Blue’s Colts Wrap-Up: Week 10
Hi there, Colts fans! It has been brought to our attention that perhaps you do not much care for our old-timey helmet logo at midfield of Lucas Oil Stadium — the one that was hoof-painted by a real live colt in 1927! (See actual photo above.) We think you are sorely mistaken and have poor taste in midfield art designs … but so be it, we are not tone-deaf freaks — rest assured, we’ve heard your complaints!
THEREFORE!! We are proposing five new designs that we feel match or EXCEED the current one in terms of being stylish, modern, elegant representations of our organization/city. Do not delay, vote for your favorite below!!
Sports Illustrated‘s Peter King had a chat with the Colts’ Pep Hamilton Wednesday as part of the national columnist’s Monday Morning Quarterback RV training camp tour and came away convinced Hamilton isn’t just giving lip service to his throwback idea of giving his offense glyco-heroin to heal/prevent their physical ailments.
The Colts are committed to making it an integral part of their rehab program. Sprains … concussions … typhoid — Pep’s Glyco-Heroin will take care of it all!
Two down, one to go. HALFWAY THERE!! #Math! (via Instagram)
Today’s the first day of school — one’s starting 2nd grade and the other kindergarten, and on the real tip, I’m a bit conflicted. On one hand: I’m proud & they’re all grown up and all that & blah blah blah haha jk THEY’RE YOU’RE PROBLEM NOW, TEACHERS LOLOLOLOL!!!! [drinks a celebratory screwdriver with the Mrs.] On the other: getting them dressed & off to school every morning — and not having them look like homeless river people, I might add — is the WORST KIND OF PANDEMONIUM the world has ever known and it gives me irritable bowel syndrome in my brain.
Whatever. Let us simply take pause and rejoice & be thankful that with this, football season in earnest is almost upon us. Amen.
The baby cage, for hanging babies out of the window for families without a garden, 1937. pic.twitter.com/VRoIggxMt8— History In Pictures (@HistoryInPics)
Wife: Where’s the baby?
Me: In its cage, of course.
Me: [takes quick glance at the baby cage staple-gunned to the windowsill, sips Scotch nonchalantly] Kinda.
Wife: Okay great.
OLDEN TIMES WERE DREAMY!!!
In the quarterbacks room here at Anderson University hangs a poster of philosophers. ‘Ivan Pavlov and Sigmund Freud and all of these other guys you haven’t heard of,’ Hasselbeck said. ‘We’re quizzing each other on their names. [Andrew Luck]’s smart. He keeps me on my toes.’
Oh good grief.
(As a point of reference here, to perfectly illustrate how far this team has risen from the grim tarpits of LIFE-SUCKING INEPTITUDE, in 2011 Curtis Painter had hung a blacklight poster of Jim Morrison & a panther high-fiving.)
INT. HOUSE DRIVEWAY - DAY
Hero-dad lugs the final 450-pound bag to the already packed minivan. It is FILLED TO CAPACITY with all manners of vacation supplies/needless shit. He is sweating profusely. Hands on hips, he pauses and bows his head momentarily, clearly cognizant of the fact that what lies ahead is fraught with chaos. But with a steely gaze of determination, he begins to GEAR UP.
[**cue intense reggae/steel drums beat**]
Camera cuts to close-ups, in rapid succession, of each of our hero’s actions:
This is EXACTLY what I want my funeral to look like, complete with the chill LOLZ! vibe hanging heavy in the air and me waving at everyone while lying in repose, or possibly I’ll be raising the roof — we’ll see.
Pastor: “And now a reading from ‘Whoomp There It Is!’”
When Jesus or James Madison or whoever invented Father’s Day, a vision was born. A movement. A call to arms, really, which was never intended to involve cookouts or effort or otherwise doing shit with our kids. (THAT IS NOT HOW YOU HONOR ME, YOU HEATHENS!!) Because for one glorious day, all decent & non-deadbeat dads get to do that which we secretly cherish: become gross, slothful pieces of couch gristle slowly murdering our innards in the basement, in solitude, where our every whim is attended to — and where it is very, very quiet.
Paul George leaves a devestating trail of carnage — with broken bodies & misconceptions scattered about, forgotten — and finally sounds his barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the NBA world as LeBron looks on helplessly.
— The dreamy caption for this
photo SERIES, I hope, when it’s all said and done … in about ten or 11 hours, because SYMBOLISM. Anyway, let us bow our heads and pray and remember the time PG muder-death-LOL’d The Birdman, forever, #RIP, #GraphicFootage, #NSFW, etc., etc…
Step 1: Get to know some famous people.
Step 2: Never, ever ever ever ever ever ever ever stop Tweeting about how you once got to know some famous people, and show them that sometimes you took photographs with these famous people (and other famous people too, sometimes!) … and if anyone is ever all, “Ummmm, why are you always talking about these famous people??,” you quickly respond with an “It’s all good, bro” and then you double-back & you CRUSH THEIR DUMB PEASANT QUESTIONS WITH A SWIFT TWITTER BLOCK IN THE FACE, BUT NOT BEFORE REMINDING THEM OF HOW HOW TWITTER-POOR THEY ARE, BECAUSE LOL!, YOLO!!
Step 3: Get hired by the Pacers. You win.
Let’s get to some Twitter lesson’ing, shall we? Pay attention, dweebs, we’ll begin at the beginning: last evening, about three hours before ESPN’s newest "30 for 30" was to air, the one about Dan Marino & John Elway and their draft. This was the PERFECT time to prime the pump, so to speak.