The study found that the preponderance of Josh Allen-related mental activity was focused on football. However, the MVP quarterback loomed large in people’s minds across a wide range of other circumstances:
— Numerous disappointed fathers cited QB1 in their thoughts while pondering where they went wrong with their Cheeto-eating, Fortnite-playing sons.
—Senior citizens being moved out of their homes mentioned that Josh Allen would never put his Papa or Nana in a nursing facility.
—Teachers, being thrown under the bus by administrators, would never suffer that fate with Josh Allen as their leader—even if their name was Stefon Diggs.
—Budget deputies in the new Sean Ryan administration freely admit that the only person who could possibly save the city from fiscal meltdown is Josh Allen.

Voices from Western New York and their Josh Allen thoughts:
Harmon Hawthorn—I used to think about Jesus and all that salvation bullshit, but now I’m consumed with how Josh can beat a cover three, double shell defense.
Bucky Blatenbutt—I’m in the midst of a breakup. Brandon ran off with a trumpet player named Kenny, who supposedly has this really crisp tongue and a balanced embouchure. When I’m not preoccupied with that, I spend a lot of time imagining myself on the business end of a Josh Allen tush push.  
Heidi Handcrafter—At some point during a recent string of bad dates, I found myself daydreaming about rugged #17 and how he wouldn’t waste my evening rambling about on about a vintage toy soldier collection, axe-throwing leagues, the wheel size on his F-250, or any of the other dumb guy shit meant to compensate for a lack of being funny, interesting or having an acceptable penis.
Black Betty—When I’m not Bam Ba Lamming, I’m thinking about Josh Allen. 
Brandon Beane—I think about how Josh has papered over, and saved my ass from all my shitty picks: Boogie Bashim, Cody Ford, Kaiir Elam, to name a few. The biggest miss might be Keon Coleman. If we don’t make the Super Bowl, a tub of Preparation H won’t keep my seat from being red hot. Please Josh, save my ass again.

Rounding out the top-ten things Western New Yorkers think about: 
—Work Conflicts, such as dealing with assholes like Holly, from accounting, who is always riding everyone’s ass about expense reports.
—Family Drama, where out-of-town siblings pop in at the end and steal your parents’ silverware while you’re at Hospice caring for your mom.
—Aldis: ground beef costs eight fucking dollars per pound?
—Porn.
—Chicken Wings.
—Pot Holes.
—Kids: when the fuck are they going to move out?
—When will the Sabres start their ten-game skid?
—County Executive Mark Poloncarz—what a douche!
—Will the Bills draft Josh Allen and Hailee Steinfeld’s baby in 2048?

The Bills and Josh Allen play in the divisional round of the NFL Playoffs on Saturday, January 17th, at 4:30 in Denver against the Broncos.  

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Though Dave was good to their sister, he somewhat resembled the human form of a Twizzler—thin and twisty with blotchy red skin from long-term psoriasis. Originally from Queens, Dave was the Northeast regional manager for Famous Footwear and made a decent living. The brothers accepted Dave into the family, conditioned on the premise that any progeny, without exception, would be raised as a Bills fan. Offspring could be a Mets, Knicks, and given the continuing futility of the Sabres, even a Rangers fan, but never, ever a goddamn Jets fan.

After a six-hour drive from Western New York along the 390S and 17E, the brothers rumbled into their sister’s living room, where wiffley Dave, Phoebe, and their three-year-old nephew Parker sat in front of the TV being further corrupted by Bluey. After grimicing a hello to Dave and Phoebe, the uncles picked Parker up and tossed him in the air between them like a water balloon at a family picnic while repeating the closing hymn to Josh Allen’s MVP speech, much to his delight:

When that ran its course, Phoebe removed Parker from the room and the brothers closed ranks on Dave. They reminded him of the agreement he had made before marrying their sister. While Dave acknowledged the agreement, he argued it would be better for Parker’s socialization if he were a Jets fan—he would make more friends and fit in better with his peers.

