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Toothless in Seattle

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Yawn.

When the final gun sounded, the scoreboard said 24-35. It wasn't that close. The game was over the moment Greg Olsen caught that ball and soared past all the Seahawk defenders less than three minutes in.

Then again Greg Olsen doesn't soar. He only looks like he's soaring when he's being chased by old men hobbled by arthritic joints.

It is tempting to look ahead to Green Bay, but we have a week to do that. Instead, let us turn our attention to the chesty Seattle fans who spent a week swarming around our heads like gnats.

Oh, Seattle. Your team is terrible, yet you talked trash. You were like that stupid kid in every horror movie who tries to assert his masculinity by checking out the noise in the garage, only to end up with a face full of knife.

With 17 minutes left in the game, the Seahawks managed their first score.  A whopping field goal.  When that happened, I wonder if Seahawk fans stood atop the tables of their local sports bars and squawked... or whatever Seahawk fans do when they get excited.  Or did they look down into their empty beer glasses, sigh deeply and wonder if it might have been smarter to drop that game to the Rams to get the higher draft pick?

Sure, they got three meaningless TDs in the fourth quarter.  The Bears took their foot off the gas.  Remember when your dad, despite a 2-foot height advantage, seemed to struggle to stop your layups in the driveway?  That was the Bears.  ("Here ya go, Seahawks.  Have some points.  Feel better?  Good.  Now get out.")

This wasn't a game. This was a massacre. We knew it would be.

This is the playoffs. You don't come to Soldier Field with an 8-9 record and expect to march to the Super Bowl.  That's like rolling up on the finest girl in the club with gum in your hair, spinach in your teeth and pit stains on your shirt.  Go back home and get yourself straight, Seattle. Remember that year you had a defense and a legitimate running back? Do that. Then come back.

The game itself was unfortunate to watch. Just a straight bludgeoning on every level. Even the Seahawks seemed to know it.  Receiver after receiver let balls bounce off their hands. They knew if they caught it, they'd end up smothered by Urlacher or Briggs or Peppers or... yeah, better to let it fall.

The Bears even tried to make it interesting when Matt Forte executed one of the greatest bonehead plays of all time, throwing an interception that looked almost like it was thrown underhand. At that point, you knew the Bears were only trying to entertain themselves. (See also: The Fridge TD in Super Bowl XX.)

And the worst part is, it's hard to gloat when you just knocked out a toothless team.  It's like standing in a boxing ring, doing a victory dance over the corpse of a goldfish.  We just punched a goldfish to death.  How awesome does that make us?

The real test comes Sunday, when we face an actual team with actual players who possess actual talent.

But don't worry, Seattle, you can always get your revenge when you play the Bulls. Oh, wait.

Well, maybe you can steal the Cup from the Blackhawks. Oh, wait.

The Mariners? There ya go. See? Hope springs eternal, you chesty hipsters.

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