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You’ve got it all. A badass name that only an NFL player or urban mayor could rock. A Super Bowl ring that you’re basically responsible for. NFL receiving records. Height, speed, strength. Fame, fortune, success. The VaGiants couldn’t be looking better (You’re 11-1 ? Who’da thunk it?)–confidence has taken y’all far.
Oh wait, there’s more on your plate: For instance, a self-inflicted gunshot wound and probably a mandatory three-and-a-half year jail sentence for carrying an illegal handgun in New York. Wow! That’s a lot! (Also, bad news for the VaGiants!)
Plaxico, ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? More importantly, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? Do you hate freedom? Do you hate being celebrated? Do you hate holding your head up high? Do you hate being blown more than the Sahara Desert sands by football groupies?
Maybe, deep down, you just hate Eli Manning, and fucking up before playoffs is your twisted way of sticking it to him. Perhaps you’re just trying to prove Amani Toomer right by being a real fucking distraction, instead of proving him wrong and looking like the real man.
I ask this because I cannot understand why a star athlete such as yourself–with only a few weeks in the season left to behave in the season–should fuck up so royally. Didn’t the suspension teach you anything? Doesn’t winning mean anything to you? I hate to say it, but you could have it all. Correction: you could have had it all.
I don’t know what else to say, dude. I don’t understand you, and think you should really be ashamed of yourself for pissing away the great, god-given talent and opportunities laying in your royal lap. Goddamn!
Also, now, I’m really, really, really glad that you’re not on my team anymore.
As much as these words feel like broken chalk on my tongue, I must say them: congratulasians to the New York vaGiants. Super Bowl XLII was a thrilling game and probably the biggest NFL upset I’ve ever witnessed. I’m so bummed for Junior Seau and hope that he returns for another season, because that was no way to end a ringless 18 year-career, particularly his.
History was made yesterday, although it wasn’t just about the Giants beating the Patriots. Head referee Mike Carey became the first African-American official to work a Super Bowl. I was stoked, because Carey is very good at his job, if a bit strict–he’s handed out the most player ejections in the league–and because I find him kinda hot. I don’t know if it’s the ‘stache or how his butt looks in those white pants or the exaggerated manner in which he makes calls, a weird cross between the gestures of a traffic cop and a modern dancer. Some chicks (and dudes) dig Ed Hochuli and his ginormo muscles, but not this gal.
Carey and his crew did an excellent job in the Super Bowl, refraining from making too many pass interference and holding calls that might have affected the game’s outcome. But one thing Carey couldn’t do was keep Patriots coach Bill Belichick from walking off the field with one second and one play left in the game.
Did Belichick really think that the clock had run down or was he being a dick, as usual? Was he trying to create a scene at the end of the game and not let the Giants have their moment? I can’t imagine why he’d be in such a hurry to get off the field, since he’s got to deal with this in the offseason:
Would the NFL have buried “Spygate” if the Pats had been perfect?
That’s a tough call that no one now has to make.
Filed under: Comebacks, Historic Moments, Hot Refs, Junior Seau, Losers, Mike Carey, Spygate, Super Bowl XLII Didn't Suck, The New England Patriots, The New York Giants, Tight Pants, Tough Calls, Winners
Some people just don’t listen.
Fine! I get it! I’ll just soliloquy then.
- It’s called a bye week. Not a buh-bye week.
- You do realize that the Cialis you bought tonight in that sweet little Mexican pharmacy is fake, right?
- Nice shorts.
- If the Cowboys lose on Sunday to the New York vaGiants, I will
seriously lose my shitkeep my head up high, knowing it was all your fault.