This post represents minutes of your life you'll never have back. Don't say that I didn't warn you...
You're still reading, God bless you. I love reading this blog, and I suspect I spend too much time here. Whatever. It's draft time, and I enjoy reading all of the posts. Agree, disagree, it doesn't matter, I appreciate it. Here's the deal: I have nothing insightful to add. Where this post comes from is a drunken texting conversation with my brother-in-law who is a Rams fan, which means he's stuck in his own draft hell just like us. We're doing our own "expert analysis."
Let me preface this by saying it started with the usual "trade back," "BPA," etc. conversation. Then it wandered to the hated Patriots. Much of it has to do with a long-standing grudge and enough booze to tranquilize a horse. Not only do we share common NFL hate, turns out he's an NHL Red Wings fan, topic for another blog. Anyway, he is brother-in-law "BiL" and I am drunken idiot "DI." This is an actual transcript of our text messages. No joke.
"DI: It's the time of year I hate the Patriots even more intensely if that's possible. What deal with the devil did they make? If you look closely at Brady's jersey you can see the holes where they tried to drive a stake through his heart and he's still alive!
DI: If Dracula movies have taught me nothing it's that you have to cut off his head.
DI: As for Bellicheat, you have to throw him down the air shaft of the Death Star, which seems impractical.
BiL: Exactly, the Patriots and all Boston teams can go back to the suckage they were once known for.
DI: BTW I would gladly scrap Obamacare and divert those tax dollars to the construction of a Death Star if it meant throwing Bellicheat down the air shaft.
DI: On the other hand, there's a lot to be said for a wood chipper ala the movie Fargo.
BiL: Sign me up.
BiL: Wood chipper? Even better.
DI: Here is every Bellicheat press conference. He's just dined on his standard pre-press conference meal of peanut butter, government cheese, and Elmer's glue. 'Mumble... didn't play our best.,.. (aborted fart)... lacked focus... heeba jeeba fooba fi... defense... (unintelligible)... should've prepared better... Tom... wish I could shit..' At that point he abruptly leaves the room because he's begun to resemble the kid from Willy Wonka who turns into a fucking blueberry.
BiL: So true, reads like a real transcript.
DI: Note quite. I forgot the lemon he shoves up his ass as a misguided suppository."
Then it took a hateful turn.
So, what the hell am I trying to accomplish with this post? Nothing. I told you that I have nothing insightful to add. I don't claim that it's gold, just thought maybe you'd enjoy the diversion of two knuckleheads as it relates to the NFL draft.
Raider Nation Forever.