Next Year...Super Bowl!
I got ready to drop a couple of dopes off at the Bills Stadium so that they could sit in the freezing cold and root, root, root for the Bills to win their final game...
...although it meant absolutely nothing at all.
Unless you're a true fan!!!
"They're gonna' knock the Jets from the playoffs!" Matt said.
"Dopey bastard," I replied.
"It's 70 degrees in the house and the couch is nice and soft," I said.
"You aren't a true fan!" He said.
"Uh, duh," I answered.
"Super Bowl win next year!" Matt sang out.
"All indications are," I replied.
But there they were, putting on their hats, dressing in layers, grabbing the beer that would freeze in their hands.
"What do you think of Rex Ryan?" I asked.
"He's great," Matt said.
"Mario Williams?"
"Great player. Gave all he had."
Matt knew by now not to concede an inch.
"If Belichick was coaching them how many games do you think they would have won this year?"
"Less," he answered. "Rex is the GOAT."
"What went wrong?" I asked...
...I was just looking for the slimmest of cracks to get in and laugh at him.
"Nothing. Great building year. Super Bowl next year. Guaranteed."
I laughed.
"You have to drive us," Matt said.
"I'll take Bobbie. You can run beside the car because you're an idiot."
"I BILLieve too," Bobbie said.
"Get in, you idiots," I said.
"Just make sure our dinner is ready when we get home," Matt said.
I drove down Abbott Road and eyed a grown man sitting on the cold ground, next to a tiny grill, turning over a Ball Park Frank while holding a beer. He was dressed as if he were participating in the Iditarod.
For a 7 win team.
Hearty.
Matt and Bobbie jumped from the car.
"Don't forget to make my dinner," he said.
"LET'S GO BUFFALO!" He cried out.
Dopey bastards.
...although it meant absolutely nothing at all.
Unless you're a true fan!!!
"They're gonna' knock the Jets from the playoffs!" Matt said.
"Dopey bastard," I replied.
"It's 70 degrees in the house and the couch is nice and soft," I said.
"You aren't a true fan!" He said.
"Uh, duh," I answered.
"Super Bowl win next year!" Matt sang out.
"All indications are," I replied.
But there they were, putting on their hats, dressing in layers, grabbing the beer that would freeze in their hands.
"What do you think of Rex Ryan?" I asked.
"He's great," Matt said.
"Mario Williams?"
"Great player. Gave all he had."
Matt knew by now not to concede an inch.
"If Belichick was coaching them how many games do you think they would have won this year?"
"Less," he answered. "Rex is the GOAT."
"What went wrong?" I asked...
...I was just looking for the slimmest of cracks to get in and laugh at him.
"Nothing. Great building year. Super Bowl next year. Guaranteed."
I laughed.
"You have to drive us," Matt said.
"I'll take Bobbie. You can run beside the car because you're an idiot."
"I BILLieve too," Bobbie said.
"Get in, you idiots," I said.
"Just make sure our dinner is ready when we get home," Matt said.
I drove down Abbott Road and eyed a grown man sitting on the cold ground, next to a tiny grill, turning over a Ball Park Frank while holding a beer. He was dressed as if he were participating in the Iditarod.
For a 7 win team.
Hearty.
Matt and Bobbie jumped from the car.
"Don't forget to make my dinner," he said.
"LET'S GO BUFFALO!" He cried out.
Dopey bastards.
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