So, uhhh, like…what’s up…?

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I shudder to think how deeply esconsed in the ‘D’ word we are right now. Senior Bowl was last week and that was ‘aight’, I guess. We can sit here and wonder for months and months whether Kaepernininiininick is worth dropping down in the first round and taking a chance on some lanky dude with a slow-as-molasses release or sell the barn to get Cam Newton or Blaine Gabbert. Typically, I want nothing to do with anyone named ‘Blaine’ because it reminds me of this but I’m very, very old, you see.

Anyway, Brooklyn Decker and her wide open pelvis are here to at least get the image of Jeff Ireland saying ‘NO’ to whores out of your mind for just a little bit.

I’m going back home for the weekend. Winter sucks my balls.

Go Packers.

“THESE BLEACHERS SMELL LIKE WH*RE JUICE!”

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If you haven’t seen it, there’s some tasty video up on the Sentinel site (as well as other places) of lame duck GM Jeff Ireland speaking to a few reporters after Senior Bowl practices.  Generally, the questions veered towards the offensive side of the ball and Ireland did his best pursed-lips, “I seriously fucking hate you guys” act while modestly answering questions about how we plan to upgrade team speed (‘BOUT FUCKING TIME), look into improving the offensive side of the ball while not sleeping on any defensive holes that need to be addressed and making sure all proper due diligence is done in all ‘four’ phases of the team.

Still, can’t say I’m not a little disappointed he didn’t just grab someone’s iPhone 4 and yell ‘WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRREEESSSSSSSSSS!!!!’ into the camera for a good 27 seconds.  Maybe next time; you know he’s really restraining himself right now.

photoshop by the awesome CK Parrot

Horatio Ireland Comments on the AFC Championship…

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hat tip to amy13phins for this. solid work!

The Miami Dolphins Kool-Aid Acid Test

Look, shit has been rather bleak around here lately – so in an effort to lighten things up – I asked star commenter Greg from Delray to tell us about the time he took LSD and went to a Dolphins game.  I remember him mentioning this on Twitter some time ago and I thought it might get our minds off the horrible decision-making our front office has done by shedding light on some of the questionable decision-making our own readers have done.  Needless to say, Greg on a shit ton of acid would probably not hire the Browns offensive coordinator.  At any rate, here’s his amusing tale:

Sunday, October 28th, 1984. Orange Bowl, Miami, Florida – Buffalo at Miami

And there I was, standing in front of the Orange Bowl. Both of us ripped to the teeth on acid and whiskey. My cousin was standing next me, he was giggling like a mental patient and his lazy eye was regarding me with contempt while his other eye was staring at God knows what. We had just climbed out of his 1976 rust colored (because of the actual rust) Camaro – and by “climbed” I mean undid the bungee cords holding the car doors closed and falling out onto the pavement. My cousin (“Little” Johnny) was wearing his Slayer “Show No Mercy” concert t-shirt and I had on my Metallica “Ride the Lightning” t-shirt. We both had long, gigantic heads of hair and were wearing board shorts and high top tennis shoes.  People were staring. This was Miami of the early ‘80’s, it was the wild fucking west and still ruled by insane rednecks. The cocaine money that built the downtown Miami skyline had yet to be made but the ticket scalpers were doing their part, offering coke with every ticket purchase.

The attention was beginning to freak my cousin out “Fuck ‘em, if any of them make a move go for the eyes” I said to him. He mumbled incoherently in reply but I wasn’t listening. I was focused now  on what, who we had come to see.  Dan Marino. He was rampaging through the NFL this season like a fucking Frost Giant from Norse mythology, a cheetah stalking the field with an arm full of napalm.  A prophet whose sermon to the opposing defense was one of hopelessness and despair and his cathedral was the Orange Bowl. I was here to bear witness and be saved. Being 1984, we were without laptops, cell phones, internet, and a 24 hour sports news cycle.  If you had questions that needed answers back then you had to make the journey which often had its own perils. Taking acid with your friends on a Saturday night in the confines of your house was one thing, doing it in the Miami afternoon heat amidst 50,000 football fans is another.

