The “breaking point,” “the straw that broke the camel’s back,” “one toke over the line,” wait, what? Yeah, if you’re a fan of the Redskins and their broke-dick, cheese-eating, high school-boy (thank you, Canadian power poppers, The Pursuit Of Happiness) mentality and clueless approach to organization, you’ve probably hit the above referenced metaphors at some time in the last milieu, no matter how eternally optimistic the sunshine blazing out of your ass would like to say otherwise. And once that sunshine has been squelched and you’re left with nothing more than a singed bunghole and a depressingly unhealthy mindset that leaves you sitting alone in a darkened room, Evan Williams spilled all over the floor, and you furiously spinning the chamber wondering how it came to this and could there possibly be a way out that doesn’t involve storming The Danny’s castle armed for bear or sucking a bullet out of the business end of a forty-five, well the answer is yes, yes there is.
Now the answer I’m going to offer up may seem to some to be even more egregious and immoral than the previously aforementioned scenarios involving death, murder, mayhem and all sorts of nuclear weapons aimed at The Little Fuckface; the solution, a pill that’s so bitter to swallow even the dipshit Imagineers at Disney and nerds at Industrial Light and Magic could never, ever conceive of it.
What is it, you ask yourself that could be so horrendous, so terrifying that it could send both NFL fans and H. P. Lovecraft aficionados screaming into the night and jumping into the abyss? The answer, gentle reader, is turning in your Redskins card, dropping all rooting interest in the team you grew up cheering for. It means hanging up your jerseys, peeling the stickers off of your car, donating your t-shirts and hats to Goodwill. I’m not gonna blow resinous smoke up your nether regions, it’s a hard road to embark upon, no matter how many cases of Flying Dog Imperial Porter you have on hand to weather the storm. The fuck of it is though, deep down inside, you know you’ve gotta cut that treacherous, all-encompassing, all-consuming football cancer outta your life, the same cancer that eats a wee bit more of your heart and mind with every Existence Crushing Interception, every Demoralizing Defensive Breakdown, every Soul-Abusing Gaffe.
I know you can do it because I hung up the telephone on these fucksticks a few years ago and haven’t regretted a single minute of my former fandom. I threw out the baby, the bathwater, and the whole friggin’ tub right out the window during the clusterfuck that was the Mike Shanahan regime. Somehow, Shanny managed to come off as less worthy than two of the biggest busts in the Redskins remarkable history of muffing personnel decisions — yes, I’m reminding you of the Mcnabb/Haynesworth era no matter how much crotch-shrinking pain it induces. I’d. Had. Enough! I renounced my membership, hung up my jerseys, packed away my team knick-knacks and resolved to fulfill my football rooting interests through the members of my various fantasy teams. And wow! What a difference it makes in not having to carry that Black Hole Of Suck around on your shoulders every weekend during football season. Nirvana! Glorious unrepentant nirvana, my friends! I’m no longer burdened by whatever effluent washes from the sewers of FedEx on Sunday and quickly overflows all the media outlets in town trailing a cacophony of mouth-breathing idiots in its wake as the shit slowly recedes to whence it came.
Look, there are always going to be naysayers that proclaim you can’t give up on the franchise that you were born or practically born into. They’ll throw all kinds of obtuse arguments at you which all generally boil down to the effect that you’re constitutionally mandated to never give up on your team, or heaven forbid, change your rooting interests to ANOTHER TEAM! Words like “quitter,” “loser,” “bandwagon-jumper” will be bandied about. Other more derogatory terms may tossed in your general direction. Ignore ’em.
Many people who ride the Misery Train do so in the knowledge that others are as emotionally drained as they are and they can’t stand the fact that someone is willing to climb out of the hellhole that they themselves can’t recognize or acknowledge. Misery truly does love company, a fact that the Little Generalissimo is fully counting on to keep his pockets full of your coins. Fuck him. Fuck his army of clueless sheep dressed in managerial clothes. Fuck your friends who say you can’t go your own way. Fuck rumor-mongering douchebags working from the inside out to spin organizational dysfuntion as a product of the players rather than the “adults” supposedly in charge of this chaotic goat rodeo.
Take the step. Walk across the street to the other side and don’t look back. That funky force that’s making you squint your eyes?? That’s the sunshine! You’re welcome. Enjoy your newfound unchained freedom.
(Ed. note: Remember to enter our Best-Worst Redskins Jerseys contest!)