Here’s the bad news: The Saints just got their asses handed to them by the Panthers in a game that could have tied them for first in the NFC South. Here’s the worse news: The loss means I now have to to come up with 10 reason why I love the Panthers to make good on my bet with the Cat Crave blog...and I can’t be sarcastic or show even a one-tenth of my asshole-ish ways.
Here’s the worst news: Reggie Bush will be out for the next three to four weeks to undergo arthroscopic surgery on his left knee. That means we could face the Chargers, Chiefs, and Falcons without him. Hey, but at least they cut Steve Weatherford. That outta do it, huh? Ugh...
(To the person in possession of the Nola Chick voodoo doll, mission accomplished.)
What we witnessed today can be summed up quite simply: It was craptastic. It was a heaping, steaming pile of dog vomit, entangled with freshly dropped horse poop, and just a touch of week old homeless man urine.
What made it even more frustrating was that the Saints didn’t even bother to play with my emotions. No tense last seconds this time around. They went out of their way for three quarters to show us they were dead set on bending over and taking it. And take it they did. It was like 45 minutes of a prison movie.
It seems our offensive line hopped the plane to London sometime early Saturday, cause they definitely didn’t show up in Charlotte. Jammal Brown couldn’t hold his breath, much less a defender. Drew Brees seemed in a constant state of panic and with good reason, as the Panthers’ aggressive defensive line consistently managed to get penetration. (Hehe…penetration…)
Speaking of Drew Brees, on last week’s episode of Chicks Talking Trash, I noted how antsy it makes me when members of our team start getting the attention from the national media. It seems like whenever we get noticed for something, we start to suck at it.
That’s why all the talk of Drew Brees likely breaking Dan Marino’s record this season and being the best in the league made me so uncomfortable. Is what they’re saying true? Absolutely. I just don’t want to hear them saying it. We play so much better when we’re underestimated and flying under the radar. My man Drew didn’t look good today. Not even a little bit.
Wanna know what else makes me a genius? On Bleacher Report, I commented recently that the return of Marques Colston and Jeremy Shockey could be a mixed blessing, in that their return threatened to throw our offense off balance. Sometimes it sucks to be right.
Marques looked shaken and Shockey looked stirred. Together they created a deadly cocktail of missed first-down opportunities and fumbles. Perhaps it would have been wiser to ease them into the offensive scheme. Or, maybe they’re professional athletes and they should just suck it up. You be the judge.
Defensively, I had more pressure on prom night than what Jake Delhomme experienced in this game. He had time to do everything but hit up a Schwegmann’s and make groceries after the snap. What happened to our high salaried profile front four?
In the secondary, Mike McKenzie, whom I love dearly, seemed completely off. He missed tackles, got beat on pass plays, and was repeatedly taken advantage of by Steve Smith and company. Had he and Drew Brees taken a bite of the same poison pill? If so, can they share it with me?
The one thing we seemed to being doing well, is the one thing we also seemed to abandon: running the ball. We want Deuce on the that wall. We need Deuce on that wall. Of course, there’s a good chance that even had we used Deuce effectively, the refs would have spotted the ball five yards from where he actually put it, but I digress. The one positive (I guess) is that with Reggie out, we’ll be forced to better integrate No. 26 into the offense.
Folks, I’m spent. I could go on and on about today’s debacle, but I just don’t have the strength. Saints fans deserve more than this team’s inconsistency. I’m flying 3,500 miles to watch this team play on Sunday, and all I know is they better get their shit together by then. I refuse to sit in a cold, dense, London fog, drunk on Guinness, sitting next to some chip-toothed Brit, only to witness a replay of today’s abysmal showing.
For all those interested in venting, join the Chicks Talking Trashing on Blog Talk Radio. I’ll also need ideas on what to write for this wretched “top 10″…other than “#No. 10, Go f*ck yourself.” Join us by calling (718) 305-6491 Monday night at 7:30 PM Central—8:30 PM Eastern.