The Denver Broncos
By The Bain
Sometimes I bag on THN. What do you expect? I've been here since the ground was broken. Like the dirty-mouthed old drunk who's watched his watering hole gentrified by a neighborhood influx of yuppies, I sit at the bar smoking Dutch Masters through my tracheotomy hole, rolling my cankered tongue at the young women, and loudly deriding the new brass rails and ferns, some of them planted in pots, others planted at keyboards. I keep it real, as you white children say.

To those of us who recognized early in his career that Plummer is a sh*t hook, the move was no surprise. In 2006, after watching the aspirations of his perfectly healthy Broncos team get pissed away at home in the AFC Championship because of the phoned-in effort of a smelly, unkempt, foul mouthed, bird-flipping punk with the arm of a penguin, Mike Shanahan saw the writing on the wall.
"Anyone can fling it ten yards," Coach huffed to reporters after that game. "Janet Elway's colon can fling it ten yards."
A dig at Plummer?

Of course, that was it. Halfway through the season, Dirt Lip got the cane, freeing him to play professional handball, a sport perfectly suited to Plummer in that it a) has no fans, b) can be played drunk, and c) seldom requires passes of more than seven or eight feet.
Enough ancient history, you say. Why won't the Broncos win the Super Bowl now that they have a quarterback who can launch it? Answer: because their defense is going to be awful. In lunging for Cutler, the Donks neglected some glaring D problems, leaving them with a pass rush so flaky the Pillsbury Doughboy could use it for a fifi. In the secondary, Lynch and Bailey can still bring it, but they're getting old. Employing this pair as the last line of defense between LT and the endzone is like hiring Chris Benoit to manage a Bed Bath & Beyond. Mishaps are inevitable.
And that's why history matters. Had Denver said "no thanks" when Jake's Snake Oil Show rolled past town, their roster wouldn't be so flimsy. As it stands, the Donks approach this season like Steve Irwin bobbing toward the Barrier Reef... wild-eyed, misguided, and certain to be penetrated.
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