The game: Patriots at Seahawks
The beer: Night Shift Whirlpool Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 35–30
The knockout: Titans win, 33–30
The commentary: Undefeated season? I won’t rule it out! Meet the new boss, folks, because this is the team’s most impressive season-opening win-streak in years, as Cam Newton distributes regret evenly across half the league. Nay, two-thirds! In Bill we trust!

I did feel OK about the—wait, loss? Right. Presumed Patriots victories haven’t felt this good since Super Bowl XLI, what with unanimous-retcon-MVP Russell Wilson playing out of his mind again. What’s a reigning Defensive Player of the Year to do? I’m all for professional sports writers hitting back at themselves for never throwing Wilson a bone in the MVP race but said self-importance is especially jarring during a season of legitimately crucial and destabilized vote-tallying. Read the room and get over yourselves—Trump is crafting a race war and we just lost a fucking judge, for crying out loud.

I’ll tell you what actually is two-and-oh, though: cream. More cream. Please. I’m not sure a single motherfucker will read a word I write in this post-Blogger universe but it won’t be for lack of effort. Self-importance is in as I aim for weekly—truly weekly—bullshit.

On that note, I’m halfway through Stephen King’s Rat and sharing Drew’s lack of… assuredness? Direction? Telephone service? I know a wall when I see one.

Up next: Right about now, Derek Carr’s personal assistant is exiting the Patriot Place CVS with a yard-long receipt full of eyeliner coupons. Cheers!