Flanked by his brothers, Uncle Paul stood before Dave,  “That’s what you want for your son—to be a follower? You want him to sit through that ridiculous third-down call by the Jets announcer, only to have Josh Allen rip his heart out over and over? You want his superfan experience provided by that sad sack, Fireman Ed—thank you for your service—or do you want him to feel the hope and joy of Elvis, The Chefs, and Captain Dave’s, Hit The Showers? Do you want him to have the fun of breaking tables, throwing dildos on the field, drinking shots from a bowling ball? Or do you want him to look back sixty years to your one shining moment—that lucky Super Bowl win with George Sauer, Emerson Boozer and Joe Namath? And, if you didn’t know, Namath was a career fifty percent passer with 220 interceptions and only 173 touchdowns. You’ve had six coaches in the last ten years and the most memorable play in that time is a butt fumble.
Dave, the Jets suck. It’s the worst organizations in the NFL. If you love your son, you won’t do this to him.”

Dave stood there weighing his options and, after a moment, started to cry, “I do love my son. I just…I just wanted someone to share my pain.”

Uncle Peter ran out to the Silverado, and a minute later was back with two #17 jerseys—one for Parker, and one for Dave (a boys’ medium). Once Dave had the jersey on, the brothers embraced him and said, “Welcome to the Mafia.”  

Uncle Patrick then went to the nearest Home Depot and bought out all the folding tables they had in stock, and the family spent the rest of the night doing shots, breaking tables, and teaching Parker sacred Mafia words:

Hey-ayyyyyyy-ayyyyyyyy-ayy! (Hey-ayyyyyyy-ayyyyyyyy-ayy!)  Let’s Go Buffalo!!!

Driving home the next day, Uncle Paul gazed out at the horizon and peacefully crooned, “We saved two lost souls last night,” and just as peacefully, the brothers nodded in agreement.

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A downcast Reaper said, “This year, I was hoping to swing through Western New York after a Bills Super Bowl victory and take out the one-before-I-die crowd. That’s a good group, and it would have been great fun to snatch these lives after this long-awaited victory—even the assholes among them who dip their wings in ranch and the Karens who object to “Mr Brightside” being played at Highmark Stadium because the song is about infidelity. Instead, I had to take out all these son-of-bitches reeling with gut-wrenching disappointment. It’s so sad. Not Ann Frank sad, but still sad.”  

Buffalo and a handful of cities with professional sports franchises: Vancouver, San Diego, Jacksonville, Columbus, and Charlotte have never raised a championship trophy. However, there are caveats with these cities—Charlotte can claim UNC’s six NCAA basketball championships. Columbus can cozy up to Ohio State’s nine NCAA football championships. San Diego is in Southern California, and except for the threat of burning to the ground, it is still beautiful, temperate SoCal. Vancouver is one of the prettiest cities in the world. Granted, Jacksonville is really just redneck Southern Georgia and the home of Matt Gaetz, but still—it wasn’t iron-gray, ten degrees the morning after losing to the Chiefs for the fourth time. Then again, fuck Matt Gaetz and Jacksonville. Oh, I forgot Memphis, but Elvis cancels all that shit out.

The futility of Buffalo teams and their fans, however, remains unmatched. The failure to advance to the first Super Bowl in 1966 after losing again to the Chiefs, 31- 7 in the AFL title game. The delay of game penalty that ended the tying drive in the 1981 divisional playoff vs. the Bengals after Lou Piccone picked up the first down. The Ronnie Harmon drop in ‘89 vs. the Browns. The four Super Bowl losses, Homerun Throwback, the Draught, Thirteen Seconds, Bass’ miss from forty, and now, the first down that wasn’t and the Kincaid drop. Let’s throw in Bernie Parent in ‘75, No Goal, the Brian Campbell delay of game penalty in ‘06, and another Draught. Death by a thousand cuts. 

Drawing up something like a smile the Reaper became philosophical, saying, “As you can imagine, it’s tough keeping a positive attitude in this line of work with all the maiming and killing. At some point, to keep going I have to believe it will happen—one of these snake bit, pathetic teams will kick the door down, and a championship trophy will be hoisted in Buffalo. When it happens, you can bet I’ll be there—with bells on. Well, maybe not bells, but I’ll be there, as my dark and foreboding self with my scythe. Joyfully, I’ll take out a giant swath of those happy bastards with my dark kiss of death. It’s that hope and belief that allows me to keep going.”

