I stand before you, a broken fan. If you’re looking for some sort of explanation then your ass is as lost as mine. We focus on the funny around here, but right now I’m just tired. I’m tired of reading about Jim Zorn’s level of experience, I’m tired of thinking about ways to maim Vinny Cerrato (I’m leaning towards Ling Chi, not to be confused with Lin Chi Ling), but mostly I’m tired of picturing Danny’s smug sense of self-worth.

OK, that was pretty damn funny. I guess I’m ready to delve into this debacle.

Jim Zorn? Really? The guy must have designed and implemented one hell of an offense in the past two weeks. Never mind the fact that he’s making the jump from Holmgren’s quarterbacks coach to the head coach of a playoff team despite never even handling the duties of a play caller.

No, wait. Let’s mind that fact for a little bit…

This prick may be the greatest guy to ever live (think “Hitler in Bizzaro World”) but he’s never done anything. Being an offensive assistant under Holmgren in the early nineties might have meant something, but now the fatass does everything himself.

League sources tell us that Holmgren’s assistants have been relegated to duties such as combing plankton out of the coach’s beard and collecting his discarded ambergris. Hell, Holmgren guards his play sheet even more closely than his family’s secret recipe for salt pork (take one pig, salt to taste… serves one). And now this assistant is supposed to take the reigns of our entire franchise? That guy must have been coaching the shit out of Seneca Wallace behind closed doors.

…

You know what Danny? I’m done.

No, I’m not done being a fan, that could never happen (but stop testing me, asshole). What I’m done with is you, Mr. Snyder. So that means I won’t be purchasing any more of Fed Ex Field’s $8 Miller Lites or $12 shots of Grand Marnier. Moreover, I’m done with all of your precious “licensed” merchandise. If I want a jersey I’ll buy one, but I’ll be damned if your seeing one damn penny of my flawless $35 Mitchell & Ness Doug Williams knock-off. Oh, and as for the rest of your business ventures…

And as for you Mr. Zorn, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt for now… but watch your damn step. Redskins fans get pissed enough when you confuse the colors burgundy and maroon, but confusing gold for black? I’m already worried that you’re taking Mark Shapiro’s retard pills.

The combine can’t get here quickly enough.

photoshop via Thighs Wide Shut who got it from somewhere else. Here perhaps?

This is Erin.

She likes Indianapolis because it feels so cosmopolitan.

Erin was a Pi Phi at Indiana before finishing her degree in marketing at a smaller college closer to home. This allowed her to spend more time with her high school boyfriend, whom she later learned cheated on her. Her voice trembles when she says that she doesn’t regret her decision to leave IU.

Because she’s the only remotely attractive woman on the Colts cheerleading squad, she tends to act like she’s too good to talk to men who approach her. She never goes home with anyone on the first date, unless he has an expensive car and she happens to drink too much. If that happens, she’s likely to cry after or (more likely) during coitus. If she doesn’t cry after drinking too much and sleeping with someone, there is a one hundred per cent chance she will tell him that she loves him. The next day, she won’t remember the admission, and a week later, she will wonder why he never called her back.

Erin can only have an orgasm through oral sex. Her rare performance of fellatio is marred by apathy and poor technique.

Her father left her mother when Erin was eight.