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Oh, Points.

+5 HS
Earthoid.'s picture
April 27, 2017 at 7:24pm
9 Comments

I wrote this after the Clemson "game".  It's incomplete but succinct.  It became far too difficult to continue as I quickly succumbed the depressive force of the harshest of realities.  There would be no search for every last kilobyte of analysis as I basked in the glory of victory, and gave the most forceful of "pffftttt's" as the experts most assuredly predicted our eventual demise.  There would be no restless anticipation as we pushed forward to a national championship showdown against a Crimson foe.  It was not to be.  

Instead, I would avoid every kilobyte of analysis possible, except those of my own and fellow dubbers, as I angrily joined the chorus of armchair quarterbacks hurling a many expletives at enemy of the state #1 - he known as offensive coordinator in title only, decidedly not good at coordinating offenses - and possibly, most likely, not coordinating anything but a freshening of his resume and a move to greener pastures down south.  

Was that a playbook in his possession as the third quarter camera cut to a worrying figure in "the box" or had he finally turned his full attention to IKEA's latest catalog?  From formations to work stations.  From man beaters to water heaters.  In this instance, we saw the unmistakable look of a man whose motorcade had blown past Helplessness Lane and was now barreling towards "what the F am I even doing here" Boulevard.  In this instance, as we swore we would "turn this shit off" - we knew how this would end.  And while writhing in utter pain, embarrassment and disappointment, a glimmer of a thought: "at least THAT asshole is gone FOREVER!" .... "Who the F hired him anyway?"... 

And as the clock hit zero, having not "turned that shit off" or even come close to it.  ... A whimper and then a single, sad tear quickly manifested it's true self in the form of a rather sudden burst of full on baby-sobbing, lip-quivering, nose-running cries of "why!?.... whhyyyyyy!!!!???" ... a repetitive, uncontrollable display of pure anguish that would persist well into the night.  As I awoke in a stupor, the next morning, head pounding from entirely irresponsible levels of consumption, this text had found it's way onto a TextEdit document, quite appropriately saved as "fuck you and all of you i hate you all. poop."  

I dug it back it up as another spring game has come and gone, and old wounds have begun to heal.  The scar tissue is still fresh.  It has been tentatively renamed: "Oh, Points."  Enjoy.

Oh, points. points.
Thou of such value
Whether we feel your sweet embrace via the flick of the leg or the flick of a wrist
Points... and scoring, are the source of certain bliss.

Point, old friend, how we miss your warming glow!
On the scoreboard and in our TV corners,
As we sometimes blow right past zero.

 

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