Trading the blue and orange for orange and blue
I can’t remember the last time someone who lost The Big One being followed with such intense zeal since Sarah Palin was foisted upon the nation’s already thoroughly chafed psyche. In a move that caught everyone by surprise, the Denver Broncos drafted Tim “The Toolman” Tebow. I was taking a leak when I heard the news and later spent the better part of my morning thoroughly testing the absorbency of Bounty paper towels.
With all the speculation going round, I fully expected—demanded—that Tebow be drafted to the Bills. It would have been morally convenient for me. There would be little to no danger of inadvertently rooting for him. It was bad enough I may have liked the Gators during Tebow’s tenure. It’s like having a catheter installed. You never want to go through that sort of discomfort ever again.
Ex-Bills QB Jim Kelly must be devastated. That man wined and dined Tebow, blew the requisite amount of smoke up his ass, and probably extended an invitation to an exclusive three-way with himself and his wife. (That’s what praying to the Holy Trinity means, right?) I wouldn’t be surprised if Kelly offered himself up to be the Lucky Pierre in the equation, all so Tebow could come to Buffalo and—if nothing else—lift the team’s spirits a bit. Buffalo could have used it. The only thing more abysmally depressing than the Goo Goo Dolls being their most celebrated musical export is the Buffalo Bills’ last five seasons. At least their draft pick, C. J. Spiller, has a name that’s ripe for assonance. A fourteen-stone running back with a nickname like Spiller the Killer can go a long, long way in this game.
For the record, I don’t hate Tim Tebow. I don’t particularly like him, either—I find nothing remarkable about the guy, and charging for autographs to fund a charity with a vaguely worded mission statement is dubious—but I certainly don’t hate him. At least no more or less than your run-of-the-mill sanctimonious types. You know the ones I’m talking about, who turn a nose up at you for doing things that are a little north of normal. Isn’t every man entitled to enjoy a stroll down Commonwealth Ave. in his boxers on a warm spring day with an alcoholic beverage in one hand without someone giving him the stink eye? I pay taxes too, you know. Besides, the bottle of Jack was safely hidden away in a brown paper bag, and I didn’t actually accost any of the nubile B.U. girls whose tempting assets are almost strong enough to overlook their inability to get on and off a Green Line trolley with minimal fuss. Almost.
Anyway, back to the matter at hand, did the Bronco Brass ask the right questions before trading three draft picks to grab him up? Is this guy fit to stand in the shoes of Bronco demigod John Elway? The man who led Denver to five Super Bowls? The man who discovered the best way to give your receivers super speed is to reverse your play at the play select screen by pressing B while you wait for the timer to expire?
I predict a disappointing season after the Broncos lose their opening game. The hype is just too great. Timbo doesn’t seem to me like the kind of jock that handles disappointment very well. That cutesy eye black shit may fly with the the Gainesville girls who are as well endowed as they are criminally virtuous. Broncos Nation, however, doesn’t strike me as amenable to allowing their QB to blow big games and cry on national television.
But the ink has dried and the deal is set. The best Tim can hope for now is that he doesn’t get a swift kick in the ass out the door in 2011 and defeat Ryan Leaf’s draft as the worst draft idea ever.
Welcome to the big leagues, bubba.