’bout dat. Here, you deal with this guy.

[Hands Porter a mirror]

Porter: What I need this for? Wait, WHO THIS MOTHERFUCKER IN HERE TRYING TO LOOK LIKE PEEZY!?

YOU BITING MY STYLE, BITCH!

THAT’S DISRESPECT!

GET OUT HERE AND FACE ME SO I CAN MAKE YOU THE PRETEND-PEEZY HUCKLEBERRY YOU IS!

LET’S GO!

OH, I’M FIRED UP NOW! IT’S HALF-SHIRT TIME!

WHAT?! HE DID IT TOO! YOU STEALING MY SHIT!

GET AT ME, PEEZY CLONE!

YEAH, YOU GONNA SIT THERE AND TALK! AIN’T GONNA DO SHIT!

QUIT TALKING WHEN I TALK!

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

This is Drew Magary, world’s skinniest Vikings fan.

If you hate the Vikings, it’s probably because of him. Because otherwise who gives a shit about the Vikings? I mean, honestly, it’s the Vikings.

Their fans are doncha-know dipshits. They hate Brad Childress, not undeservedly so, but then this is a team helmed by Mike Tice and Denny Green the previous 14 years. What towering standard of coaching have you assholes somehow become accustomed to? “Skol, Vikings” makes Jared Allen want some chaw. The team backed into the playoffs thanks to squeaking by the Giants reserves while the Bears were choking away their opportunity to take the NFC North.

If there were a division the NFL should retract, it is the most definitely the NFC West. Then the AFC West. BUT THEN THE NFC NORTH! God, they’re all terrible.

I don’t know much about Minne-snow-ta, but I can extend a mighty fuck-an-ice-dildo for inflicting the only known white emo rapper, Atmosphere, on the rest of us.

But, back to Drew, because he demands attention at all times. He once wrote this glowing review of Sigur Ros, who are known, among being the background music for hipster orgies, for singing in a lilting made-up language called Vonlenska:

“Scared of the language barrier? Don’t be. Like any opera, the emotion comes through regardless of whether or not you can understand the words. From the dazzle of ‘Svefn-G-Englar’ to the Celtic waterfall of ‘Olsen Olsen,’ Sigur Ros bursts with feelings of hope, despair, happiness, sadness, and all points in between, perhaps even creating new emotions as they go along. It’s an incredible achievement, not likely to be matched by anybody anytime soon. Unless you count the band itself, but they may have moved on to another solar system by then.”

What a douche.

Also, among his many annoying verbal tics, Drew appends “yes?” onto all of his questions. (For example: The Redskins are going to hire Shanahan now, yes?) As if to say, LOOK I’M ASKING A QUESTION BUT I REALLY WANT AN AFFIRMATION OF MY BELIEFS AND I’VE EVEN GONE TO THE TROUBLE OF PROVIDING YOU AN APPROPRIATE ANSWER AT THE END OF MY INQUIRY! SAY IT! SAY YES NOW! DO IT! YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT!

Fuck him and the Vikings with a frozen swordfish.

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Success comes to the Laserfaced! Douse me in Tentacle Grape, for I have just fucked the Cutlerfucker back to his dimly lit room for some good slicing-myself-while-listening-to-Deb-Talan.

With mopey mope suicide girl Cutlerfucker out of the picture and Ratface Shanatan gone for good, The Laserface Revenge/Coach-Killing Tour © rolls on. Next up is Phoetus Manning and Tony Dungheap. You got one over on King Philip earlier this year. BUT THAT’S ONLY WHEN I WAS LETTING THE LEAGUE LAY ITS GUARD DOWN! YOU DIDN’T THINK I’D DIDN’T KNOW DENVER WAS GOING TO CHOKE, DID YOU? DID YOU? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

My gang of supersoldiers is running at full cream. 8-8 DON’T MEAN SHIT! WE’VE BEEN GIVEN LIFE ANEW! AND WITH LIFE COMES A DICK TO FUCK YOU WITH!

Tomlinson: flexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflexflex

Rivers: Wellie well well wellington, three gimme touchdowns against a porous Denver defense and all of a sudden LaToeInjury wants to pretend like he’s the blue-ribbon bitch again?

YOU HAVEN’T DONE FORDYCE’S-INFECTED DICK ALL SEASON, MR. LEAN MEAT PROTEIN!

