The Oakland Raiders are Constipated by Number Two
Perhaps there was a time when the Raiders were the most feared team in the NFL. They had a swagger and mystique about them that attracted viewers and once made them one of the most successful franchises in all of professional sports. But alas, those days have disappeared faster than a cheeseburger on Jamarcus Russell’s plate.
Post Comment|1 Liked It
To say that any Raider fan worth his jolly roger is humiliated to proclaim himself a follower of the silver and black is a gross understatement. After Sunday’s “Massacre at the Meadowlands” in which the Raiders were thoroughly demolished by the New York Giants in a 44 –7 drubbing, the few Raider fans that remain can do nothing more but hang their heads in perpetual shame. Perhaps the saddest revelation in all of this is that it didn’t have to be this way. The Raiders, by their own estimations, have some legitimate talent on the field, but they cannot continue to place their fleeting hopes of success on the arm of a blubbery buffoon who wears the number two. Not so ironically, Number 2 plays exactly as one might suspect. It’s now time for Al Davis to flush the toilet on this intestinal parasite.
I cringe at the notion that any man can be paid 61 million dollars for his blatant ineptness. Granted, it’s far too much money to pay any one person for playing a game, but if you should be so fortunate to be gifted such a contract, the least you can do is earn it. If you want to know what’s wrong with professional sports, look no further than this unbelievably overrated, under-educated and grossly inadequate quarterback. While it is true that the Raiders’ collapse cannot be assigned to any single player, most of the blame falls on the quarterback’s shoulders. Without leadership, a team is destined to flounder in the face of competition. Why does it take the eyes of a novice observer to dissect the primary weakness of this team? The first step in righting this sinking pirate ship is to bench the guy with the biggest butt on the field–no it’s not the linebackers. It’s–you guessed it–the clod wearing number 2.
If number 2 had any self respect, he would concede to his inadequacies and hand the ball off to a cheerleader, anybody…even Cable himself might have better success. But in sincerity, number 2 needs to hang up his jersey and go back home, far aways from the craggy coastline of northern California. Perhaps, many years from now, while he’s sitting around chomping on some overpriced cuisine, he’ll chuckle at the way he hoodwinked the league, and primarily Al Davis, into believing that he actually had a clue on how to play the sport of football. If Number 2 was a contestant in a hot dog-eating contest, I’d put the smart money on him, providing they didn’t ask him to toss any of the remains into a wastebasket. He’d surely miss the bucket.
As a long-time fan of the Oakland Raiders, I have nothing but fond memories to rely upon. Soon, this team with fade into obscurity and it will be difficult for the next generation of NFL fans to ever imagine that the Raiders were once one of the greatest teams ever to suit up for a sporting competition. Where are all those old timer Raiders? Can’t they talk to Mr. Davis? I didn’t want to believe that ol’ Al had surrendered his sensibilities to the ravages of time, and he seems incredibly lucid on occasion. But why doesn’t he see what’s wrong? Doesn’t he care about the numbers? Everything starts and ends with the quarterback. Motivation can not be attained when the guys around you know that their quarterback is hopeless. Hopelessness, like misery, embraces the company it keeps. Number 2 will smear upon all who touches him, marking them with a stench that will haunt them for the rest of their careers.
And to watch Number 2 yucking it up on the sidelines when he’s being thoroughly outclassed by anyone who has ever picked up a pigskin, makes me want to regurgitate. His laughter is a kick in the face to the fans who wear their hearts on their sleeves. He laughs and eats with reckless abandon, consuming the renmants of his meals along with what’s left of our hearts. Shame on him. Shame on Al. And shame on Cable, who is nothing more than a puppet being jostled around by a relic of the AFL who refuses to recognize that the pride and poise that once was this team’s mantra is now a horrible parody.
Keep eating, Number 2, and keep chuckling in the face of the beleagured fans. Eventually, all that is eaten must be extracted…and how appropriately that it does so in the form of Number 2.
