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Bruce, we gave you tha keys, and THIS is what you brought home?

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Monday, December 20

Merry Christmas; Bears fans are morans

Today will be my season-ending post. I will also post one over at the Goat Riders. This one will be far more filthy, and philosophical, and fun.

While we sit all snug in our beds, while Walt Jocketty appeases his toothless minions by obtaining a Mark Mulder, and Sammy Sosa celebrates his third marriage, albeit twice to the same girl, by making more chimp-like Sosas, let us ruminate about yesterday's "Bear Weather" debacle against the newly formed Houston Texans.

Plainly put, you show me somebody woofing about "Bear Weather", and I'll show you a knuckle-dragging mouth breathing troglodyte, who lives in his mama's basement, salts fries or streets for a living, and couldn't possibly tell you the difference between shit and shinola. These genetically-shortchanged horseflies who cower at the altar of Ditka, a man who last coached in anger over twelve years ago..

..of course, during the Packer game yesterday, there was a drooling pusbag wearing a bishop's mitre with "Saint Vince" painted on it. That misogynistic dickpuller has been feeding worms since I was a little kid. I guess the sheer inability to live one's life in the present is not lost just on Chicagoans.

Two weeks ago, you geniuses were stuttin' large in the hallways and the sidewalks about the Playoffs!!! For chrissakes, win one game in this town, REGARDLESS OF THE CURRENT RECORD, and WE'RE GOING TO THE BIG DANCE!! Lose one game, and the sky is fucking falling!! The Russkies finally launched da nukes!!

The Russkies? Haven't you heard? Evil wears a ten-gallon hat a turban, fellas.

God Bless Lovie Smith, for this is not his fault. But his problems, while profound, are simple to remedy. All one must do to help the Loveman, is to cut the following goldbricking fuckmonkeys, in this order:

David Terrell
Qasim Mitchell
Aaron Gibson
Steve Edwards
Desmond Clark
Terrence Metcalf
Chad Hutchinson
Craig Krenzel
Marc Colombo
Bobby Wade
and...I don't remember his fucking name. The first backup we played...#12. The guy Terry Shea loves. He has to go, too.

Quinn. That's his name.

Just draft all offensive linemen and receivers the next draft, go into camp with Grossman, George, and some guy hitchhiking along I-57 at can it be any worse than this year?

The Tribune still has the unmitigated gall to print today that the Bears are not yet mathematically eliminated. Of course, remember, this is the same organization that is banking on Todd Hollandsworth to play 155 games in LF next year.

So with only a few shopping days left until the celebration of the birth of our Lord, our savior Jesus Christ, please make a special effort between now and then, to put down the Strat-o-Matic, pick your butt off of the chair, and try to reconnect with at least one loved one. We tend to over-exert ourselves during this season in a mad rush to make the holiday "special", and we lose track about what is important, the feelings of our spouses, children, parents, grandparents, or maybe just a close friend you have not taken the time with lately. We all need some love.

Me, I have several calls in to Mark Prior's people. I want him and his bovine wife to come to my house, relax, and partake in a simple meal of sides-o-beef, and plain, quiet, simple conversation. I want Mark and his bride to know how much we love him, and that he IS special.

God loves us all, no matter which side of the Bush-Kerry line you live on.

Except for Don Rumsfeld. Nobody loves his crabby ass. Fucking shitblockage. Merry christmas in Hell, warmonger. Out of Iraq by 2008, my tuckus. Even the Red states won't stand for that shit. Keep playing Marco Polo with Bin Laden, since you couldn't fucking beat a six-year-old in Stratego, let alone Risk, and the rest of us will go to church and pray.

Come home soon, God willing.