Next year—the year we finally vanquish our demons, begins on Thursday, September 5th with the NFL kickoff game. And the Sabres?…nevermind.

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After six hours of sports talk on the radio, rolling down I-77S in their Chevy Colorado, Dietrich grew tired of the inane chatter about the Bills victory over the Ravens. In yet another moment of spontaneity, she closed the Audacy app on Dornfinger’s phone, turned to him, and sweetly asked, “What made you call me that first time all those years ago?”

Dornsfinger, who was driving, was initially annoyed at his app being closed as he was about to shout down Eddie from Niagara Falls, who was complaining about the Bills leaky pass defense against the Ravens. This first-time, long-time Niagara Falls meathead didn’t understand the Bills sold out to stop the run and thus were more susceptible to the pass. “It was a calculation and a strategy, not bad play—you fucking moron, Eddie.” But Deitrich looked so cute with her sparkling, expectant eyes, and the thought flew from his mind before he could articulate it. 

With his hands on the wheel, Dornsfinger stared straight ahead and searched his memory for what made him call Dietrich. After a moment, he had his answer. He turned to her, let out a silent but deadly fart, then smiled and said, “Your ass.”
“My ass. Whaddya talking about?” she asked
“Yeah, it was your gorgeous ass that convinced me to call you.”
“Again, Whaddaya talking about? And, I smelled that David.’
“You remember when I ran into you in the library? There was a pen on the ground, and you were bent over looking for a book on the bottom shelf, and I asked if you dropped your pen? I only asked because that onion of yours was speaking to me.”
“Onion?”
“Yeah, like an onion, that butt of yours made me tears of joy well in the corner of my eyes.”
“OMFG—give me a break. But, you didn’t call me then.”
“I didn’t. But remember, I saw you a few weeks later at Molly’s talking to your friend Teresa. When I walked into the bar, you had your back to me, and your ass was staring me in the face filling out your Levis so perfectly. I had to call you then.”
“So it wasn’t my pretty green eyes or my witty banter? It was my ass?”
“Well, yeah. And sure, you were delightful. It was also great you lost those poindexter glasses, and you grew your hair out after high school, but if I’m being honest, it was your ass that motivated me to call you.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she said with a certain finality, and then looked out the passenger side window for the next two hours without saying a word.
Finally, after more Mighty Taco-inspired gas, Dornsfinger sheepishly said, “I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just being honest. You know I love you.”
Dietrich sighed, “I know. I know. I just thought there was more to you. More to us.”
“I’m sorry,” Dornsfinger said quietly. “I wish there were more to me too, but there’s not. Like the moon and the tides rule you, asses and fun bags rule me.” 

Dornfinger then let out a giant, sonorous, flatulent that rattled the windows of the Chevy Colorado.

He pulled over at the next rest stop and went inside with some baby wipes and a change of clothes while Dietrich sat in the truck crying and examining her life choices.   

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While the excitement is real and the team is a legitimate Super Bowl contender, deep down, in the dark recesses of the Bills fans souls, where defeat and disappointment reign supreme, they can’t wait to get past this silly season of expectation and on to the inevitable heartbreak of another year.

Johnny Jamula of Clarence expressed how he can’t help but buy into the Bills at this time of year and then feels like such a fool when the season ultimately goes sideways. “I’m a grown ass man and have been a fan since the early 70’s when Fergy was hanging his head and tight end Ruben Gant—or as we referred to him Ruben Can’t and Never Could—was dropping passes all over the field. Yet, here I am like a little old lady watching the shopping network in the middle of the night, buying the hype—and all the chiffon jackets when I know I look like a total asshole in sheer chiffon garments. I’m such a sucker. I just hope the Bills put me out of my misery early this year.” 

Abdul Ashalayum of Black Rock said he’s very uncomfortable with all the positive feelings he had about the Bills this offseason—especially about general manager Brandon Beane and head coach Sean McDermott. “Right now, I feel the value pickups Beane made in free agency like Poona Ford and Leonard Floyd were genius. And I’m thrilled with this year’s draft class which includes: Dalton Kincaid, O’Cyrus Torrence and Justin Shorter. I’m also excited to have McDermott calling the defense and ramping up the aggressiveness on that side of the ball.
But truthfully, when the season starts to fall apart and Leonard Floyd only has two sacks and the Giants poach Justin Shorter, I’ll destroy Beane for being a dumb shit. I’ll call WGR and ask if there’s any way to hire back his old protégé, Joe Schoen. Same with McDermott, once he’s too aggressive with the blitz or not aggressive enough, I’ll be on the horn calling for Leslie Frazier to replace his sorry bald-headed ass. And it will feel so good, so right. 

