Fuck Brady Quinn.
Fuck Notre Dame. That's the first thing to realize. Throw Brady Quinn's smug, frat boy face out of the equation for a second, and you're left with the school he attended. A Catholic mysoginst institution, so full of its own smug self-importance that it can't even join a national conference. They sit alone, the only major D-1 institution that's not in a conference. Who do they play? Army? Ha. Anyone can score forty points against Army. What a joke. Michigan State? Losers. And they almost lost to Michigan State. The only real opponents Notre Dame played all year were Michigan, USC, and LSU. And what do all three of those games have in common? Notre Dame lost them. Not just lost them, but lost them BIG. Michigan 47, Notre Dame 21. USC 44, Notre Dame 24. LSU 41, Notre Dame 14. What a bunch of losers.
Why doesn't Notre Dame join a conference, you ask? Because they would lose. Say they join the Big East. Louisville? They'd lose. Rutgers? They'd lose. West Virginia? They'd lose. They finish fourth place, best-case scenario, embarrassing for the institution, to say the least.
The ACC? Wake Forest? They would lose. Boston College? Lose. Georgia Tech? They'd lose. Virginia? Lose. Virginia Tech? Loss. Florida State? Lose. Miami? Gone. Even more embarrassing.
The Big 12? They'd lose to every team but Baylor, and even then the outcome isn't set in stone.
So fuck Notre Dame.
Now comes Brady Quinn. His predecessor at quarterback was Carlyle Holiday, a black man. Carlyle Holiday was a good quarterback. Fast, mobile, with an accurate arm. But along comes Brady Quinn. Just look at him! His chiseled features. His muscular arms. His Irish last name. He is the White Supremecist's dream come true; a veritable Jesus Christ for Notre Dame University. I wonder if there is a girl at Notre Dame who hasn't experienced the magic of his pot of gold? Next to him, a black man, no matter how good at quarterback he may be, is primitive at best, a savage of the gridiron; he might as well wear face paint and carry a spear. He certainly won't be quarterback for very long next to this fine young white (Irish!) specimen.
As for Brady Quinn? Average. Mobility? Average. Arm strength? Average. Vision? Average. Accuracy? BELOW average. Then what makes him so great? What makes him hold a bajillion Notre Dame passing records? Is it the grace of God placed upon his gleaming, cream-colored arm? No. Is it a superior game plan? Hell no. The reason Brady Quinn holds so many records is because he plays ARMY AND NAVY EVERY FUCKING YEAR. Stanford. Purdue. Air Force. The bottom rung of Division 1-A football passes through Notre Dame year in and year out, and surprise surprise, Notre Dame wins with authority, making it seem as though they were the top rung of the college football ladder; every time that horribly, unbearably annoying fight song emanates from the band section, the collective Notre Dame penis swells with pride and Irish heritage knowing that they are superior to the armed forces football teams, during wartime for Christ's sake.
So Brady Quinn, beloved Irish football player, graduates from college (no doubt with a bit of a grading curve), and Notre Dame mourns a lost icon. He enters the NFL draft, as is expected. And what next? He requests to be drafted by Cleveland. He wants to stay in Ohio, he wants to play for the team he grew up watching. No, he does not want it; he demands it. He appears on Sportscenter, NFL Live; he makes an appearance on every major sports programming channel that exists to harp his demand to play for the lowly Browns, to turn the team around, to make them playoff contenders. He makes such a case, such a marvelous argument, that all of sportscasting nation begins to agree with him. They begin to notice what a perfect fit Quinn would make in Cleveland, how he would be a lightning rod for the team's climb out of the wasteland of last place. How could he not be successful there? Why wouldn't the Browns draft him? It makes the most sense. Of course they'll draft him. They wouldn't pass on such a deal.
Now it's draft day. Jamarcus Russell goes to Oakland with the first pick. Then Calvin Johnson goes to Detroit. Then, Cleveland is on the clock. The ESPN camera focuses on Brady Quinn, we notice how his chiseled face slants slightly in a nervous grin, how he bares his dazzling teeth as he chats anxiously with those around him. This is his time. ESPN knows it's his time. All of America knows it's his time. Roger Goodell takes the stage. He makes his announcement. With the third pick in the 2007 NFL draft, the Cleveland Browns select...
