It’s 2070 and I’m the last man alive named Richard. Even at an old home the “hey dick” jokes are still coming at my rapidly deteriorating brain. I just did a virtual crossword puzzle and had sex with a robot leaving me nostalgic, confused and pining for the smell of perfume and number two pencils but I haven’t had a sense of smell since the incident with themashed potatoes. I’m no curmudgeon though. These metallic freaks never fuck up my favorite meals like the humans did, I have some great friends here, a steady lay and my grandkids don’s visit often.
Being an old man is not as bad as they say. I know who I am, who I’m not and I can still bench 135. I no longer feed the demons of pride, jealousy and vanity. I’ve made peace with my first two wives, my first three mistresses and all seven kids. Acceptance is my favorite word with forgiveness coming a close second. There is only hate in my heart for one “man” and today Richard Ferdinand Rust has come to give that hate a long, sloppy kiss goodnight.
I am not proud of the letter I have written below, nor am I embarrassed. It was written at the behest of both my daughter and therapist. They thought it would help me let go of the hatred I have had inside my heart for the last 75 years but I fear it did not do the trick. Everything written below is contrite and true. However, there is no hope or ambition in the words. There is no tug at the end of the rub. It’s simply the psychotic ramblings of an otherwise sane and satisfied old Dick.
Dear Dan Synder,
My name is Richard Rust and I have been a loyal R******* fan since my mom spanked me after I yelled “your mother’s a toothless whore” atTroy Aikman in 89. There is no chance you remember or care about these times but they were magical. Joe Gibbs was at the helm, the posse was catching the pigskin and the stadium was in DC and not some chain restaurant hellhole of a town in Maryland.
These were the best sports years of my life.I could come to school while wearing my R****** starter jacket and not be laughed off the monkey bars. There were Super Bowls, the fun bunch, and organizational cohesion. Then in 9th grade your doughy, bespectacled, bitch ass bought the team. The R****** have brought my family and I nothing but deep shame and great suffering since that day.
Bear with me as I search the cavernous cave that is my mind for the seedlings of my hatred. There was trading a solid, consistent, grizzled vet of a quarterback in Brad Johnson for Jay Cutler’s father Jeff George. Brad Johnson went on to win a Super Bowl with the Bucs and Jeff George threw the ball really hard to the other team. But damn he had a fucking canon didn’t he Danny?
I have a faint memory of you firing a coach named Marty Shottensomething after he went 8-3 the last 11 games of his first year for some fast talking college hillbilly that called himself the old ball coach and worshipped gators or something.
Then you tried the garbage nostalgia model you used on all your awful burger joints and rehired Joe Gibbs. Now, Joe Gibbs is a R******’ legend but the man had been watching nothing but left turns for decades and did not seem too interested in the job. He used Bible study as an excuse to keep starting some noodle armed lefty that looked like he was an actual Bible salesman and shockingly, the franchise continued to decline.
Sometime in my 20s you had a crush on this real athletic fella from Baylor. He was an incredible college player and they kept saying if he was not a quarterback he would be a lawyer. However, there were major questions about his personality and ability to stay healthy/pass the bar exam. You decided that Mike Shanahan and his son were morons and traded your whole draft for that aforementioned fella. His name was Robert Griffin the 3rd.
Ole Bob Griffin gave young Richard a worse tease than when my robot gets confused and thinks she’s with the Mormon gentleman that lives down the hall. I cannot deny the memories of yelling RG3 at your abomination of a stadium and at my television. I probably even made a few comments like, “Hey, I may be hammered but maybe Snyder ain’t so bad.” If I was rich enough to use those time machines they have now I would go back and punch my 20 something year old self in both giblets.
RG3 fizzled out, the organization was held ransom by a nerdy QB who sold Christmas sweaters with his own face on them and the Browns became relevant. If it weren’t for some Neanderthal that only watched the Senior Bowl being the GM of the Giants the R****** would have been the biggest laughingstock in the league. Instead, they were second.
The rest of your tenure comes at me in bits and pieces. Every year I would emphatically declare I was done with the R****** and every year they would be just mediocre enough for me to get sucked back in. There was Haskins sitting out the last year of his rookie contract instead of continuing to get blamed for team failures that started at the top. You hired some maniacal guy named Urban who always looked like he was sick. You drafted 27 quarterbacks in the first round, including RG4 and RG5, and they were all awful! You have won 5 playoff games in 75 years!
Worst of all you kept promising to move the team back to DC but the team still has not left FEDEX. A home fan has not attended a game in years but that does not matter. The franchise continued to increase in value and you continued to search for happiness behind this wealth. Meanwhile, I continued to let this bother me but no longer. This is the year I stop watching your smug, joyless face and the R*******. This is the year ole Dick takes a stand. This is the year, uhhhh my shoulder, my shoulder is on fire!!!
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