It was one of those painful lessons you had to learn as a kid. You know, you'd be pissed off at some kid stuff or at your parents or somesuch and yet you had to bottle it all up inside and comb your fucking hair and button your goddamn shirt and still smile and shake hands and say "fine" and "good" and "thank you" and all the rest of the polite shite that was expected of you when all you really wanted to do was kick someone or break something and tell the world to "eat shit and die." Remember? That's what this feels like. The Giants are done. Don't talk to me about the Wild Card. Four games out with six to play? Yeah, I believe it is possible for both St. Louis and Atlanta to take a massive double-dump and give the club and opening. Here's the rub, though--the Giants would still have to win a shitload of games. You could have a sumo wrestler-sized offensive line who could open a hole you could slide a Winnebago through and hand the goddamn ball to this team and they'd fall down after a two-yard gain and then get penalized for illegal motion. You see? I'm resorting to fecking football metaphors! It's over. The fat lady hasn't sung--yet--but she will, and the sooner the better from where I'm sitting. I said all those nice things about MadBum and he looked like crap. That's OK, I'm sticking by what I wrote. He's going to open some eyes next year.
They moved up Cain to tonight's game.