LaMont Leadfoot of South Buffalo is hoping not to face reality of another wasted year with the Bills until the first seven feet of lake effect snow clobbers Buffalo sometime in November. “Last year it was nice to have the delusion that this was our year right up until they barely beat the Lions on Thanksgiving day. The narrow win coupled with the seven feet of lake effect snow the week prior shook me back into place—this is Buffalo, we don’t have nice things like normal weather and Super Bowl parades. We have: heart attacks,  playoff losses and we’re boring . Still, avoiding reality till then was nice—from there it was a short seven-months to those two glorious months of Buffalo summer and more delusions about the Bills.

The Bills start their sixty-third NFL season on September 11th against the New York Jets.   

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This past November Norkwood experienced chest pains after clearing six-feet of lake effect snow one-shovelful at a time from the driveway of his South Buffalo home. Emergency room doctors at Mercy Hospital were able to stabilize and discharge him relatively quickly, but with orders to get a plow service, cut back on Imperial wings, shots at Molly Maguires and do a follow up visit with a cardiologist.

Self Hating Sabres Fans Missing The Misery

Taking the recommendation, Norkwood booked an appointment with Dr. Dan Woggleghenter at WNY Cardiology. After interviewing Norkwood and running some preliminary tests, Dr. Woggleghenter found his heart to be relatively fit, especially for someone from South Buffalo, and encouraged him to continue to make healthy food and lifestyle choices. He also advised Norkwood to check with him if he was going to engage in any behaviors that would potentially increase his stress.

Despite the decade plus of futility by the Sabres, Norkwood is excited by this young and fun to watch team. But given his recent cardiac event and the troubling end to another Bills season he thought it would be wise to check with Dr. Woggleghenter before jumping on the bandwagon.

Upon hearing Nokwood’s idea the cardiologist asked if he had suffered some kind of trauma, maybe a blow to the head with a blunt object? He also inquired about his knowledge of recent Sabres history—missing the playoffs for the last eleven years, finishing last in the East in 2013, 14, 17, 18, 20, Ralph Krueger, Phil Housley, Zack Fucking Bogosian?

When Norkwood acknowledged he was fully aware of the recent history and hadn’t been hit in the head Dr. Woggleghenter bluntly told him: “Like the Bills, in the end they’re going to rip your heart out. Jeff Skinner is about to go into a twenty-game goal scoring slump, Rasmus Dahlin’s acne and his snowflakey Scandinavian play is about to return, the players only meeting when their playoff hopes start to slip away will produce two wins and then a ten game losing streak to end the season. Don Granato and Kevyn Adams will be fired and replaced by Dominic Hasek and Miroslav Satan who will promptly trade away Tage Thompson and Alex Tuch for draft picks and start yet another rebuild.”

Norkwood again said he was aware of the potential outcomes. Dr. Woggleghenter would only endorse the plan with a full cardiac workup that included a stress test, an electrocardiogram and a thirty-day study of Norkwood’s heartbeat pattern via a Biotel Heart Monitor device that attaches to the chest.

The cardiologist believes given the thirty day window the Sabres will be in dumpster fire mode saving his patient a lot of undue anguish and stress on his heart.

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The day started with his neighbor Foster Slurmwad pounding on his front door at 5am. When a sleepy Mantang answered, Slurmwad shoved the morning edition of the Buffalo News into his chest. The paper had accidentally been thrown on his porch for like the tenth time in the last month and woke up his insomniac wife, Norma. The last few times this happened Norma bitched at Slurmwad all day long and required constant attention because she hadn’t gotten her proper rest. Despite making several calls to the News to correct the situation it hadn’t stopped and he blamed Mantang. And while he was at his front door, Slurmwad also blamed him for the aesthetic decline of the neighborhood as a result of his stupid, ugly face. 

