Quote the Raven. Nevermore!

Do you think Wildcard Weekend ruined your last two days? Well, Wildcard Weekend made my life into a horror story for the last 48 hours. Here's how it went for me:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping.

Okay, okay. Maybe that was from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven", and I will be quoting "The Raven" until you won't want it...nevermore! But on some real shit, my weekend did really suck. And it starts with the Jets on Saturday and end with a Poe-like defeat by the Patriots on Sunday. You see, I work at Dave and Buster's on Long Island. That's smack in the middle of Jet Country. And trust me, all the Jet fans came from out of the woodwork and sat their ass at that Dave and Buster's to get plastered for such a rare occasion: a Jet playoff game. So every time Shonne Greene rushed for a gain or Darrelle "Snuggie" Revis swatted a ball, the walls reverberated that lowly Jet chant: "J! E! T! S! JETS! JETS! JETS!" And I had to serve these ass clowns. The only thing that kept me from stabbing a fondue fork in my eye was knowing these drunk Jet fans would throw away money if the Jets won.

Listen, I may be money-hungry but Mr. Improper Sportsonian is no sell-out. I'm not just going to give up my fanhood for a few bucks. So when a table of a father and his two young sons were celebrating a Jets touchdown by high-fiving, they turned to me--their waiter--and extended their arms for high-fives. What did I do you ask? The only thing a loyal Patriots fan would do: drop my tray, smack each one in the mouth and reply, "I ain't no punk bitch!". Okay, that didn't happen either. I'm just in a playful mood today. But I didn't high-five them. I told them I was a Patriots fan, and they said they weren't going to tip me. Fuckers.

But it gets worse...

On Sundays at Dave and Buster's we are so privileged to wear football jerseys on "Football Sundays". I, of course, always wear my 2001 silver Tom Brady alternate jersey. This past Sunday was no difference. I sat in front of the 98" flat screen and watched the start of the game. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dreamed before. I had a sinking feeling when Phil Simms said Ray Rice had the longest play from scrimmage against the Patriots. Something just didn't feel right. And sure enough, Rice rips off an 83-yard run up the middle. Thanks Phil. At one point I swear I could've heard Brady utter the words, "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" And as the game went on the more I wanted to take my Tom Brady jersey off. Sit on that last sentence for a minute. I love Tom Brady. And never have I been more embarrassed to wear his jersey. Anywhere. Ever. The whole game unhinged after that first play. Whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster. My tables called me Brady the whole game. Usually a compliment, but not on that day. The Patriots and my ex-girlfriend are the only two who can immediately put me in a horrible mood. And I had to play servant to some credent Jet fan? No thank you.

So yes I worked all weekend in a sports bar and saw my most-hated team win on the first day and had my heart broken by my team on the next day. Not only was I physically abused, I'm emotionally bruised. The Patriots need some serious plastic surgery if they think I will put up this much hurt!