Ahem. I lost a bet to your storied editor-in-chief, and therefore I need to write 250 words that praise the New York Jets. This would be easier had your team not stomped all over the Georgia Dome and shattered whatever illusions of happiness remained to our fanbase, but then this wouldn't be much of a bet, would it?
I'm not someone who can express himself well in the written word, which is why I usually stick to expressive dance. Since John B refused to host the 13 minute video of me careening around my living room like a (very graceful) airplane, I've decided to write you a short poem. For those who are about to stop reading, the Jets are a quality football team with a bright future, and Geno Smith could certainly join the NFL's elite ranks down the line. I wish your team well.
O, flying machines of death!
How you gunned down my heart,
I wish to forget that dreadful score,
But now I am forever 1-4.
Geno Smith is an impressive slinger,
A snappy dresser, a haunting singer.
He missed but four passes upon that day,
And many Falcons did he slay.
Of passes he had great command,
Especially to gloried Jeff Cumberland.
Muhammad Wilkerson flattened many,
So we now call Peter Konz "Penny."
Your pass rush haunts my waking dreams,
And you even humbled us on special teams.
Your coach's mind is keen and true,
Even if it wanders to what's in my shoe.
I have gained the clarity I needed,
To understand how the AFC will be seeded,
Though you've given Falcons fans the sicks,
I think you might just go 10-6.
Yours in Geno,