BRONX, NY – I’m back from Vacation! Tra-la-lee! What the hell were the Go-Go’s talking about when they got all weepy and wistful about the passing of a restful, resplendent summer recess. They clearly didn’t have kids or went to Disney in August. Crawling back into NYC on my hands and knees, bloated, beleaguered and thinking about all of the postcards I forced my daughter to write and how I should write a few myself.
Having Tons of Fun in Miami! Ornery Orca Ndamukong Suh, says this just about every day. He signed a big fat contract with a big crappy team that he could care less about. “Greetings from South Beach to all of my friends in Detroit, bitches!”
We’ve Shuffled off to Buffalo. Two days behind this card a grim suicide note follows, saying only… “It’s too late. Goodbye.” Buffalo is where dreams go to die and then freeze and then thaw out and then die again. There is no more Kool Aid to drink in Western New York because this site’s writers (most especially DJ Eberle) have guzzled it all, peed it out, and lapped it up once more. As mentioned before, the Bills are nothing more than a Final Destination movie with foot fetish and chubby coach porn thrown in. The Sabres are a macabre circus of ice and blood and Clint Malarchuk rivers of blood against a stark Ingmar Bergman landscape. The only other games in town are hot wings and painful hemorrhoids.
Just Monkeying Around in Maryland. I spent a week in Ocean City one night, but that’s nothing compated to the Groundhog Day that Buck Showalter experiences with the Orioles every day, every week, every year. “We’re in first! We’re not in first! We’re two games back! We’re in first again! We’re done!” It’s enough to make Ray Rice punch himself.
Wish You Were Here… So You Too Could Get Zika. This one will be a top-seller everywhere before too long. You could always move to Buffalo (see above) but you’re better off filling your body with harmful booze toxins and daring the critters to come get you. This will be Josh Gordon’s next failed drug test excuse. There’s a lot of winged critters around The Mistake by the Lake.
Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple. Don’t mind the maggots. Mets and Yanks are done. Don’t try to convince me, or yourself, otherwise. Knicks, Nets, Rangers, Isles, meh. Digging into NY Metropolitan sports these days is like eating a 12-foot sh!t sub… just ask Jets fans.
I’m Crazy About Camping. You betcha. Anyone who likes camping is crazier than a sh!thouse rat. Even worse are those that spend family vacations at NFL training camps. Postcards from those venues should read “New England is for Cheaters,” “Out of Luck in Indy,” and “I Got Raped By an Undrafted Rookie in Tennessee.”
Okay, I’m done. Matt and Matt went to Flushing and all I got was this lousy column. Come back tomorrow for someone who truly believes that “Life is Always Better at Meet The Matts,” Buddy Diaz.