Shut the fuck up. Quit whining like that kid in 6th period Gym who couldn't climb the rope.* Rub some Vagisil on that rampaging rectal rotunda of yours and start leading this aimless fucking franchise.
Were the Broncos duplicitous? Surely. Could they have handled it better? Of course. Do they have the right to wave your chubby ass around like a fucking 1987 Dale Sveum Topps looking to dupe some retard into a Ken Griffey Jr. rookie? You bet your backside they do. It's a business. They pay you. They will gut you like a rainbow trout if they so choose.
Look, they're trying to fix this team. They've made some free-agent signings. Attempted to overhaul that gaping maw of a defense.
You're a legit player. You know it. They know it. Everyone knows it. Whose jersey is best represented in the stands at Invesco? Yours. I sat next to a live, walking cliche in the Meadowlands, and the moron couldn't stop screaming your name.
I bought a goddamn shirt that says "JC Saves" and has you in a prayer position.
Grow up. Get over it.
Be a man and take this team to somewhere other than a .500 record and front-row seats in January.
Make that shirt mean "games" and "seasons" rather than "tempestuous hissy fits for the offseason."
*I couldn't climb the rope, but I never bitched about it. Instead, I kicked everyone's ass at ring toss.