I can't believe it. My mother was right. Kinda. She said that the Redskins would get another quarterback after Ramsey went down on Sunday, and they did just that. In order to shake up the team and get them out of this funk, they've cut Rob Johnson and signed Tim Hasselback. Let me repeat that. THEY CUT ROB JOHNSON. That's the answer? Are you fucking kidding me? There are a variety of things wrong with this course of action, but the most glaring being: How in the fuck is that suppossed to help? Further, Johnson has NFL experience and has actually been a starting quarterback in this league. Hasselback, brother of Seattle Hasselbeck, has never thrown a pass in a regulation NFL game. NEVER. Truth be told, I think it's the first step in Spurrier's plan to resign Danny Wuerfle. Spurier made it clear when Wuerfle was cut that he would consider resigning him if the need arose during the season. This is a bad football team, with bad owners, bad coaches and players with shitty attitudes. On Sunday they looked like they'd never seen each other before. I hope this is Spurrier's last season, cause i don't know how much more of this I can take. It's not that he's losing. I can deal with that. (Gibbs went 8-8 his first year, eventually won 3 Super Bowls; Schottenheimer also went 8-8 his first year). It's that Spurrier and Snyder make every wrong decision available to them. They've taken a franchise that belongs in the pantheon of professional football and made them look like the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.
The Democrats are up to thier nutty tricks again. Because the field is so cluttered and the calender is so compressed, three candidates are employing a strategy that forgoes New Hampshire and Iowa and focuses on primaries on February 3 in Arizona, Oklahoma, South Carolina and maybe a couple of other places. They seem to think that this cycle is somehow outside of history. No candidate has ever been successful by employing this not-so-new-ask-Al-Gore-circa-1988 strategy.
As for Draper's poem quandry, my best advice to you is to either become an 11 year old cripple with a heartsong of gold, or get in your time machine, go back to the 1880s and speak with someone who actually gives a fuck about poetry.
Peace and Love,
Tony
