Nurse the Hate: NFL Playoffs Divisional Round

Life is unfair.  At one point last weekend I was at the peak.  The Cowslingers show was a packed house at the Beachland filled with longtime friends and supporters of the band.  I even think we played pretty well.  The Boy was on fire.  Krusty delivered.  Leo and I do what we do.  It was all backslaps and belly laughs my friend.  Free drinks for everyone.  It is only when we are at our moments of greatest revelry that we should pause and see if something is amiss.  

I should have known the rest of my weekend would go poorly.  As a precursor, when I went to start up the old Whiskey Wagon to haul the gear over to the Beachland, I found the van encased in ice, much as I expected.  Unlike the Cuntwagon, the Whiskey Wagon roared to life with confidence when I turned the key.  Always buy Chevy trucks.  I plowed forward out of the area where the van sleeps and got into the general parking area so I could chip away at the ice on the windshield.  As you recall, it was quite cold last weekend.  When you find yourself repeating profanities the entire time you are exposed to the weather, it is cold.  So I scraped at the ice muttering "fuck fuck fuck fuck" as the van ran trying to get warm.    

My other car was idling as well.  I needed to take the CDs and shirts from my car and move them into the van.  I opened the back cargo door of the van and placed the CDs on the floor by the gear.  I looked at it for a second and figured that the open box of discs would spray everywhere on the first turn.  I looked for something to wedge on top of the box to keep it in place and grabbed the blue nylon bag where we keep XXL sizes, a.k.a. "The Husky Men's Shoppe" and shoved it into place.  It was so cold that the bag had frozen into a stiff husk.  This is something I should have noted more carefully.  I closed the door of the van.  The bag offered so little give and was placed so perfectly that it hit the automatic lock button.  It immediately flashed into my head something was wrong.  I walked to the driver's door and found it wouldn't open.  "No no no no no no!"  Yes.  I had locked the van shut with the keys in it while it was running.  I also needed to be at soundcheck in 20 minutes.

I called the police to see if they would help me out.  I have found that if you need a cop, there is no chance one will be nearby.  If you are walking down the street out of your mind on hallucinogens with an open beer, you can be assured an entire squad will descend on you with batons.  This was the case this night as well.  A half hour went by as I watched the exhaust rise from the van's tailpipe.  A sluggish officer finally appeared and popped the lock after some tribulation and paperwork.  Nothing happens without paperwork.  After 45 minutes I was on my way.  Of course I left my mic bag in the car and had to turn back to get it after driving 15 minutes towards the club.  I was rather discombobulated when I arrived at the Beachland.  I had assumed this would be the low point of the weekend.  Well, as long as I didn't forget all the Cowslinger lyrics on stage like some sort of bad dream.  I had no idea that this was only a tease to how wrong things would go in my NFL wagering.     

I hesitate to throw out the term “bloodbath”, but if ever there was a time to do so, this is it.  I was heavily on the favorites last weekend as “the chalk” has covered an astounding number of times in the Wild Card Playoff round.  I really got my arms around the numbers, did a real deep dive.  I analyzed my analysis.  It was inconceivable to me that I would go 0-4.  I also made the cardinal sin of chasing once I got behind.  I wasn’t even angry by the time the Saints failed to cover in the late game Sunday.  I just sat there and took it.  I had made that transition that a prisoner makes when they believe they deserve the beatings they are receiving by the hands of their captors.  I should have been strung up from the ceiling with a ball gag in my mouth.  I had made the complete transformation into a gambling submissive.  I need to pull myself up by my bootstraps.  Jump back on the horse.  Dust myself off.  I am going to deal with this setback the way I generally do most setbacks.  I am going to throw money at the problem. 


I am going to stop worrying about football.  I am now going to focus 100% on betting against The Public's perception.  These playoff game are over analyzed to death.  ESPN is playing Devil's Advocate all day every day.  The Patriots can't lose BUT Brady is getting older and his production is falling off BUT the Patriots haven't lost a home playoff game in a decade BUT there is internal fighting in New England which is a big distraction BUT that is when they tend to rally the troops BUT Tennessee has a good defense that isn't afraid of the Pats BUT since they called out Brady he is going to drop 35 points on them.  It's too much.  I am going to assume that every person on the planet is going to bet on New England and Pittsburgh.  That's why I am going to tease the underdogs.  Bad weather all weekend should help keep scores down and promote running game plans.  I will take the points.  I just need these teams to keep it close.  Tennessee +20.5/Jacksonville +13.5


It is assumed that Philadelphia has no chance whatsoever without Wentz.  The Falcons are back!  They can't lose!  They are the team of the moment.  I don't want to have to hitch my wagon to Nick Foles, but I am going to do so.  Let me clarify.  I am hitching my wagon to the Eagles defense.  The Eagles only gave up an average of 13 points per game at home all year.  Prior to last week's big breakout game, the Falcons had averaged 17 points down the stretch.  No One thinks the Eagles can win.  There has never been a #1 seed getting points at home versus a #6 seed before this.  I'm going against The Public.  Eagle fans will be in a lather.  They are drunk right now getting ready to fight somebody.  Eagles at home.  Philadelphia +3.