Act I: Tragedy



Since the early weeks of the season, I've declared my team crush on the Panthers on this website, even labeling them "a pizza with everything on it" and other such hyperbole meant to convey my genuine admiration of a team that seemed poised to attain glory this season. Hell, they were even the source of my return to faith in the NFL. They were fun to watch, fun to cheer for, and fun to post about.


Alas, baby Panther. It seems the NFL playoffs system has swallowed you, Cronos-like, before you ever reached maturity. Faretheewell, good Panthers. Absent my beloved Patriots, you were my only hope; I wish you well in the next life season.

Think you, kind readers, that I wax unnecessarily lugubrious? Allow me, if I may, to remind you of the final score: Cardinals 33, Panthers 13. OH THE SUCKAGE. Losing by 20 points to a 9-7 team in the freaking PLAYOFFS?! On just 220 passing yards by Kurt Warner? I know Neil Rackers has a family to feed, but 5 field goal attempts? For 15 points including extra points after TDs? Larry Fitzgerald caught for 166 yards and even HE didn't score 15 points. What were you DOING, defense?

But I digress. We've known for months that Arizona's offense was potent despite a non-existent running game. That the Cards would put up 30 or so points in a playoffs game was expected. Let's get down to wailing and gnashing our teeth about Saturday's REAL culprit:

COACH HELP I FORGOT HOW TO PLAY FOOTBALL
Jake, I don't care if it was your birthday. I don't care if you couldn't find your lucky underoos that morning. I don't care if your goddamn grandmother was dying of ass cancer and croaking out your name with her dying breath as you struggled to regain your composure in time to take the field. 5 INTERCEPTIONS AND A FUMBLE IN A PLAYOFFS GAME, JAKE? My god. If the Panthers were a pizza with everything on it, you were the errant frat boy who gleefully shat on my pizza. SHAT ON MY PIZZA, I SAY. Again!

There's simply nothing else to be said. And thus fell the 12-4 Panthers to the 9-7 Cardinals. Thy will be done, O Vengeful NFL Gods. I offer up this sacrifice of clementines and leftover Hershey's Kisses from my Secret Santa in Thy honor.


Act II: Comedy

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

[deep breath]


AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Everyone watches sports for different reasons. Some watch because they get a thrill from the gritty mano a mano action of finely-tuned specimens of human in their physical primes squaring off against one another in demanding feats of strength; some watch because the never-ending cycle of defeat and victory, of despair and hope, of utter loss and sweet, singing redemption in some way resonates with their understanding of this fleeting madcap adventure we call life; still others watch because men in tight pants (Vince Wilfork notwithstanding) are easy on the eyes.

And some watch because AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HOLY FUCK THE GIANTS LOST!!

Ah yes, my friends. It is time for the audience participation portion of this tragicomic gridiron adventure: the part where we all point and laugh at the once-mighty Giants, who stumbled and fell in memorable fashion against the plucky 9-6-1 Eagles on Saturday to finally, definitively put an end to the post-coital haze from last year's Superbowl and knock them out of the running for a second championship. HA!

Let's review. Despite 307 total yards gained (thanks in part to a monster 92-yard performance from Brandon "Human Mack Truck" Jacobs), the Giants managed only 5 trips into Philadelphia territory and were rewarded in less-than-spectacular fashion by 2 missed field goal attempts and not a single touchdown. (If only they'd had Neil Rackers!) Eli Manning threw two picks -- including one with 3:15 remaining that effectively killed even the faintest of hopes that a comeback was in the works -- and reminded us all that he's Eli Goddamn Manning, Thrower of Picks, Flubber of Games, and Almighty Prince of the Late-Season Slump. Ha. Haha. Hahaha. HA!


And so it goes. For every tragic failure, there is a failure that fills someone, somewhere (read: me) with glee. Onwards we march to The Battle of the Birds for the title of Less Pointless 9-Win Team NFC Champion! Hurrah! Or, like, Tweet! or Squawk! or something.

Labels: Battle of the Birds 2K9, I will feel sorry for the Giants when you start feeling sorry for the goddamn Patriots