Henceforth, let the Eagles be known as the Hens because they excel at laying an egg

I guess the Eagles were poisonously hung over from the snowstorm that shellacked Philly and Jersey but thankfully not Greater Reading. Because they were more awful than watching a jackal puke. Because they were flatter than stale champagne.
The Birds blew a chance at a playoff bye by stumbling and fumbling to those rumbling Vikings 24-14 Tuesday night at the Linc.
Granted, the Eagles do not have a great track record in Tuesday Night Football. But that is no excuse to sleep walk through a game. It’s tough to play when you keep stifling a yawn. Those two extra days of waiting to play must have turned them all into a squad of Rip Van Winkles.
It was an ignoble time for Philly, which now is locked into the NFC’s No. 3 seed and will host the No. 6 seed on Jan. 8 or 9. Its final game against the Cowboys Sunday now is as meaningless as elections once were in the Soviet Union.
Michael Vick took another vicious pounding and was limping around with another quad contusion. He misfired more than my old 1963 Comet. He would have thrown a six-pack of picks if the Viking secondary people were born with hands. Talk about noxious droppings.
And the Eagles’ defense, decimated by injuries and populated with rookies greener than their uniforms, emitted one atonal shriek of despair after another. If it is a championship defense, I’m Brad Pitt.
Andy Reid was hotter than a vat of Cajun chili about hissing away a shot at a bye. He looked like a man watching his lobster-and-steak dinner catch fire on the stove.

“We don’t deserve it after that performance,” Reid growled, looking like a porcine serial killer. “Every phase was terrible. We didn’t coach well enough. We didn’t play well enough. I’m disappointed in myself. It’s embarrassing.”
I guess they should have played Sunday but Mayor Nutter let Mother Nature play him like an accordion.