Freddogg Off The Chain

What is it about people who talk so loudly you can hear them from 20 yards away? You can’t tell me they don’t know they’re doing it? And I’ll tell you another thing, it’s a New York and points north phenomona, and right now sitting inside the Philly pressbox I am dead center in the middle of it.

How many ways can you analyze a football game? “It’s not rocket science” is the expression, like the losers who leave physics class and shoot stupid assed rockets on the football field are barometers of intelligence. How hard is it, “Place the rocket on the ground, light the fuse, then stand back, because if it trajects in a horizontal direction some unsuspecting grounded grazer is getting a hot shot up the butt?”

I’m not a brain surgeon—some educated types say-“I’m not a nuersurgeon”- like drilling a hole into someone’s head takes intelligence? It takes “not caring” because cutting away what you can of a brain tumor is a lot easier than changing the timing belt in a Jaguar, yes the car. And here’s another point. If you change a timing belt, the car is supposed to work, while the brain patient, if he dies, it’s his fault.

Drunks on the outside of playoff pregame and lots of them are continuing to rocket up to higher levels of intoxication because much of how they view the world and their own self worth is tagged to a team of millionaires who have never worked a real job and don’t give a shit about any of them.

And then I am surrounded by loud talking sports geeks who were never players or real life real guy drunks. The solution is the juxtaposition—a loud geeky fucker at a tailgate- or a drunk ass former lineman-not unlike me—in the pressbox.

Be a player in your own life not a voyuer overlooking and analyzing the lives of others. The moral of the story is simple: “Looks like I picked the wrong Sunday to stop drinking to oblivion.”

Paging Doctor Freddogg