Last NFL Game As Dejecting As No Games for Buffalo Bills
Dodging avoidable pain is an option that’s never exercised. A day devoted to a finale involving a team that beats our favorite in elimination games too consistently to describe it as a rivalry is simply a given. It’s downright masochistic to watch the Super Bowl if your faction is unrepresented yet downright un-American to not. As with fandom in general, we never think to walk away.
Backers of a team that’s left out as a pattern keep returning for an annual sad tale despite the seeming inability for a new ending. The Buffalo Bills star in a Christmas Story reboot with an alternate ending where Ralphie gets the football Santa suggested instead of the BB gun. Even worse, he never uses the consolation gift during the course of winning the Super Bowl. The plot is not exactly as heartwarming.
Coping naturally involves pondering how the Bills relate to something in which they’re not involved. Contemplating how it would feel to participate is normal despite the multigenerational absence. Listen to a podcast and pretending to have friends for an hour for a similar experience.
It’s natural to aspire for a return to the game in which they haven’t participated for three decades. A season that’s more disappointing is reward for improvement. The notion that was unfathomable for most of this century now aches out of plausibility, which means the universe hates us more actively.
The Chiefs have become genuinely unlikable. A tiresom commercial casting favorite used to just be despised for success by the very rationally resentful. But their personalities have emerged, and not to their benefit. The ’20s take on sore winning is no more endearing than the Patriots before they finally switched to playing for the draft.
The Hulk says Travis Kelce needs to calm down. A thug couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Every Chiefs play was based around keeping Kelce 50 yards from Andy Reid, which makes their title even more impressive. The restraining order candidate has common interests with his tone-deaf girlfriend.
An interminable offseason provides ample time for true love to be forgotten like a fad. Watching a game solely because she attended sums up her fans in a way they of course can’t grasp. Her cult won’t stick with football any more than she’ll stick with him, which makes a season devoted to impressing them even more mortifying. The forthcoming album about their breakup will be as annoying as her Super Bowl screen time.
A championship where San Francisco winning would’ve been the best possible outcome was bound to disappoint. Residents of the American part of the country are inherently suspicious of the Bay Area in general and their oddly-vibed football team in particular. The uncomfortable alliance meant effectively cheering for hippiedom. Let’s alter reality in every possible way to avoid such a regrettable choice again. Red goes with blue and not gold, Ivan. Blue goes with gold, which is the only appealing thing about our preferred hockey club.
Innocent victims of life were denied even the scenario that sucks less serves as a reminder of how cruel this all is is. But most everything else does that, too. The afflicted can probably think of worse erstwhile matchups if that alleviates suffering or at least reminds us when times were even worse. Cheer up!
We’ve been through this before. That’s the woeful feeling you recognize. It’s not just teams I both root against in a sportsmanlike manner. My research indicates these finalists previously competed in an edition of this game which actually wasn’t that long ago. The result was the same even with a slightly different score.
Another undesirable competition once again enabled excessive focus on what’s served. The one day of the year reserved for dining without utensils featured dip for dinner in honor of visionary scooper David Puddy, although you don’t have to paint your face to display enthusiasm. If your team’s not participating, consider a league’s shield logo countenance mural. It’s what Rob Lowe would do if he watched the game from your couch.
You may as well enjoy that one impressively indulgent recipe to distract from how your team just can’t manage to win the league’s final outing. Kitchen fiddling distracts from whatever clowns twist balloons on the pregame show. For me, Trader Joe’s taco monkey bread was an absolute winner of a game plan. Stuff stuffed in dough distracted from another year of denied dreams. Gorging like it’s Thanksgiving without having to deal with relatives is central to an American celebration even if commies who’ve infiltrated our government refuse to make the day after a holiday.
The excluded are naturally sad after a game which was going to feature an unfortunate conclusion. But a contest to see who is less unappealing still features that sport we crave like White Castle with meth. These sad days feature the longest to go without football. The season’s coda is like a scheduled death of a friend who’s dearer to us than most of the jerks out there. Our frenzied dedication is reflected by forlornness after a game nobody outside the two competing cities wanted to prevail.
Our beloved side is breaking down at the exit instead of in the driveway. Is the journey that much more satisfying? The Bills gotten closer, which makes it feel farther. We cringe while recalling many consecutive Roman-numbered games where Buffalo’s participation seemed as unfathomable as new owner Terry Pegula getting booed at a Sabres game. Some changes bring improvement even if they seem rare. Maybe just another two extra wins would help us remember.
Treat the latest exclusion as a fable. Just like we tried to convince ourselves that nobody wanted to win during a year when an epic parade would’ve been banned, a Super Bowl in a city with too much to do would’ve distracted from the outcome. Bills fans feel like Frank Grimes as always. Like The Simpsons continuing despite alienating viewers with baffling plots, seasons go on even if we don’t feel represented.
