hrambler
Holiday Rambler
hrambler

I’ll never forget this moment: as the opening week of the 2012 season was about to kick off, I settled into my seat at Nissan Stadium to watch the Pats skullfuck the Titans (which they did.)

The Titans bring out Pat Summitt, beloved former Lady Vols coach who is stricken with Alzheimer’s. You could hear a pin drop as

Same. And I refuse to even make eye contact with these proselytizing creep-asses. I feel like Judge Smails most days — “don’t you people have HOMES?

Last night, I overheard my mother in-law (retired Ford worker, just bought a second house...) talking about enjoying her retirement, and how “her generation” was “the last to really fight” for things like retirement benefits. I think I tore a ligament raising my eyebrow.

*strategically-kicked trash bin*

My next dog will certainly be named Barkevious. That’s a Holiday Rambler Promise™.

Little League, 3rd grade. I fielded a ball in shallow center and attempted to throw home, and nailed the runner standing on 2nd base directly in the back of his batting helmet. Everyone acted like I was an asshole, but in hindsight...that was a pretty good throw!!

He’s the brociopath of NFL coaches. A complete and unwavering cockbag who is not particularly good at his job, and certainly not in big moments. Plus, you know he puts on his visor every morning and gets legitimately impressed with himself.

Jeff Fisher + HoF QB = Sean Payton

9 stars for this dense dumbfuck?

I watched some guy in a Chargers jersey in an adjacent back yard play cornhole — by himself — for the entire second half of the LAC/NE Divisional game last January. It depressed the hell out of me, and I’m a Patriots fan.

An exchange I had with my father in-law (who has lived his entire life in southeast Michigan) after one of many puzzling dogfucks the Lions have engineered over the years:

Me: What is this team’s problem?
FIL: The final score, usually.

You can only eat ONE of the following for the rest of your life: bread, pasta, or rice. Picking bread, for example, means you can never eat pasta or rice again.

There’s a correct choice, here -- but what does Deadspin think?

I have several distinct groups of family or friends who are *very* into Biden and believe he’s the only candidate who can beat Trump. I’ve stopped trying to convince any of them that their fondness for Joe is misguided and that their wild guesswork concerning “electability” has no basis in fact. None of this seems to

Agreed, though he definitely looked poised and sharp against Arizona and (25 minutes of) Miami to start 2016. Being surrounded by a SB-caliber NE team certainly assisted of course. But yeah, his bodily recklessness is a problem, for sure.

My god, that poor grass. Why did anyone assume it could withstand the weight of thousands of junior high schoolers standing motionless with their phones in the air?

The original post takes me back to late 1995. 10th grade. The OJ trial. Spanish II. Algebra II. Intense virgin life. What a memory nugget.

Fuck. Thank you. Stupid fucking Trump.

To quote a previous year’s Steelers WYTS fan comment that has stuck with me through thick and thin:

He actually said “GOAB.” Which stands for “Guy On Apprentice’s Brother.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen body language scream “I DON’T WANNA BE HERE!” as loudly as Blaine Gabbert’s did in their Week 17 game last year. The dude spent all four quarters looking like a puppy that had been kicked every day of its life.