So long, Kyrie, and thanks for all the mope

Don't let the door hit your fat wallet on the way out.

Being a sporting chap, this town sucks. Really is time to hack competition out of the organs, blood on the sangfroid, slippety slop yadda yadda space lord motherfucker. Writing, like rock and/or roll, is a loser's game, so mood-altering chemicals 'tis.

The Fucking Broncos vs. Seattle: Like 37% of all gasbags not named Skip Bayless 2016, my preseasons seasoned just fine. Worship my genius. And, at about 9 10 11 whenever the bloat floats over the horizon to the Azores, cue the hand-wringing choke shit. If Otto's the bismark, and he is, then the loser's on Rushmore. Stupid fucks. Seahawks, 27-24.

Coaches, we don't need no stinkin' coaches

Every Sunday.

♪ Some people call Jim the shit owner yeah
Some call him the gangster of frack
Some people call him Mr. Burns
WEE WOO
Cause' I speak of the pompousful hack ♫

The Fucking Patriots @ The Fucking Broncos: Hitler & Stalin, here they come and partisans, hoping for a Lord Boston triumph so he can fail in a fortnight, punch Field Marshall Godwin right in the balls who tumbles over sportswriter corpses Scanners-ed after trying to columnize the defeat of these un-clutch hacks when it counts the most. The Fucking Patriots, 34-31 in OT.

San Francisco @ Seattle: Your eventual national holiday winner, the home team natch 'cause Kaepernick already lost a Super Bowl and that makes him a flop, riffraff, a bomb, a lemon-scented pledge of turkey. Seahawks, 20-14.

Fote-balle, or, a þynge aliene to Cleave-land

 
Beats watching post-game Boomer.  

Searching for Browns playoff footage from Haig in '88, O, woe, we got carded, wildly. That was a lateral and defensive TD, ref motherfucker, not a forward chuck, thus, the above. Baby mama drama not included. Enjoy.

New Orleans @ Seattle: Si Les Parapluies de Beast Mode, the Twelfth Man enjoys a fifth quarter bender. If not, they probably still do. Seahawks, 31-17.

The Fucking Colts @ The Fucking Patriots: this evening's illustrious program of Auld Indian's Polis: Act I, Tyrant Peyton Manning, Act II, Andrew Luck the Usurper, entr'acte by Curtis Painter, followed by Sir Thomas Brady in Lord Boston, is made possible by viewers like Nelson Mun *click* up next, ANARCHY IN THE NORTH COAST, starring Ty Detmer, Tim Couch, Spergon Wynn, Doug Pederson, Kelly Holcomb, Luke "I'm not Jake" McCown, Jeff Garcia, Trent Dilfer, Charlie Frye, Derek Anderson, Ken Dorsey, Brady Quinn, Bruce Gradkowski, Jake Delhomme, Seneca Wallace, Colt McCoy, Thad Lewis, Brandon Weeden, Brian Hoyer, Jason Campbell, and Jerry Mathers as "the Beaver." Harvard beats Yale, 29-29.

San Francisco @ Carolina: Football gods, still waiting for you to punish Harbaugh for wimping out against Ray Jailbird, but this week's as plausible as any. Panthers, 20-17.

San Diego @ The Fucking Broncos: The only possible reason to not root for the Chargers is that so brain dead morans who still joemorganize quarterbacks on their postseason won-loss records will be forced to shut their fucking yaps for one more game. The Mannings, 31-24.

Martyball

It's not just a derogatory label, it's a philosophy. 

Almost Marty's last game, 'cause no one's uploaded the wild card, same Bat time, same Bat channel, same Bat shit opponent, Jer-ry! Jer-ry! thankyouvermuch, but holy ten gallons, Psychopathman, Don traded in links for season-savin', strock it, strock it real good. Look real close and you'll see young(ish) Randal drunk on beer hot chocolate.

Twenty-five already. Man. Back to run, run, pass, punt.

