So much for a low-scoring contest. Looks like I was just a tad smidge off on that there clair-voyant scenario. But hey, even a bird eats an omelette now and again.
The supernova elephant in the room, with menacing tuskery, has finally been defeated, wise readers. Although in the end, we just barely were able to defeat the lowly lions of Fort Detroit, a win is a win. Imagine the relief the team must’ve felt on the flight home. I’m surprised their lightened mood didn’t end them up at that fancy space-station gizmo in the black depths of infinity. Can you imagine? Regardless, and likewise, I also felt relief upon seeing that digital clock zap zeroes. At first, I thought, “I must’ve fallen into a bliss-filled nap-time.” But no! I soon realized that the Packers had actually won their first game of the season. So I did what I always do after the first victory of the year.
First, and friskily, I downed a taste-shooter of black-berried brandy from the cupboard above the sink. Then, I put on my special hat and ate some pickled pike on salty crackers. Finally, I took a real nap and dreamed of glorious Packers memories.
It was a hoot.
I heard the players gave the game ball to Coach McCarthy to commemorate his first tally in the win column. That was sure a nice gesture, but I would have given the nod to Brett. He played out-of-his-mind, and out-of-this-world. It was vintage Favre, like I had traveled back in time a few seasons.
I’m not sure why I’m using all these cosmic galactical terms and so forth this week, by the way, but I’m just going to go with it.
Mr. Poppinga is still in my dog-house. I like the kid, I really do, but something about his constant mis-cues really bites me in the knee like a furious comet. Ouch!
The running game still stinks too, and the defense looked about as porous as cheese-cloth, but I can’t keep on gripin’ like a grouch with all this delicious pickled pike in my belly.
I can, however, forward this complaint to the league office and my wise readers, which has nothing to do with the Packers and everything to do with this Sunday Night Football Show:
What in the snickerdoodle is that opening sequence song all about? I checked with my daughter, who is hip to things like that, and she tells me this lady singing goes by the name of “Pink.”
??? Eh? Come again?
Whatever her handle, that pile of audible hogwash is about as appropriate for football as it is for for church. Whatever happened to Hank Williams, Junior? Now that was a football song! Maybe I’m way out of line here, but they got to change that sequence. And I’m not saying a lady can’t rock about the football, here, I just don’t think this particular lady and this particular song are an appropriate fit. I’d be all for Ann Wilson or Bonnie Raitt or Joan Jet singing a football diddy, but this pop-forty garbage has got to go!
Anyhoo, I got off track there a little bit. My apologies.
This next week, we have a tough one against the Eagles on Monday Night Football (but at least we’ll have Hank Williams, Junior singin’ us in). Looks like I’m going to have to suck down some coffee and stay up past my bedtime to watch this time-warping contest. It will be close, and worth the commitment, though; Packers - 17, Eagles - 16.Until next week, then.
F.G., circa 1929
