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I’m Already Over Wild Card Weekend. Feed Me The Iron…

Okay, so it’s Sunday night of Wildcard Weekend, which means two things: One, we’ll get to watch the polarizing duo of Tony Dungy and Rodney Harrison discuss the high octane world of football during what I like to refer to as the boringest (yeah, that’s a word) show on the planet; and two, the Golden Globes are on.

Normally at this time of the week, we are only provided the former option, which sucks. As I stated above, Football Night in America may quite possibly be the worst television show ever created, which is mindboggling considering that it concerns football—the only thing preventing me from beerfunneling laundry detergent in the Fall.

In the show’s defense, it airs during the latter half of Sunday, which means you’re less than a work shift away from your work shift. In other words, I feel like Football Night sort of has a Pavlov’s dog effect on me. Whenever I see Tony Dungy’s lame ass asserting some lukewarm opinion on which coaching direction Miami should head towards during the offseason, I immediately think of work, which makes me want to gently push over a young toddler repeatedly. Anyway, I digress…

For those who managed to catch the 1PM game between the Ravens and the Chargers, I apologize. That was some borderline deplorable football until midway through the fourth where the Ravens remembered they were competing in, well, a football game.

Now, I hate talking about it—modesty is my best quality—but I’m a genius. They don’t call me Joestradamus for no reason. When I say something, I mean something; when I mean something, you can essentially etch it in stone. Unfortunately for the Ravens, they caught the buzzsaw today.

As I wrote on my personal blog yesterday, everyone in New England was afraid of the Ravens. No one wanted to line up against Lamar Jackson and Baltimore’s high powered aerial assault. People were saying stuff like “Watch out for that defense” or “Bill struggles against mobile quarterbacks” or “It’s always a tough game against Baltimore in January.” Well guess what? Baltimore got EXPOSED today. Midway through the fourth, Lamar Jackson had roughly -50 yards passing and that final score doesn’t represent how inexplicably reprehensible they played.

Chalk up another one for Joestradamus. I’d pat myself on the back and further boast, but in the words of every uptight, country club playing, dickhead broadcaster: “Act like you’ve been there before” (which I have, because I’m a genius).

Switching gears…

I’m currently watching the Eagles/Bears game in anticipation of listening to a bunch of overpaid celebrities narcissistically spew their sociopolitical agenda during the Globes and… this game’s been a clunker as well.

For the record, I started writing for Branded Sports roughly a couple weeks ago and I’m pretty sure nobody (including the readers) knows who I am yet. Part of that has to do with the fact I never really introduced myself but whatever. Introductions—like stats—are for losers…

That said, from what I’ve ascertained, it seems like the site has a great deal of writers hailing from different areas; most notably, Philadelphia and Chicago. Earlier this week, Branded even released this video featuring the various writers from Philly/Chicago singing their teams’ respective fight songs in preparation for their showdown today (so now).

What can I say? It was an incredibly cute video. I always love watching the antics of fellow fanbases during the months of January/February because it’s something I’ll never be able to enjoy, myself.

Would I love to be able to take part in cute videos like the one I spoke of above? Of course. But the fact of the matter remains: in New England, the postseason is a business trip. I don’t have time for fight songs or flirtatious shit talk. I have a job to do, and that job is to remain grounded.

Over the last two days, I’ve had to watch eight teams scratch and claw their way their way to inevitable irrelevance. Next Sunday, Bowtie Phil and his herd of minions will land in Foxborough, only to take a red eye flight back in silence. It’s rinse and repeat every year.

Does this year feel different? Do the Pats look vulnerable? That’s up for debate; however, even if they do, vulnerability breeds heightened focus. Brady doesn’t let details squeak through the cracks and if you think those frauds from LA/San Diego/Who cares are gonna roll into Gillette and leave with something no team has succeeded in leaving with this season, than you most likely have another thing coming.

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t really care who the Pats drew heading into this weekend. All I knew is that this team would eventually have to throw their balls on the table in the AFC Championship game. And you know what? I want the iron. I want the best. I want the matchup nobody and their mother thinks the Patriots can win. And that matchup, ladies and gentlemen, is Kansas City.

Feed me Andy Reid and his poor clock management. Feed me that ketchup-slurping, no-look throwing cuck Patrick Mahomes. Feed me the team that looked domestic violence in the face and turned the other way. Just a despicable franchise with no business being crowned AFC’s best.

But before all that, feed me the powder blues. Once more unto the breach, my dear friends…

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

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