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Washington crept across the Delaware in the deep night to surprise the Hessians, but his coxswain carried an illuminating torch.
General Sherman warned the south that he would march to the sea, destroying and pillaging every inch along the way.
The bellicose Greeks hid in the belly of the Trojan Horse to enter the gates of Troy.
Pearl Harbor tracked arcane Japanese aircraft, giving at least some form of readiness.
But Robert Griffin III offered no light. No warning. No deception. No time for retreat.
It was a full-scale, frontal, blitzkrieg assault of stealth proportions. The startled Former Cowboys never had a chance.
And don’t even try to play the “at least they didn’t quit” card. Or they ” fought hard”. The absurdity of near misses is low hanging rotten fruit.
The Zeppelin crashed and burned.
Oh the humanity.
In what is becoming an all to frequent occurrence, the Former Cowboys spit the bit. They consumed turkey chili, then proceeded to choke on it. When it was time to make plays, they didn’t. When it was time to step up, they hiked their skirts and showed the world their ass. Over-hyped, underachieving players dug a hole and covered dirt upon themselves.
We witnessed a gaudy carnival peopled by characters of frazzled pathos and void of intelligence.
The blame starts at the top and permeates all through this once proud and true franchise.
Mistakes. Blown assignments. Penalties. Sideline chaos. Moments of indecision. Inelegant staccato manners of communication. Maladroit, pathologically challenged craniums. Too much gray matter in the noggins, not enough firing synapses.
CAAB…Cowboys Average At Best.
The offense danced around as if they were patrolling in a mine field. A defense that allowed an average of six yards on critical first downs. And don’t speak of injured players. Check the wounded roll call of Redskins. It might be time to usher in the Miami kid. “good job, good effort”. “Way to hang. Good job, good effort”.
Moral victories and quality losses reign supreme at Valley (Forge) Ranch.
And this is the way it will remain for the foreseeable future. This team is what it is. And that is CAAB.
Allowing themselves to coast to a 28-3 halftime deficit only begins to illustrate the horror story. The Former Dallas Cowboys find themselves fathoms below in the cold, dark unknown. All of Czar Jerry’s measured metaphors and constructed wall of arrogance and bluster have shattered this franchise. Closing in on two decades between Super Bowl titles, Czar Jerry, the football man, has stood sentry over the collapse of Camelot. America’s so-called team is ruptured and bleeding out fast. No amount of Jumbotrons or party passes can patch up what’s diseased. It’s a cinematic dream factory of illusions and mirrors.
A misleading score of 38-31 doesn’t even begin to paint the picture. In what might be a microcosm of the season, let’s visit the third quarter. The Former Cowboys had just MADE a first down. As mayhem and confusion ensued, they ran a safe and short play up the middle to get a first down. A first down they had ALREADY secured. It WAS first down. This team cannot even process proper down and distance. They are equally estranged from normal faculties and common sense. Head Coach Jason might have an Ivy League education, but his in-game football IQ is that of GED qualifications.
An atmosphere of computability and easiness is allowed to exist. Too many days off. Too much talk. Too much relaxation. No sense of urgency. For the Former Cowboys it’s debonair stoicism and emoluments of commitment. It’s sad. It’s real sad.
In what is becoming crystal clear, Czar Jerry has created an unbending Faustian being of himself. I’m sure he will be sporting rose’ colored spectacles in his vino and cheese palace. But he is deep in debt to Dionysian. The wine is laced with poison, and he gulps it like a homeless hobo.
There are no answers. Only puzzling questions. And it will remain that way. Bad contracts to mediocre players, horrendous football decisions, and insane draft picks line the horizon. The Former Cowboys received a glance into their future on Turkey Day 2012. And that gaze was in the form of a rookie quarterback with a catchy nickname. A Texas bred stud armed with a light years ahead demeanor and off the charts talent. A cut-throat lead-by-example general who takes no prisoners and offers no quarter. The crystal ball forecasts many more days of brilliant ambuscade that will bait and bemuse.
No, 38-31 doesn’t even approach the fable of a game gone bad. Neither does 5-6. Neither does 441 yards passing by Tony Romo. Or Jason Garrett’s Princeton pedigree. Or the brash, blowhard ways of Rob Ryan. The Former Dallas Cowboys have garroted themselves in the courtyard square for all to see. The echos of a glorious past are lost in the Miller Lite Club and art work in Czar Jerry’s monument to himself. His struggle with football infirmities remain in the sick bay. Good days are somewhere between infinity and never.
Oh the humanity.
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