The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Idle Hands 34 Porter
The result: Fuuuuuuck
The method: Live via Paramount+
The headline: “You took my arm and you broke my will.” – Stooges, “Ann”

The commentary: Look, everyone! It’s one of those posts where I wait several months to “analyze” the final game of the season and whatnot! Sometimes you hold out to give triumph room to breathe, parsing hot-shit electro-jazz like a common toe-fucker. Sometimes, though, sometimes those early playoff exits just speak for themselves. As do snippets of third-quarter household conversation:

Concerned wife: Can I get you anything?

Beer-less, shell-shocked husband: A defense.

And the following Sunday, not to be outdone:

Agenda-curious wife: What time are the Pats playing?

Morose, suggestible husband: They’re not.

My lone takeaway from the game and its aftermath was a puffy, mask-less and obviously symptomatic Scott Zolak in the post-game interview room, coughing all over poor Steve “Crazy Eyes” Burton (“ugh”) and a roomful of weeping sportswriters. Despite this, the team’s PR staff beat reporters live on—though none so richly as Zolak’s letting-out tailor—in a lukewarm sea of “Smart move”/“Low risk”/“Great value” free agency commentaries that offend those (like me) able to find fault in the coach’s limitations as a GM. Zolak may have missed his chance to be the next great MAGA super-spreader but I believe in him—just in case, I’ve gone ahead and written the job description for future Belichick media lapdogs/legacy preservers:

Wanted: Ninny.

The Bills might have won the wild-card game by “only” thirty points but that’s due to time limits—scoring on every possession suggests that additional possessions would have resulted in additional scores. Drag. I have so many past complaints about the defense to link to that I can’t think straight, but at least we have another overpriced year of Thee Devin McCourty to look forward to. Ready your imperfect angles.

“You took my arm and you broke my will”? That’s exactly what happened! I mean, Jesus, how did I not latch onto “Ann” when lamenting Our Hero’s exit ahead of a seriously fantastic Volume 13? The collective self-delusion of a spoiled fan base that Jarrett Stidham—no!—Cam Newton—no!—Brian Hoyer?—no!—Cam Newton again—no!—Mac Jones would make us forget the former guy (not that former guy) is too rich for nonfiction. Victory in Super Bowl XXXVI is the best and worst thing to ever happen to New England and that includes the Reverend Horton Heat at Avalon in 1994 (former) and, I don’t know, dropping my fucking phone into Fort Point Channel in 2012 (latter). Brady exits and suddenly he is a system quarterback who would be selling insurance if it weren’t for Belichick’s talent evaluation and development? You assholes. He should still be our quarterback and these glaring weaknesses—these very same weaknesses—fester without a once-in-a-lifetime superstar to disguise them. Assholes.

Instead, what MAC-10.2 accomplishes against an improved AFC depends on whether or not Belichick’s encouraging 2021 draft class leans more trend than fad. If only whiffing on (nearly) every draft pick didn’t suggest that additional draft picks would result in additional whiffs. Drag. I likely won’t live-blog the event—no pause button makes it tough—but I will tune in, and after the ups and downs of season XII we’re only picking six spots lower this time. In theory, that is, since they’ll probably trade down and take a goddamn guard. Scalavino weeps, and I will too if they don’t end up with a cornerback, a wide receiver and a pass rusher. Smart move, low risk. Great value. Fuuuuuuck.

Up next: I drove by a “Patriots Lives Matter” sign across town. Yeah! Go Pats! What’s that now? Cheers!