As the world Foles down

Numerous endeavors kept me from watching most of the latest failure by the miserable millionaires known as the Philadelphia Eagles. I have not subjected myself to a full contest since Donovan McNabb’s stomach ruined a fantastic run to Super Bowl XXXIX nearly eight LONG years ago. I know the team has never lacked talent, but it has wasted it, something I learned from viewing “The Bronx Tale” many times in its entirety is the worst thing in the word (Thank you, Robert De Niro).

I have become so sour on this squad that I rooted for rookie quarterback Nick Foles only because he and my one-year-old son share a first name. Talk about pathetic reasoning, though not as foolish as the defense’s thinking it would stifle fellow first-year signal caller Robert Griffin III and help Andy Reid to lift his rump off the hot seat with a win against the Redskins.

The Eagles’ 31-6 humiliation seals plenty. Say goodbye to a double-digit win total (laughing like me over people who actually believed they would run the table and end up 10-6?), prepare to say farewell to most of this year’s defense, and plan to give Andy Reid a Christmas gift synonymous with his fate, a well-done goose. As I refrain from eating meat, I cannot bring myself to duplicate that offering. Instead, I will send him chocolates sure to melt away as quickly as his future in the NFL.

Welcome to Philadelphia, Nick Foles. Produce or perish.  


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