Joe Thomas.
....
Joe Thomas? What...wh-what do you mean, Joe Thomas? Who the hell is that? Some chump out of Wisconsin? Offensive tackle? Oh, fuck me!
That's right. Brady Quinn not drafted third. Not drafted into Cleveland. Not drafted in his home state. He's left to sit at his table, wondering what's just happened. His vapid, almost retarded pretty-boy brain can't even comprehend what's just happened. He got passed up. He, Brady Quinn, got passed up. How could this happen? ESPN said he would go to Cleveland. He said he would go to Cleveland. Everyone in the country knew he would go to Cleveland. But Cleveland passes him up for an offensive lineman, a man whose job it is to remain anonymous so that much more important players, like him, Brady Quinn, can remain as beautiful as the day God decided to make them white and Irish? How could this possibly happen?
Because for all the soothsaying, for all the fortune-telling, for all the predictions being made, none of them, not ESPN, not CBS, and certainly not Brady Quinn, were the Cleveland Browns. None of them were involved in the Browns organization; none of them knew the Browns' game plan, how they would stack the field, what kind of offense they would run, and whether the quarterback would even be the centerpiece of said offense. The Browns placed last in the AFC in rushing yards in 2006, and have been doing nothing over the offseason but making improvements to their run game. They traded Jamal Lewis, a former 2,000-yard rusher, away from Baltimore. They made veteran offensive line acquisitions. Their primary concern has been when the ball is on the field, not in the air. The reason the Browns quarterbacks threw 25 interceptions to only 15 touchdowns is because they did not have a solid running game to set up the pass, so every down was pass-first. That's very easy to defend.
So Brady Quinn is left at the table, looking around, wondering how such a fine, white, Irish specimen like himself could be passed up. Again and again. The grin fades from his handsome face, replaced with a look of aggravation and eventually a look of sheer disgust. He could not dictate who drafted him. No one can dictate who drafts them. They can say, "Hey, playing for such and such would be great, but I'm not crossing my fingers," but they are not that important that they can look a team in the eye and say, "To hell with your game plan, draft me, only I can save your football team!" IT DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY. So Cleveland took their hand, dug it Brady Quinn's toilet, pulled his shit out, and thrust it down his smug, white, Irish douchebag throat.
Joe Thomas was on a fishing trip with his dad. He couldn't give a shit who drafts him.
Brady Quinn could never comprehend that level of modesty.
Flash forward. 22nd pick. Cleveland Browns again. Now is the time for them to prove that their game plan is the most important, that they will not be dictated to by some frat boy idiot. They take the stage, and pick....
Brady Quinn.
Well I hope you're happy. Your incessant whining has cracked the pussies in the offices, and they've done the right thing, right? I guess Charlie Weiss's fat ass got on the phone, I'm sure every Browns fan sent angry emails to the front offices, I'm sure Ron Jaworski sent nasty looks over the the Browns' representatives. That was the time to prove yourselves worthy, to prove that you run your own organization, and that no idiot sitting behind a polished desk on ESPN can ever tell you who to draft.
You fucked up Cleveland.
You drafted an overrated quarterback from an overrated institution instead of shoring up your leaky offensive line or adding a significant deep threat for the veteran quarterbacks which you already have on your team. You fell victim to the complaints of the rich, to the whines of a pretty boy whose only appeal are his rippling muscles and crooked grin. You suck, Cleveland. Just because Brady Quinn CRIES doesn't mean shit, only that he's a pussy. A stuck-up little pussy. I have to admit, it was fun watching his ego deflate pick after pick, until he dropped all the way down to the no-man's-land of number 22. Every pick that went past, his smile drooped; every time it wasn't his name he lost a bit of his cocky attitude, and I wanted less to punch him in the nose than to rub it in.
You, Cleveland, after you shoved Quinn's shit in his nose, sniffed it yourself; you not only sniffed it, you all but ate the shit; you were rolling in it on a hill in your ignorant bliss. I will enjoy watching your team self-destruct once you put in this pussy rich boy, I will enjoy every second of your inevitable demise. In a few years' time, Brady Quinn and Tim Couch will be sipping margaritas in Brazil, chuckling about how they both managed to fool your ass.
