Everything I told you would happen yesterday, did.
I didn’t want to tell you anything, to be frank. I’ve been to Jacksonville before and I don’t speak hillbilly well. I just wanted to kick back with a drink, snap a few selfies, and sneak a peek at your wife/sister in the pool in the upper deck. Sure hope they’re legal. But I digress…
I was in a pretty chill mood walking into your stadium, and your franchise touts EverBank Field as an extremely welcoming environment. Of course, they lied about that. Kind of like how they lied to you when they told you the defense was improved.
From coast to coast, walking into an NFL game wearing the opposing team’s gear by yourself is an invitation for trouble. Not for talking smack, for fistfights. You alleged friendly people saw I was walking in by myself and three of you tried to pick a fight at the gate.
There the three of you were, your medicine ball-sized beer bellies proudly firm and erect, your cherubic faces flushed red with fury, slobber down your grey goatees and struggling to piece together syllables — let alone subjects and predicates. Pursuing me as fast as those kneeless stumps you call legs could, kicking at my heels like second graders, claiming that I was going to be surrounded by a “Jaguars army” and stomped.
Your threats were, unlike your fat asses, empty. Your asses were, of course, like you — full of it.
What you fail — and I’m sure failing is a regular occurrence for your children at school — to realize is that I knew I was perfectly safe. I’m not the toughest fighter out there, by any stretch. But I’ve seen some really dangerous times in my life. I was in LA for the riots. I’ve covered natural disasters. I performed in angry dive bars as a comic that made “Roadhouse” look like “Zootopia.” It takes more than three tubs of goo working on their 10th bypass surgery to scare me.
That’s why I started insulting you and your team back. Your empty threats were the only reason I opened my mouth in the first place.
If you really wanted to fight, you were welcome to try, only my sober left would have been faster than your drunken roundhouse right.
I also know there is no such thing as a Jaguars army. There is, however, such a thing as a Raider Nation. Like the Cowboys, Seahawks, Bears and Packers, the Raiders have a fan base that will travel the country to see them.
As for the game, I told you the Jags had no defense. They gave up 33 points.
I told you Blake Bortles would throw an interception. He threw into triple coverage and got picked, killing a scoring drive.
You were never in the game. And if you wanted to take it out on me, you didn’t stay in the stadium in order to do it. I was most definitely surrounded, all right, by a legion of happy people dressed in silver and black.
Look, my team stunk up the NFL for far too long. I know what it’s like to support a team that lets you down. Having said that, I never gathered a posse and surrounded another fan. That’s on you.
As I drove away, I wondered why EverBank would sponsor the stadium. Having been the Jacksonville four times, it’s abundantly clear that you Jaguars fans store your money in a special sock under the mattress. … No, not “that special sock.” The other one.
If you want to address this further, I’ll be in Tampa next week, watching the Raiders again. Simply go to JiffyLube to get an oil change on your house and drive down I-4 to find me.