Like a poet said: Like muffled drums, our hearts beat a funeral march to the grave.
I am, of course, referencing last night’s burial of the Philadelphia Eagles
Four and eight and this ain’t so great for the, can you believe, Dream Team.
The Birds sure as hell didn’t look like they wanted to play football Thursday night on national television. It looked like they wanted to do something more fun, like dig ditches, lube jackhammers or man the graveyard shift at a 7-Eleven.
They sputtered worse than a 1970 Plymouth Duster.
The crummy Seahawks just had to have big stogies in their mouths instead of mouthpieces the way they smoked the Eagles 31-14.
Sure looked like the Eagles quit on Andy Reid. Effort was MIA. If they were going to mail it in, they should have just put a stamp on it and saved Jeffrey Lurie the nut on a cross-country flight.
Once again, the defense was baffled and soft, dazed and confused. Their pass coverage breaks down more frequently than a Kim Kardashian relationship. They can’t tackle a Cigar Store Indian.
They made Marshawn Lynch look like a combination of Jim Brown, Jim Thorpe and Jim Dandy.
Juan Castillo couldn’t coordinate a church social.
And then there was the offense. The Eagles have produced more turnovers this season than a pastry shop. Last night the clueless and armless Vince Young served up four killer picks.
Tag the big toe on this Eagles’ season. It’s dead. The only remaining question at this point is whether Andy Reid is a dead man walking.