Outside the Aviary: "Out of Step... WITH THE WOOOOOOORLD."

You know what? I'm gonna resist the Jason Campbell and Jay Cutler have the same initials and I could do a similar blog post to my partner becuase you know what? I'm fucked. Completely fucked. PROPER fucked. The Red Sox just signed JD Drew and Julio Lugo, the Redskins are one more Adam Archuleta away from thinking Carl Pavano would be a fantastic quaterback (he's got tremendous stuff, guys), and NC State just lost back to back games to UVA and WVU-- that means they lost to the original Virginia AND the spinoff. Did ABC find it difficult to lose ratings to the latter years of The Cosby Show AND A Different World? You're goddamn right they did.

I'm of the mind that my sports teams should just celebrate their funerals. Black helmets are cool (unless you're Rothlisberger in the offseason). Admittedly, I'm drunk as a hammerbird right now, but The Redskins, Red Sox, Celtics, North Carolina State University, and anyone else I've purposefully forgotten are fantastic examples of why I should find a way to become a ninja. Then the Tyler Hansbroughs, the Derek Jeters, the Tim Duncans, the Tony Romos of the world would have a realistic fear in their hearts: the fear of me showing up in their houses undetected and ripping their dicks right the fuck off.

Sure, I could blame the management groups of my teams for their lack of regard for free agent and recruitment scouting. Sure, my father deserves another, "why do we watch sports again?" call. Sure, at least I'm not justifying Andy Pettite coming back to the AL (much less the East for 16 MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS--awesome). Sure, I've seen beautiful things in my lifetime involving my sports teams. The fact remains, though, I'm in the throes of sports depression. I've no hope until baseball season officially begins, and then, I am, at best, semi-excited. Our best pitching prospect is either a headcase (Mr. Beckett) or a man whose never lived on American soil before. Our new free agent pickups are injury prone prima donnas (yeah, that's harsh).

Sports depression is tricky. The questions pile up. Do the sports Gods want me to take a break? Is it over for me? Should I move to a different city to have new and refreshing reasons to complain? Tune in next week, loyal readers, for another installment of... SHITHOLE FRANCHISES AND THE MAN WHO LOVES THEM. Next week's foe? JULIO FUCKING LUGO. Ugh. I can't spin it. I just can't.

In fact, I'm a step away from seriously signing up for karate lessons. I need them. I gotta kick too many asses. I gotta justify too many hopeful statements and rely on violence for my many failed mission statements. We all gotta believe in something... maybe I just ain't gotta believe in sports.

In other words... Jason Campbell? I'm praying to JC, but I don't have much faith.