The ennui of the divisional playoffs

I very much suspect Jay Cutler is French. He plays quarterback in exactly the manner in which one imagines a nihilist philosopher would. A long touchdown strike to the tight end, a goal line pass thrown directly to the breadbasket of the opposing linebacker, what is the difference, really? Atoms are arranged one way, atoms are arranged another way, none of it has any meaning.

Don’t ask him questions, media wretch. You bore him. How could you not? The hole in the zone, the wafting of grey smoke from a Galoises Blonde, the thin sheen of sweat on the naked buttocks of a so-called “Hollywood” actress, these are all mere ephemeral pleasures. You ask Jay Cutler why he sneers; Jay Cutler asks why you do not shriek at the tedious horror of it all.