Fuck Notre Dame. That's the first thing to realize. Throw Brady Quinn's smug, frat boy face out of the equation for a second, and you're left with the school he attended. A Catholic mysoginst institution, so full of its own smug self-importance that it can't even join a national conference. They sit alone, the only major D-1 institution that's not in a conference. Who do they play? Army? Ha. Anyone can score forty points against Army. What a joke. Michigan State? Losers. And they almost lost to Michigan State. The only real opponents Notre Dame played all year were Michigan, USC, and LSU. And what do all three of those games have in common? Notre Dame lost them. Not just lost them, but lost them BIG. Michigan 47, Notre Dame 21. USC 44, Notre Dame 24. LSU 41, Notre Dame 14. What a bunch of losers.
Why doesn't Notre Dame join a conference, you ask? Because they would lose. Say they join the Big East. Louisville? They'd lose. Rutgers? They'd lose. West Virginia? They'd lose. They finish fourth place, best-case scenario, embarrassing for the institution, to say the least.
The ACC? Wake Forest? They would lose. Boston College? Lose. Georgia Tech? They'd lose. Virginia? Lose. Virginia Tech? Loss. Florida State? Lose. Miami? Gone. Even more embarrassing.
The Big 12? They'd lose to every team but Baylor, and even then the outcome isn't set in stone.
So fuck Notre Dame.
Now comes Brady Quinn. His predecessor at quarterback was Carlyle Holiday, a black man. Carlyle Holiday was a good quarterback. Fast, mobile, with an accurate arm. But along comes Brady Quinn. Just look at him! His chiseled features. His muscular arms. His Irish last name. He is the White Supremecist's dream come true; a veritable Jesus Christ for Notre Dame University. I wonder if there is a girl at Notre Dame who hasn't experienced the magic of his pot of gold? Next to him, a black man, no matter how good at quarterback he may be, is primitive at best, a savage of the gridiron; he might as well wear face paint and carry a spear. He certainly won't be quarterback for very long next to this fine young white (Irish!) specimen.
As for Brady Quinn? Average. Mobility? Average. Arm strength? Average. Vision? Average. Accuracy? BELOW average. Then what makes him so great? What makes him hold a bajillion Notre Dame passing records? Is it the grace of God placed upon his gleaming, cream-colored arm? No. Is it a superior game plan? Hell no. The reason Brady Quinn holds so many records is because he plays ARMY AND NAVY EVERY FUCKING YEAR. Stanford. Purdue. Air Force. The bottom rung of Division 1-A football passes through Notre Dame year in and year out, and surprise surprise, Notre Dame wins with authority, making it seem as though they were the top rung of the college football ladder; every time that horribly, unbearably annoying fight song emanates from the band section, the collective Notre Dame penis swells with pride and Irish heritage knowing that they are superior to the armed forces football teams, during wartime for Christ's sake.
So Brady Quinn, beloved Irish football player, graduates from college (no doubt with a bit of a grading curve), and Notre Dame mourns a lost icon. He enters the NFL draft, as is expected. And what next? He requests to be drafted by Cleveland. He wants to stay in Ohio, he wants to play for the team he grew up watching. No, he does not want it; he demands it. He appears on Sportscenter, NFL Live; he makes an appearance on every major sports programming channel that exists to harp his demand to play for the lowly Browns, to turn the team around, to make them playoff contenders. He makes such a case, such a marvelous argument, that all of sportscasting nation begins to agree with him. They begin to notice what a perfect fit Quinn would make in Cleveland, how he would be a lightning rod for the team's climb out of the wasteland of last place. How could he not be successful there? Why wouldn't the Browns draft him? It makes the most sense. Of course they'll draft him. They wouldn't pass on such a deal.
Now it's draft day. Jamarcus Russell goes to Oakland with the first pick. Then Calvin Johnson goes to Detroit. Then, Cleveland is on the clock. The ESPN camera focuses on Brady Quinn, we notice how his chiseled face slants slightly in a nervous grin, how he bares his dazzling teeth as he chats anxiously with those around him. This is his time. ESPN knows it's his time. All of America knows it's his time. Roger Goodell takes the stage. He makes his announcement. With the third pick in the 2007 NFL draft, the Cleveland Browns select...