Just to spite you, I bought four Philips brand flatscreens yesterday and kicked over the Vizio display with your visored vagina all over it. AND IT STILL GAINED MORE YARDS THAN YOU!

The only thing keeping us in contention all year was this God-graced football cannon and My Tiny Pocket Darren.

He’s useful because he’s portable AND HE DOESN’T SIT OUT AFC CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES IN HIS PUFFY COAT ON THE BENCH LIKE SOME DETACHED OVARIES I KNOW!

I can see it now: Early February in Tampa. All the nearby hometown Alabamians will have hitchhiked into town to see King Philip’s coronation against the Shelisha who was too good to play here.

I’ll use my bonus money to get me a giant floating zeppelin so I can cast disdainful glances on my subjects. “Please, please, regard us,” they’ll cry. AND THAT’S WHEN I’LL GOLDEN SHOWER THE LOT OF THEM! THEY’LL BE SO PROUD THEY’LL TELL THEIR GRANDKIDS AND MAIL CARRIERS ABOUT IT!

I’ll be champeen of the world. They will not need to ask somebodddaaaayyyyy because they will know. BUT I WILL TELL THEM ANWAY!

YA BETTA ASK SOMEBODDDAAAAAYYYYYYYY!

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Kurt Warner: We’ve got plenty to be thankful for this year. It’s true. We’ve been blessed. Those blessing include a successful season, bringing this franchise its first home playoff games more than 50 years. If nothing else happens, we can come away from it feeling good about ourselves. I know God has given me more than I can ever have hoped to receive.

Still, I worry for your everlasting soul, brother Anquan. Since that hit, when they put all that metal in you, it’s like you’re more machine than man now.

Anquan Boldin: All. is. well. Metal. is. fine. We. run. slant. and. go. pattern. now.

Kurt: See, it’s one thing to excel on the field, but the moral character of a team is just as important. We already got Fitzy whaling on his wife. I can’t let you go wayward on me. Who knows where you may end up.

Anquan: What. is. soul? Is. this. [Skrrrrt] dummy. audible?

Kurt: Your soul? That’s the essence of your being. The part of you that transcends to heaven after your mortal life is over.

Anquan: Irrelevant. to. wide. receiver.

Kurt: That’s just plain not true. The power of prayer, it sustains us in all facets of being.

Anquan: Playbook. programming. does. not. recognize. [Skrrrrt] prayer.

Kurt: We’re gonna just have to fix that, then, won’t we. Join me in one of our 50-yard-line prayer circles, and I think it’ll change your life.

Anquan: Lifeform. [Whirs] Kurt. Warner. expendable. Create. replicant.

Kurt: Replicant? What are you talking about? I — OH GOD NO! WHAT ABOMINAT– NNNNOOOOOO!AAAACCKKGGGGGGG!

CyKurt: Must. execute. protocol.

Anquan: Protocol. is. go. route.

CyKurt: There. is. no. God.

Anquan: There. is. only. [Skrrrt] creator.

Will Leitch: Yesyes, my lovelies! I’ve programmed you to win AND WIN YOU SHALL! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Looks as through Lil’ Ronnie is all growed up. Not having ever been to Naptown and never having a reason to go, I can’t begin to speculate on what it is that makes it a hotbed for horrible amateur white boy rap. I’ll go ahead and guess the general despair. So, let’s review the latest hotness:

Okay. I made it about a minute and a half through that lyrically lyrical shart and, frankly, I feel like I deserve a medal for it. Let me wrap it up be saying Colts fans are cordially invited to shut the fuck up about Peyton being MVP. “Oh, he performed pretty well at times after holding off on getting surgeries he should have had earlier in the off-season!” Die. I know you love the guy, because you didn’t follow the team until he showed up, but, seriously, no one but you and elite fliers like Peter King buy it.

Speaking of Pey-Pey, expect yet another chastising of the O-line should Indy fall to San Diego Saturday night. Peyton long ago joined the Favraro Club of getting a free pass from the media to act as much a sniveling dicksmack as he likes and never get called out on it (fitting as he and Favre will each retire with one ring). Could you imagine what the reaction would be if, say, McNabb did that? He’d be reamed by every sportswriter in America.

