The less-than-tall gentleman does not accept my apology, though, and starts to spew invective at me that would make a Hunters Point streetwalker blush. I continue to express my regret at this unfortunate turn of events while he continues to get angrier and angrier at me for the earth-shattering crime of spilling a screwdriver on his fake Versace clothing, which I assume came from the children's line.
After putting up with this for a solid 90 seconds I finally ditch my gentlemanly facade and say, "look, I said I'm sorry, and I am sorry, but what the fuck are you going to do about it?"
At this point the vertically challenged gentleman plucks a telescoping steel baton out of nowhere and proceeds to beat the everloving shit out of me.
I finally feel I can relate this tale because now I know I have a kindred spirit. After all, getting your ass kicked by Kylie Minogue's shorter, more effeminate brother has to feel an awful lot like getting outcoached by JIM FUCKING ZORN.
Seriously? Seriously? Jim Zorn? Are you kidding me? ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKING KIDDING ME?
Hey, Andy, here's a thought: when you have a 14-point lead in a football game, your job is to eat clock. Nothing else. NOTHING FUCKING WELL ELSE! You run the ball on first and second down and then maybe - MAYBE! - try a little dink and dunk on 3rd and short to get the first down. Hell, if you've got, let's say, the best running back in the National Football League you might even run it again on third down. You might even break off a big play or, god forbid, a touchdown!
You do this to keep the chains moving, and - this is the important part here, Andy - EAT THE FUCKING CLOCK! Because, Andy, when you have a 14-point lead in the first three minutes of a football game the only thought in your gigantic cantaloupe head SHOULD be, "short of relativistic time dilation, which the speed of a Donovan McNabb pass could possibly generate (illustrated below), how can I end this game as quickly as possible?"
The way you do that, Andy, is you RUN THE FUCKING FOOTBALL! You have Brian Westbrook. You have DeSean Jackson. You have that stupid fucking "ghost around" play that, hey, remember that time you actually GAVE it to Jackson last week instead of faking it for the 9 billionth time and he broke it off for like 30 yards? You have these things at your disposal, Andy. You do not use them.
You do not use them because unfortunately for everyone everywhere, but most especially those of us who are both a) Eagles fans and b) not anencephalic silverbacks, the only thought lurking inside that fleshy basketball atop your neck is, "footballs flying through the air are pretty, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" This thought is sometimes closely followed by, "hey, Donovan looks sad. I wonder why. I bet making him throw the ball 584,871 more times will cheer him up! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
You had an eminently winnable football game and you coached yourself right out of it. You let yourself get beat by Jim Zorn! What, did you think he was Max Zorin from A View to a Kill and you got scared because you thought you were up against a second-rate Bond villain? No! Jim Zorn. Jim fucking Zorn. You managed to put in a shittier coaching performance than JIM FUCKING ZORN.
Kylie's little brother is coming for you, Andy, and he's got a Cobra with your name all fucking over it.
