The Eagles were supposed to be a Dream Team. Yeah, dream on. This has been a bigger nightmare than Met-Ed’s and PP&L’s response to October’s freak snowstorm.
A coyote ugly 21-17 loss to the crummy Cards today at the Linc, in which the Birds blew a fourth-quarter lead for the fifth time this season, dropped these pathetic losers to 3-6. That’s more life-sucking than Tuna Helper.
How’s that gold standard working out for you, Jeff Lurie and Joe Banner?
No need to delve into the horrid details of Sunday’s plunge into the abyss. Suffice it to say that the Eagles should have worn flippers and snorkels if they were planning to do a cannonball into Davy Jones’ Locker. Michael Vick’s left arm was a rigatoni noodle. Their defense was a rigatoni noodle. Their penalties and mistakes multiplied like loaves and fishes, not to mention rigatoni noodles at Mom Chaffe’s.
DeSean Jackson was the lucky one. He overslept Saturday because he is grossly underpaid and can’t afford more than a $3.95 alarm clock. So he was told to stay home. It was contagious. All the other Eagles played like they stayed home.
So just what happens when a dream dies and there’s no way to go back and fix things?
The Eagles’ coaches and players run for cover instead of the playoffs.
Iggles Nation spends the remainder of their weekends this year going to poetry readings. And for those poor folks whose shattered hearts can’t stand even that low level of excitement, they settle for reading government ordinances or reviewing Rick Perry’s IQ test.
The Birds have R.I.P. scrawled in Magic Marker across their shoulder pads for the remainder of the schedule.
Instead of watching game films and stonewalling the media, Andy Reid pigs out on a blitz of all-you-can-eat buffets. Vegas lays odds on the over/under of how many stains wind up on his black windbreaker. In a landslide, the over covers.
Zeke writes blogs wondering why supermodels seldom grout bathtubs.