BulletBob
The Godfather
- Messages
- 2,597
- Reaction score
- 1,279
I awoke this morning to the faint sound of a crowd gathering in the distance. I peered out my window through sleep-deprived eyes at the normally-welcoming South Philadelphia neighborhood in which I had spent my formative years.
By the time my blurred vision had come into focus, the crowd had transformed into a mob. I watched in horror as the torches which had pierced the early-morning darkness gave yield to a collection of angrily-thrust pitch forks gleaming in the now prominent orange-yellow sun.
The gleeful chants of “McChunky, McChunky, McChunky!” which I had heard not six hours before had been replaced by the raspy, hangover-laden, yet unmistakably bellowing, “McChokey, McChokey, McChokey!”
The mob rushed down Broad Street toward the scene of the unspeakable injustice. With the image still fresh in their collective minds of the star-emblazoned warrior having stolen their most prized possession and charging down the sideline to a most improbable watershed, the mob made a sharp right-turn before reaching the battlefield, and headed south over the Walt Whitman Bridge.
I’d swear to you that I saw several human figures plummet into the icy Delaware River, but alas, the fog was thick this morn’, and the eyes can play tricks on a man who has spent the night in drink while emotions ebbed and flowed more violently than a category five.
Into the state of New Jersey they marched with the staccato spray of obscenities heard clear across the river. They streamed across the McHernia estate, and quickly found that the master had wisely deserted. The mob was left to lick their wounds, with their only therapy being the crackly sound of 610 WIP emanating from the nearby radio towers.
Like a pied piper leading a hoard of blind mice, the talk show hosts quickly reflected the ire of the crowd onto (not so) Fat Andy, making the compelling case that he has indeed gone insane evidenced by the strategy put forth in the last moments of battle. The rabid mob, hungry for blood turned its focus 10 miles west to the Dunkin Donuts in Mount Laurel.
Whether the rabid hoi polloi ever satiated its cathartic need for the sacrificial lamb I will never know, but I do no this …
While chaos and tumult reign down upon this most hallowed city from which the mightiest nation on this green earth once sprung forth, morning has broken across the landscape of the National Football League … and, my fellow Cowboys fans, all is right in the world.
By the time my blurred vision had come into focus, the crowd had transformed into a mob. I watched in horror as the torches which had pierced the early-morning darkness gave yield to a collection of angrily-thrust pitch forks gleaming in the now prominent orange-yellow sun.
The gleeful chants of “McChunky, McChunky, McChunky!” which I had heard not six hours before had been replaced by the raspy, hangover-laden, yet unmistakably bellowing, “McChokey, McChokey, McChokey!”
The mob rushed down Broad Street toward the scene of the unspeakable injustice. With the image still fresh in their collective minds of the star-emblazoned warrior having stolen their most prized possession and charging down the sideline to a most improbable watershed, the mob made a sharp right-turn before reaching the battlefield, and headed south over the Walt Whitman Bridge.
I’d swear to you that I saw several human figures plummet into the icy Delaware River, but alas, the fog was thick this morn’, and the eyes can play tricks on a man who has spent the night in drink while emotions ebbed and flowed more violently than a category five.
Into the state of New Jersey they marched with the staccato spray of obscenities heard clear across the river. They streamed across the McHernia estate, and quickly found that the master had wisely deserted. The mob was left to lick their wounds, with their only therapy being the crackly sound of 610 WIP emanating from the nearby radio towers.
Like a pied piper leading a hoard of blind mice, the talk show hosts quickly reflected the ire of the crowd onto (not so) Fat Andy, making the compelling case that he has indeed gone insane evidenced by the strategy put forth in the last moments of battle. The rabid mob, hungry for blood turned its focus 10 miles west to the Dunkin Donuts in Mount Laurel.
Whether the rabid hoi polloi ever satiated its cathartic need for the sacrificial lamb I will never know, but I do no this …
While chaos and tumult reign down upon this most hallowed city from which the mightiest nation on this green earth once sprung forth, morning has broken across the landscape of the National Football League … and, my fellow Cowboys fans, all is right in the world.
