Pearl-harbored by that half-a-sissy team from Dallas

Yesterday began like many, many glorious Sundays before. I didn't viscerally connect with a great orator at the local chapel or anything like that. Not that sort of glory.

I just meant that the old lady and I were roused from a restful Saturday night sleep by nothing in particular. My peepers couldn't delineate the difference between my toes and my dresser until I posted my see-betters on my anglo visage. I bare-foot it downstairs and brew a pot of heat, ostracize onions, potatoes, butter, evoo, and various salts from the rest of the kitchen into the frying pan, whilst listening to my wife from the couch speak onomotopaeiacally.

When we are home, weekend breakfasts are the only meals that I make. So my wife, who enjoys this emmensely, turns into a stationary, food-related Batman played by Adam West fight scene. Instead of "blam" and "zok", it's "mmm" and "mmmmmmm!" She's a veritable carbon-based pop-up book.

She's on the couch watching whatever involves Paul Newman. I'm in the kitchen bathing in diner vapors. It's the best.

However, it's only better during the 4-5 months when the Birds are playing. And that would've been yesterday, folks. Everything was in place: the aforementioned ritualized morning transpired. My wife ran out, or talked of running out, to get missing ingredients for Sunday sauce and meatballs.

The game was even at 4:15 against the Cowgirls, who everyone hates, save for the obligatory swollen, little-peckered gym dork that claims they loved the Cowboys ever since Roger Staubach was playing. Stop it.
You were wearing cloth diapers when Staubach was a waning hasbeen, showing only sporadic glimpses of what he once was. The truth is you swollen, fake-ass, car salesman types that haven't figured out that way too much hair gel has never been and still isn't the way to go; started liking the Cowboys after "Aikmen and the cokeheads" won their second Superbowl. Frontrunning jerk-offs.
With that out of the way, yesterday at my house might have been a place that Sir Thomas More could have called home.

Well my friends, after a few short moments into the first quarter, Utopia turned into Oz. Not ruby red slippers and little terriers in lunchbaskets. Oh no! It's was the shanks and man-rape HBO Oz.

Watching the game, helpless, 5'8", and from my couch while my beloved birds got trounced was tantamount to watching Carrottop make out with my mom while he simultaneously hanged dogs. I wanted to cry and punch; but given my adult and accompanied-by-others-in-the-room-status, I managed to control myself.
So on this quintessential Monday morning quarterback...Monday, my every thought is bent on the 30-10 drubbing.

I have no answers and I don't wish to make excuses. I just wish that while the Cowboys were savoring the taste of beating the Eagles for once in like, five fucking years, that the God of Heaven and Earth, could have saved that earthquake for later and, instead, mustered some classic Old Testament fire and brimstone, jealous God type shit by opening up Texas stadium right at the 50-yard line star and proceed to swallow-up everything Cowboy. Golden calf part deux.