I'm technically at work right now, covering the Sunday shift for BroBible, but that hasn't stopped me from cracking open my third Genesee Cream Ale, the first two consumed in the span of 15 minutes, after I watched Robert Griffin the III huck an interception off his back leg (the one that is
n't made of dental floss and painter's tape) into an end zone where the closest Washington receiver was somewhere south of Richmond.
I'm switching to whiskey soon.
Because I am done. I'm fucking done with RG3.
This isn't an idiotic scribe about how Washington would be better off with Kirk Cousins at quarterback. He won't be any better. The whole team is a mess and not even Steve Young in his prime could scramble enough to stay alive behind an offensive line that moves with the coordinated grace of five cardboard boxes being tossed down a hill.
I don't care who our fucking quarterback is. I just don't want RG3 anymore.
God. I hate his fucking nickname. Be a goddamn normal person and don't act like the wealthy son of some Cape Cod gentry who monogram their fucking Tervis Tumblers. I'm sick of his stupid fucking half-strut, where he lowers his left shoulder and saunters about like a 1920s gangster stricken with gout. I'm tired of watching him perpetually tug at his knee brace, which, REMINDER, he will have to wear for the remainder of his natural life. I'm done with caring when he gets drilled after every bad pass. At some point, he will be knocked out again and instead of holding my fucking breath every time a 300-pound lineman squishes his ribs, I find myself actively rooting for him to die.
He's the goddamn worst. He was a drug and this season has been the morning after New Years, after you did literally all the fucking cocaine and all the ecstasy that's ever been created on this planet. We were high, flippantly enjoying our wild ride with Robert, and now we are suffering from withdrawal symptoms roughly equivalent to shooting PCP every day for five years then being locked in a drunk tank for 72 hours.
Yes, last year was fun, but it will never happen again. And even if it does, it will not end well. Robert Griffin the III will never win a Super Bowl, ever, because the notion that he could actually exist as fully-functioning human person for four straight weeks in the frigid months of January is downright laughable. He has the bones of my grandfather, who has been dead since 2007.
He should not be a starting quarterback in the NFL. Yes, he has talent and charisma and a lot of things necessary to feign being an acceptable one, save for a complete inability to take a snap from under center and not fumble every time he is presented with a football. Little things.
This is what happens when you take a world-class sprinter and ask him to be a quarterback. Did the U.S. win all those gold medals in the Olympic games because they recruited football players to be bobsledders? No, they lost because other countries had the basic intelligence to field teams of actual bobsledders. But here we are with a guy who has admitted his life goal is to be president of the United States and his best attribute as an athlete is that's he's really good at jumping over stationary objects.
Is there any Redskins fan who is actually excited about the prospect of watching him play over the next ten years (five, actually, when he leaves to become quarterback of the Cowboys). Games wherein you expect him to be knocked out for the season on every single play? What fun is that? That's not football. That's watching a terminally-ill senior citizen be slowly euthanized.
But Mike Shanahan and Dan Snyder will never bench him because of their absurd investment. They traded what would be four potential people for him. FOUR. No human is worth that, but none of those assholes will ever admit their mistakes.
Thus, there's only one solution: