Here to collect his winnings from correctly predicting the Redskins-49ers game is JP.
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.