I will not apologize.
Football is fun. Blogging is fun. So are girls and money. This football blog has never won me any of either. So unless Ghost becomes a rich, but generous, purveyor of concubines I will not sit idly by while he apologizes for me.
Why? Because while you might not hear from me every day, you needy little girls, when you do hear from me, I'm right. Did you happen across The Local Voice last week? Who reminded you that our last win over a Top 5 team was followed up by a loss? This guy. I'm not drinking the Kool-Aid. I don't have time.
I don't want to hear any gibberish about let-downs. Those are for apologizers like Ghost. And, I think we can all agree, he is a giant pansy. Our best player cannot hold on to the ball. We laid 324 big pass yards at the altar of an offense that couldn't pick its way through Wofford - not because we were on an emotional let-down, but because, when it comes to the secondary, we are who we thought we were. No apologies necessary, Marshay. Some of us saw this coming.
Yeah, I didn't get that Florida photo journal to you. And it's a shame, too. These sidewalking, mullet-having, orange-painted-butt-ed evolutionary rejects are the funniest thing you'll never see.
Of course, I'm not totally heartless. Eat this up, you selfish information consumers. I expect no compensation. My reward is in Heaven.
Football is fun. Blogging is fun. So are girls and money. This football blog has never won me any of either. So unless Ghost becomes a rich, but generous, purveyor of concubines I will not sit idly by while he apologizes for me.
Why? Because while you might not hear from me every day, you needy little girls, when you do hear from me, I'm right. Did you happen across The Local Voice last week? Who reminded you that our last win over a Top 5 team was followed up by a loss? This guy. I'm not drinking the Kool-Aid. I don't have time.
I don't want to hear any gibberish about let-downs. Those are for apologizers like Ghost. And, I think we can all agree, he is a giant pansy. Our best player cannot hold on to the ball. We laid 324 big pass yards at the altar of an offense that couldn't pick its way through Wofford - not because we were on an emotional let-down, but because, when it comes to the secondary, we are who we thought we were. No apologies necessary, Marshay. Some of us saw this coming.
Yeah, I didn't get that Florida photo journal to you. And it's a shame, too. These sidewalking, mullet-having, orange-painted-butt-ed evolutionary rejects are the funniest thing you'll never see.
Of course, I'm not totally heartless. Eat this up, you selfish information consumers. I expect no compensation. My reward is in Heaven.
