Sundays were finally going to mean something again. Drinking, yelling at the television, eating horribly unhealthy foods, drinking, and more yelling. Good, clean fun for the whole family. The right kind of fun. American fun.
And you took it all away from us. You took the only thing that could get me out of bed before noon on a weekend. You took it and you body-slammed it onto the concrete to kill it.
You bastards took football.
It's bad enough that I live with the most fervent Steelers fan in the Western Hemisphere, who can't go three minutes without mentioning their sixth Super Bowl win last season, but now I don't even have a team.
Do you understand? I have no team. How could I possibly support the Eagles now? How could anyone? You might as well have hired a child rapist. I'm not exaggerating; for me, there is no difference.
Even if this is a purely financial decision to pick up convicted dog killer Michael Vick at a cut rate price and gain a substantial trade further down the line, it's still unacceptable. In fact, that might even make it worse, especially for a squad that has always prided itself on the high quality of its players' characters.
Do people deserve second chances? Maybe. Does Michael Vick? No. I said "people," and Vick hardly registers higher than "walking turd" in my book. "People" don't participate in, fund or condone the fighting, hanging, electrocution and drowning of defenseless animals. Nor are they rewarded, generally, with $6 million contracts for doing so.
No, Eagles. No. Vick is a repulsive, disgracful flathead who has never shown an ounce of remorse for his actions. He shouldn't be in the league and he sure as hell shouldn't be on our team.
Sorry, I guess I meant your team. I'm finished with you, Eagles.
Come back when you grow some scruples.