Kansas City @ Indianapolis: As long as time doesn't become a factor after the two-minute warning, the Walrus with the best player, i.e. Jamaal Charles for the helmet-challenged, wins. The Colts hee haw good teams, their opponent don't. Don't care. Chiefs 23-20.

New Orleans @ Philadelphia: Fuck this fucking road shit, Finish Him, gas n' matches, steel-toed Nazi boots 'cause if you can't beat a flawed homebody who only eats half the cookin', well you'll get waxed next in Heroin Land anyway. 20° ain't that cold. Saints 28-21.

San Diego @ The Fucking Bengals: Philip Rivers is the Dan Fouts of chuck-chuck-goose, a future Famer [ed. note: yeah, he's that good] cursed to forever be sans ring, thanks, cruel, capricious football gods. Speaking of cruel, capricious gods, no Bungle playoff wins since Bush the Smarter. Mike Brown's ghost still haunts, but not after this week. The Fucking Bengals 31-23.

San Francisco @ Green Bay: Speaking of the dukes of supernature, when you overbrain, abandoning blood and Gore, you've earned subsequent torments against lesser foes unless Rodgers really is one of those single-handed pantheonists. Too bad his D gets an F. Gonna be Ice Bowl Two, too. 49ers 21-17.

Handsome B. Wonderful's Fortieth Annual List of the Top Ten Rock Albums of the Year

SATAN LAUGHS AS YOU ETERNALLY ROT.

Weird year, man. Got more shit to say than ever punches fucking tired of circle jerks in the temple of your dreams. Philosophy is naught but destroying eardrums in my own private forest, tossin' scrawls in the can. Poor man's withdrawal, son, 'cause the hard stuff's too much scratch. The rest is crap 'cept Hanneman.

1. Darkthrone, The Underground Resistance.
Fuckin' metal, man.

2. Alice in Chains, The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here.
Fuckin' reflection, man.

3. Uncle Acid & the deadbeats, Mind Control.
Fuckin' cults, man.

4. Cathedral, The Last Spire.
Fuckin' Hammer, man.

5. Monster Magnet, Last Patrol.
Fuckin' testosterone, man.

6. Cultes Des Ghoules, Henbane.
Fuckin' Satan, man.

7. Rome, Hate Us and See if We Mind.
Fuckin' angst, man.

8. Ranger, Knights of Darkness.
Fuckin' speed, man.

9. SubRosa, More Constant Than the Gods.
Fuckin' doom, man.

10. Bones, Sons of Sleaze.
Fuckin' Helpless, man.

11. Iron Dogs, Free and Wild.
Fuckin' 1982, man.

12. Tribulation, The Formulas of Death.
Fuckin' spooky, man.

13. Fuckin' everyone else, man. The days get later, I get lazier. Bloody Hammers, Spiritual Relics. Ihsahn, Das Seelenbrechen. Windhand, Soma. Hail of Bullets, III: The Rommel Chronicles. Autopsy, The Headless Ritual. Moss, Horrible Nights. Throwing Muses, Purgatory/Paradise. Magic Circle, Magic Circle. Orchid, The Mouths of Madness. Jucifer, За Волгой для нас земли нет. Inquisition, Obscure Verses for the Multiverse.

Sick engine, the piston hammers away

Remember when this came out, Thriller McCartney bitching "cover's in color!" Sure, a couple tunes could use some Perry White, and if the platter ain't General Zod, it's at least Non and he could fuck up most things.

There was some other gig, but I forgot.

Man, fuckers in class are fucking dumb. I mean, I'm a sack of evaporated Venusian stone but whoa: 'taint no STEM, so plants'll be 0.07% less toxic.

That wasn't it. Hail Something.

You know my only pleasure is to hear you cry

No better reason to temporarily halt hermitage than to celebrate this motherfucker turning thirty. See you in the next d6 months, unfortunately. People, man.

I'm a lazy, lazy man, Roger.

Carry on, wayward sons.

JESUS FUCKING SATAN

GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD OUT OF YOUR FUCKING GAME ALREADY.

Drunken slaughter ought to carry a shorter prison term than wallstreeting.

