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Bills fans dropped to No. 20 in latest fan rankings


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15 hours ago, DJB said:

This is ridiculous. We sacrificed fans into the pit 

 

‘Tis true. Bills Mafia’s best and drunkest were sacrifices to The Pit. But it was a far, far better thing that they did than we have ever done. It was a far, far better rest that they went to than we have ever known.

 

‘Twas surely a baffling decree of the Pro Football Gods of Buffalo, opaque as they sometimes appear to us mortals, as it left behind only the teetotalers and AA members and designated drivers and other assorted behavioral degenerates. Perhaps this was how Highmark tailgating was supposed to end, not with an inebriated bang but rather a sober whisper?

 

Perhaps not. The Pit, that which paints a rather exquisitely vaginal visage on the Orchard Park landscape, shall soon give birth to a new generation of outdoor pro football in Western New York. And those cad-like Pro Football Gods of Buffalo, with their own whispering winds off the curiously Billdo-shaped Lake Erie, whisper more than sweet nothings and desultory Lombardi promises into the ears of ruddy throngs of despondent Bills Mafia soldatos.

 

“Curses thee! Our drunken dreams shall be never more,” quoth the soldatos toward the sky after yet another embarrassing home playoff loss. Oh, but witness those deified Lake Erie winds traverse the lips of The Pit, filling its internal contours, and then engorging the air with debris…our fatherly fertilizers of hope, with a dirty dusty harbinger of what is to come! Hope for new drunkards, of new drinking experiences, in new parking lots???

 

Yes, indeed, I dare say! New opportunities to vomit all over one’s jersey. To saturate one’s own Zubaz pants with one’s own urine. To verbally chastise an opposing fan. To then physically assault that same fan. To indiscreetly perform a special service between two parked cars for a rather unexceptional Kiko Alonso jersey. And as a late morning pre-kickoff coup de grace, to then collapse headfirst into a burning folding table. Same batsh!t decadence. Different batsh!t parking lot, at least.

 

<<< Narrator: a tipsy ComradeKayAdams gently lays down her glass of not quite Merlot on the coffee table. She sighs and then PASSES THE F%*K OUT on this boring Sunday afternoon. Her outstretched arm slowly graces a small nearby collection of classic literature books, plus a grocery store romance novel embarrassingly purchased on a whim, all of which are partly concealed with Mel Kiper scouting report printouts. Seven more months until football season… >>>

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