As it is with everything Miami Dolphins, we just don’t lose. We lose shitstacularly. Vontae Davis hurting his wrist, giving way to Bustaroo coming in his place? Yep! Chad Henne being taken out of the game because of a poked eye like he was fucking Curly from the Three Stooges? Yessir! Pat White frighteningly, yet not at all surprisingly, getting knocked the fuck out? That’s an affirmative! The Dolphins defense switching from the 3-4 to the-bend-over-and-grab-your-ankles formation? Yes indeedy! Mounting an improbable comeback, getting us all excited only to shit all over ourselves in the end? Fuck and yes.
It had all the makings of a clusterfuck. And that’s exactly what we got. Sure Tyler Thigpen (HORSECOCKS!) came in and gave us something to get excited about for a while there. He showed his athleticism by keeping plays alive with his feet and throwing a 33-yard strike to Davone Bess. But he also showed us why he’s a career backup quarterback. Thigpen gave, but he also took away. That interception in the redzone was the dumbest fucking pass I’ve ever seen attempted in a situation like that. Live by the HORSECOCKS! die by the HORSECOCKS! I guess.
So, yea, clusterfuckaroo.
Add to the fact that the Jets got into the playoffs courtesy of the Colts magically turning into pussies and the Bengals not giving a fuck, it chalks up to a pretty shitty way to end a season (I swear to whatever deity you seem fit to place here that if one — just one — Jets fan says any shit to me today about how they made the playoffs, I will punch them in the face. I’m not even remotely joking about this. Not. One. Bit.). Could it end any other way for us?
Sure, the pain will ease as the playoffs unfold. The Jets will inevitably lose, and Wes Welker’s knee just turned to mulch, so there’s that.
And the Dolphins get the 12th pick in the draft, which isn’t a great parting gift, but it’s something. Like winning seven bucks in a lottery scratch off game, or a handjob after a third date.
It’s painfully obvious we need a play-making receiver, a nose tackle, a revamped linebacking corps, and someone to punch Gibril Wilson in his cunt. How we fill those holes will be something to keep an eye on, and then ceaselessly mock. Oh, and we’re gonna need a linebackers coach because ours just accepted a job with the University of Virginia. One thing I can tell you, the Trifecta showed some weakness of judgement this last off-season. From the aforementioned Wilson signing to all the shitloads of cash we threw at a so-so injury-riddled offensive line, to the weird-ass bizarro mysterious Matt Roth episode. All in all, when your lone Pro Bowl selection is your left tackle, it pretty much means you’re going to finish every season 7-9 until that shit changes.
Until then, it’s onwards and upwards towards the doldrums and the never ending, inexplicable love we have for this fucking fuck-shit team of ours.
Will we ever learn?
Yea, probably not. We’re unswervingly in love.
Fuck our lives.