No Hard Feelings, Mr. Leitch



I’ll start by letting you know that I have the utmost respect for you and your writing. I’ve never actually met you, but you seem to be a decent enough person. That’s why it pains me to say this…

You’re dead to me.

At least for the next week.

As a longtime Falcons fan, the playoffs are not something I’ve seen that much of. This miserable franchise has mentally and physically abused me. Chris Chandler has taken me into the woods and watched while Craig Heyward and Eric Metcalf sodomized me and Michael Vick jerked off on my forehead. Honest. It happened.

But for the first time in years, I truly have a reason to be happy about this team; to think that they aren’t one torn ACL away from being 3-13 again. God, I hate that Jamal Anderson had the ligaments of a 90-year old woman. And that Chris Chandler was, in fact, a 90-year old woman.

Kurt Warner may think God is on his side, but that’s just stupid. It’s clear that, with Atlanta coming within 2 minutes of winning the NFC South, Matt Ryan not turning out like Joey Harrington and John Abraham playing the entire season without the letters IR next to his name, God is on our side.

We’ve had a strange relationship, you and I, Mr. Leitch. Your website. My unhealthy obsession with a broken horse and MySpace. You were cousin Larry and I was the oddly likeable Balki Bartokmous. Or something.

But you’re a Cardinals fan…

That’s why, until Monday rolls around and one of us has a legitimate reason to be drunk again the following Sunday, I’m forced to hate everything about you. Your much-too-nice, must-be-hiding-something demeanor. Your unique ability to not be aroused at strip clubs. I hate it all this week.

If I lived closer to New York, I’d offer to buy the first round as Michael Turner runs roughshod over the Arizona defense and you hang your head in shame. If I had a semi-respectable website that people actually read, I’d suggest we place a friendly wager where one of us would write the other’s site for a day. Sort of like a crappy mayor’s wager. Instead, I would just like to begrudgingly say, goodluck. You understand.

No matter what Facebook may tell you, we aren’t friends. You can send me all the pieces of flair you want, but we’re still sworn enemies.

Until Monday.

Then, I’ll totally comment on your status updates.

Adam Smoot (I Party With Smoot)


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