Quarter pounder with cheese

Not this stink again.

AFC East: The Fucking Patriots have a quarterback, the Dolphins, whose new unis suck but don't suck as much as the Arena League circus threads of The Fucking Broncos or Seahawks, might, the Toronto Bills don't, and neither do the H-A-A-A HAAA HAAA HAAA.

AFC North: Geno Atkins doesn't live in Cleveland, he lives in Cincinnati, unfortunately. The tools retooled HEY FRISCO FUCKING RUN THE BALL, this is the year beefy scrubs at last toll the bell for Big Ben We Hardly Knew Ye, and I'd rather not talk about Browns 2.0.47.

AFC South: Never did a quarterback's surname and team results mesh so poetically, the Titans are a textbook 6-10/10-6er, and I'd lay five bucks that the Jagwires are worse(!) than the Clowns, which leaves Planet Hooston by the two greatest words in the English language.

AFC West: The Fucking Broncos walk the cake; poor Philip Rivers, forced to handoff to a guy with nine broken collarbones, a gassed retread, and a guy not much taller than yours truly; and I'd lay five bucks that Al Davis' Shiny Tracksuits are worse(!) than the Clowns, which leaves the Walrus's second rebuilding job to tooth & nail for a shot at the newest shiny ring of blood diamonds.

NFC East: A four-flaw, round-robin sock 'em up. Ball's in your jockstrap, Mr. Griffin.

NFC North: Unless Aaron Rodgers dies in a demon summoning ritual gone horribly expected, the Packers snooze to at least one home playoff game. I'm further convinced that I'm the only semi-fan of semi-head case Jay Cutler which says much. Keep him upright, and there are 10-11 wins. Adrian Peterson's a yin playing on a team of yangs, and the best reason to watch Detroit is the hope that Stafford chucks the ball 800 times.

NFC South: Fuck Atlanta, America's second worst sporting town I'm looking at you Miami. Geaux Saints. Remember those 6-10/10-6ers, there's two more here. YOU figure out what they're gonna do, smart guy.

NFC West: Clash of the titans, non-speed metal divison. Been a loooong time since one geographic stratum boasted the league's two (arguably, pistols at dawn, knave) best armies. Poor St. Louis though not really since they're a franchise that should be sentenced to outlawry for such thievery but since they stole from Los Angeles, poor St. Louis. Carson Palmer's still in the league? Huh.

AFC playoff seeds: Denver, New England, Cincinnati, Houston, Baltimore, Kansas City.

NFC playoff seeds: Green Bay, Seattle, New Orleans, Washington, San Francisco, Atlanta.

Super Bowl: Seattle over The Fucking Broncos. This one's for you, Jim Zorn.

The Fucking Browns: Double digit stinky cheese. Again.

Broken record

Another semester, another layer of lawn off-getting deposited on the gunk.

I have a really strong sphincter about the badness of really bad stuff.

Forest hermitage.

METAL.

Abysses and eyeballs

Fuck you dumb public
fuck you stupid work
fuck you humidity
now that's fuckin' poetry
hell no says you
well fuck you too.

Doing the right thing

Frogger, deconstruct D)all of the above*

*did jam ninja-ly** to a stack of Darkthrone discs this weekend so hail hail rock and/or roll for truth in advertising for once

**sans air guitaring and/or neck wrecking***

***one wreck's good n' plenty****

****do "they" still make these?*****

*****I know "they" still puke out the great taste of Charleston Chew******

******66, the number of the beast, ******66, the one for you and me

Trust no one especially me

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Am I evil?

Blood on Satan's Desert Island.

What's that nagging, needling, niggling Ipecac wretcher called when there's a billion blatherers dying to upchuck on a zillion chunks of this, that, t'other but, lo! out the black blood of the earth! a quadrillion don't cares have erected a Godzilla-sized Erector set bricked up with Lego bricks of adamantium that even a doped-up Ghidorah can't fuck with?

Albums make much better companions than people.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled egads-a-thon.