Joe Thomas.
....
Joe Thomas? What...wh-what do you mean, Joe Thomas? Who the hell is that? Some chump out of Wisconsin? Offensive tackle? Oh, fuck me!
That's right. Brady Quinn not drafted third. Not drafted into Cleveland. Not drafted in his home state. He's left to sit at his table, wondering what's just happened. His vapid, almost retarded pretty-boy brain can't even comprehend what's just happened. He got passed up. He, Brady Quinn, got passed up. How could this happen? ESPN said he would go to Cleveland. He said he would go to Cleveland. Everyone in the country knew he would go to Cleveland. But Cleveland passes him up for an offensive lineman, a man whose job it is to remain anonymous so that much more important players, like him, Brady Quinn, can remain as beautiful as the day God decided to make them white and Irish? How could this possibly happen?
Because for all the soothsaying, for all the fortune-telling, for all the predictions being made, none of them, not ESPN, not CBS, and certainly not Brady Quinn, were the Cleveland Browns. None of them were involved in the Browns organization; none of them knew the Browns' game plan, how they would stack the field, what kind of offense they would run, and whether the quarterback would even be the centerpiece of said offense. The Browns placed last in the AFC in rushing yards in 2006, and have been doing nothing over the offseason but making improvements to their run game. They traded Jamal Lewis, a former 2,000-yard rusher, away from Baltimore. They made veteran offensive line acquisitions. Their primary concern has been when the ball is on the field, not in the air. The reason the Browns quarterbacks threw 25 interceptions to only 15 touchdowns is because they did not have a solid running game to set up the pass, so every down was pass-first. That's very easy to defend.
So Brady Quinn is left at the table, looking around, wondering how such a fine, white, Irish specimen like himself could be passed up. Again and again. The grin fades from his handsome face, replaced with a look of aggravation and eventually a look of sheer disgust. He could not dictate who drafted him. No one can dictate who drafts them. They can say, "Hey, playing for such and such would be great, but I'm not crossing my fingers," but they are not that important that they can look a team in the eye and say, "To hell with your game plan, draft me, only I can save your football team!" IT DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY. So Cleveland took their hand, dug it Brady Quinn's toilet, pulled his shit out, and thrust it down his smug, white, Irish douchebag throat.
Joe Thomas was on a fishing trip with his dad. He couldn't give a shit who drafts him.
Brady Quinn could never comprehend that level of modesty.
Flash forward. 22nd pick. Cleveland Browns again. Now is the time for them to prove that their game plan is the most important, that they will not be dictated to by some frat boy idiot. They take the stage, and pick....
Brady Quinn.
Well I hope you're happy. Your incessant whining has cracked the pussies in the offices, and they've done the right thing, right? I guess Charlie Weiss's fat ass got on the phone, I'm sure every Browns fan sent angry emails to the front offices, I'm sure Ron Jaworski sent nasty looks over the the Browns' representatives. That was the time to prove yourselves worthy, to prove that you run your own organization, and that no idiot sitting behind a polished desk on ESPN can ever tell you who to draft.
You fucked up Cleveland.
You drafted an overrated quarterback from an overrated institution instead of shoring up your leaky offensive line or adding a significant deep threat for the veteran quarterbacks which you already have on your team. You fell victim to the complaints of the rich, to the whines of a pretty boy whose only appeal are his rippling muscles and crooked grin. You suck, Cleveland. Just because Brady Quinn CRIES doesn't mean shit, only that he's a pussy. A stuck-up little pussy. I have to admit, it was fun watching his ego deflate pick after pick, until he dropped all the way down to the no-man's-land of number 22. Every pick that went past, his smile drooped; every time it wasn't his name he lost a bit of his cocky attitude, and I wanted less to punch him in the nose than to rub it in.
You, Cleveland, after you shoved Quinn's shit in his nose, sniffed it yourself; you not only sniffed it, you all but ate the shit; you were rolling in it on a hill in your ignorant bliss. I will enjoy watching your team self-destruct once you put in this pussy rich boy, I will enjoy every second of your inevitable demise. In a few years' time, Brady Quinn and Tim Couch will be sipping margaritas in Brazil, chuckling about how they both managed to fool your ass.
st_even:
Addendum: The Browns are pussies.