Hopefully the Colts can make a swift exit as usual from the postseason (2006 was, as Emmitt Smiff would call, an “amorition“) Tony Dungy can retire to write pamphlets for PFOX and MarHar can go gun-running with Plaxico.

You would think the football public would immediate gravitate to liking the Pats’ biggest rival but we can’t. Because you’re just that fucking annoying. Luckily you got rid of a home field that was actually difficult to play in, not that you have any home games this postseason.

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

The Falcons are the undisputed Cinderella team this year. They are because Nightmare Falcon commands it. The Dolphins are a fine story, but we’ve made a striking about-face in an actually tough division. And they have Joey Porter, so I think you’ll join me in hoping those marine mammals get machine gunned while performing tricks for rotten fish.

However, there are those out there who would test the patience of Nightmare Falcon by pointing out disagreeable aspects of his Cinderella Falcons. These makes Nightmare Falcon lose plumage. Rather than reflexively give you the ol’ talon to the eye, I will calmly and rationally instruct you why you will ignore these things. Lest the talon find your eye socket.

-You will overlook white Falcons fans. Besides being incredibly disloyal, they, along with the media, will heap all the praise on Mike Smith and Matt Ryan for the Falcons playoff run, conveniently ignoring the contributions of Michael Turner, Roddy White and John Abraham. Way to follow the Paula Deen Diet, you fat fucks.

- You will ignore the black Falcons fans. Matt Ryan could win the next eight Super Bowls and they’d still be wearing Ookie jerseys to every game.

- You can pay attention to our Hispanic fan. He’s pretty cool. Say hi, Manuel.

- Speaking of Matt Ryan, do not judge him by his Masshole roots. Or the fact that Patriots fans are now rooting for either the Panthers or the Falcons to win the Super Bowl. Remember we had Joey Harrington last year. That sympathy should still linger.

- You will ignore that our general manager looks like Michael Showalter.

Or you could embrace it. The Baxter was funny. Admit it!

-While you’re at it, go ahead and disregard the entire state of Jawja. We gave you Outkast. Let’s just leave it at that.

What? NO! Who the fuck let Carter in? He’s history’s greatest monster! Fuck, now everyone hates us.

/sharpens talons

Update: Bonus Falcontardery courtest reader Matt T. They’re sure thrilled Matty Ice just won offensive ROY. “He’s the only reason they’re winnin’!”

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first second in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

At the Hogwart’s School of Towson, the honmaster has taught us many important incantations for bedazzling the foes of the fearsome black magic Ravens. I have spent several semesters honing my mystical techniques. Observe!

[Twirls magical lacrosse stick]

Officiatus Culpatimatum!

With this spell, I can blame everything on the NFL and officials hating the Ravens. And none will be the wiser. A pox on you, Walt Coleman. May Terrell Suggs threaten you and not follow through on it!

Metropolicon Insecurious!

One chant of this and I can make it rain in all the cities that surround Baltimore that I hold a grudge against for being better than my hometown. WHAT GAVE YOU THE RIGHT!?

[Shakes lacrosse stick angrily at all the superior cities that surround Baltimore]

Judicious Obstructinium!

Now Ray Lewis can kill anyone he wants and announcers will continue to push his post-conviction religious awakening! He’s God’s linebacker! Yet he’s spending eternity jumping on piles of bodies in the eternal hellfire. Just don’t jump on Johnny U, Ray-Ray!

HHHEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

That’s not really a spell. We Ravens fans just like Todd Heap far more than any other player. I can’t really pin down why. I mean, he’s not the best player on the team. Not even in the top 5. For some reason, we feel a kinship with him, like we share some ineffable common trait. I bet he’d love to go downy o-shun with us! He’s so approachable!

Sure, Pittsburgh won the Super Bowl as a 6-seed three years ago with an 11-5 record and an inexperienced quarterback, but if we can’t do it, we’ll shrug it off by saying Flacco is rookie. And you’ll buy it, because you fell under the flummox spell of Muddle. You might even be duped into acquiring a Ravens fan’s overpriced Purple Cloak of Invisibility from White Marsh. Mwahaha! Tremble at my puckish grin, muggle!

Woooo! McTrain, Go. Crush the teams we should beat and lose to the ones we shouldn’t. That’s the Ravens way! Now excuse me, I must teleport myself far away from this horrid, crime-ridden city.

Pikesville Transporto!