Entering the stadium we were crippled now by the chemicals, my eyes were sweating, my head was pulsating and ready for takeoff.“Little” Johnny who had no love for football (but a particular fondness for drugs, Death Metal and KSwiss high top tennis shoes)was going sideways on me, saying all kinds of weird shit in a voice that told me he had lost the ability to control its volume.  The people around us were becoming uncomfortable. As we sat down the game was getting ready to begin. It was blazing hot, Johnny was hallucinating and beginning to giggle (and bark?) again and I am now starting to see “Blue Meanies” on the field (I had watched “Yellow Submarine” the night before). Everything looked like it was moving a hundred fucking miles per hour. “Buy the ticket and take the ride “(HST).

The game itself was a revelation. Marino was a man on fire. He had no fucking regard for human life let alone for the defense or even his own teammates. This was Marino when he was “becoming” before he was given the mantle of HOF QB.  I only saw the “tracers” behind the football when he threw it, but no one on defense wanted any part of it or him. Buffalo DB’s were openly weeping on the sideline begging to not go into the game. With every motion of his arm Marino was assaulting Buffalo. It was beautiful and terrible to watch. Marino was relentless in inflicting his particular kind of violence, he threw 3 TD’s in this game (one a 65 yarder to Clayton)and for over 300 yards. Also 3 INT’s and they just made him angrier it seemed. I am sure there were some running plays at some point but I cannot remember them or Miami’s defense. Miami put up almost 500 yards of offense and destroyed Buffalo 38-7.  I saw Marino many more times over the years but nothing could compare to this game. I ended up almost carrying my cousin out to the car after the game ended,  I had made my pilgrimage and had confirmed the myths and legends. Greatest Fucking Quarterback to Ever Play the Game. Fuck the Super Bowl.  A testament to Marino’s greatness is the fact that he didn’t need to win one to be considered one of the All Time guys.

And the Super Bowl is gay.

Dolphins-Bengals Open Thread

Seeing how the entire Bengals secondary has died this week, this shit gets as simple as fuck: Throw the fucking ball to Brandon fucking Marshall. Run it too? Sure why not. But when we run it, RUN it… no end-arounds, no cutesy bullshit. Football 101, dickbags.

Fuck or walk.

Let’s Go Fins.

Also, Happy Halloween! Because what eases strain and acrimony better than a girl with awesome tits in a tight cut-off superhero costume? Nothing, I say. NOTHING. Halloween is better than Christmas that way.

Guess Who Just Got Sh-tcanned?


This asshole.

22nd ranked defense, 390 total points allowed, an NFL-high 140 in the fourth quarter.

When DRK and I went to the Steelers game last week, one of the more telling things we saw was Jason Taylor on the sidelines barking at Paul Pasqualoni after coming off the field after Pittsburgh scored their 8th touchdown of the day (might have been less than 8. I was too angry and drunk to keep count).

I don’t know if that has anything to do with anything, but I remember hoping JT would punctuate whatever complaint he was angrily venting to Pasqualoni by punching him in his old cock. Alas, that didn’t happen. But this is just as good.

Happy Halloween

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Happy Halloween, Nation.

Tom Brady was already in on the festivities during last Sunday’s post-game presser. He’s dressing up as Hillary Duff.

Seriously. A newsboy cap. Seriously. How can you not hate this fucker?

If you’re gonna party tonight, be safe. Trick O’ Treating? Likewise.

Down here in Miami it’s raining like Noah just collected the last remaining alpacas and all the women and liquor he could carry (40 days and nights worth), and rambled up into his boat. Sheets of rain.

But fuck that. I’m going out anyway. My three year old son is dressing up like a Power Ranger. Afraid of getting soaked and catching a cold? Man up, boy. Because that costume made of thin polyester and synthetic nylons that cost the sweat shop people $3.00 to make, cost me $30.00 to purchase. So grab your bucket and let’s do this. And no rain coats either. I don’t recall ever seeing a Power Ranger wearing a rain coat. You want candy? You’re earning that shit tonight.

Happy Halloween!