At breakfast his ten-year old son Finn Mantang blamed him for making him feel like he wasn’t good enough or would never amount to anything. When Mantang asked where this was coming from his son told him it was all those comments he made at hockey about moving his feet and hustling. “Like I just stand there and don’t do anything.” the younger Mantang said angrily. “And last week against West Seneca, you told me if I had been in position I would have scored my third goal of the game. Why isn’t two goals good enough? My counselor at school told me maybe you should work on saying things in a different way, but what I really think she was saying is that you suck. If I end up in prison or being a dumb manager at Ford, it’ll be all your fault.”

After his son got on the bus for school Mantang explained the exchange he had with Slurmwad earlier that morning to his wife Alena, but she was unsympathetic and pointed out his face had become really stupid. She went on complaining that his face, which had been so handsome when they met, was now an embarrassment. She then blamed him for their diminished social life because she couldn’t stand being out in public with someone who had such a stupid face. She also blamed him for the death of their dog Frenchy. That if he hadn’t been so gung-ho about walks and throwing a ball to the Shepherd-Husky mix and just let the poor thing relax on the end of the couch it would have made it to fifteen instead of fourteen.  

About lunch time he received a flurry of texts from his old girlfriend Roxanne Twazzole. Though Mantang lived with her and paid for her last two-years at UB she blamed him for her poor self-image, citing how he consistently rejected her amorous advances. One text read: “I know you were working like eighty-hours a week to pay for the apartment and my school, but would it have killed you to let me get on top and ride you? Your rejection crushed me.” He also received several texts from old girlfriends blaming him for no longer enjoying sex. That, in a world of inferior penises his sizable love wand was a revelation. It was a shame they said that such a well endowed man should have such a stupid face and the dumbest job in the world at the Ford plant.

Finally, Thurman Thomas reached out to him via social media and blamed Mantang for losing his helmet and his 10-carry, 13-yard performance at Super Bowl XXVI against the team formerly known as the Washington Redskins. According to Thomas he saw a nine-year old Mantang on TV the Friday before the Super Bowl when someone at Channel 4 news stuck a microphone in his face and asked him what he thought about the game and he soberly said: “I don’t see how the Bills win.” Thomas said he couldn’t shake that comment all weekend and it made him misplace his helmet and led to his horrible performance. In a direct message Thomas wrote, “That was my MVP season and you wrecked it with your restrained, insightful comment, you shithead. Fuck you.” 

Mantang is always grateful when “National Blame Someone Else Day” is over and he can just live life with his stupid face and his dumb job at the Ford Plant.     

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“One-eleven has become all White Claws and Grey Poupon,” he said. “Bunch of rich people going through the motions. This past weekend when Nyheim Hines ran back the opening kickoff the energy was at Jeb Bush levels. The call and response: Hey-ayyyyyy-ayyyyyy-ayy to the Shout song was a joke. They take this team for granted like Harvey Johnson, Hank Bullough and Doug Marrone never existed. Well, they did exist and they crushed all of our souls.”

Crackleknob reminisced about better times when many of them would show up at 7am, start a fire, have some bacon, eggs and shots of Patron. Then, they’d go down to the Hammer Lot and cheer on the toothless table breakers and douse up Pinto Ron with regular American ketchup and mustard. After that it was into the game, but not before knocking a few back at the Crown Royal truck to help them tap into their Mafia crazy. 

Gronk Steps Away From Football Saying: “I’m Tired Of Owning The Bills”

“Now there’s not a single person with a D-FENSE sign in our section,” he said “The clapping and booing of the refs is so tepid you’d think we were at a fucking equestrian event. Nobody paints their faces and I’m the only one who takes his shirt off anymore— and I have hideous man boobs.”

Crackleknob said he’s tried to get the section going numerous times throughout the season waving his arms up and down (he almost took his eye out with his left breasticle doing this), but to no avail. And since it’s hard to take a shirtless guy with man boobs in thirty degree weather at a sporting event seriously, he plans on sending out some strongly worded emails ahead of their annual offseason schedule release party.

“I’m going to let everyone know their gameday commitment to the team and organization is unacceptable. That in recent years we’ve become complacent and soft and we let guys like Captain Dave , Elvis, the Chefs and all the degenerates in the endzone carry us. I’m going to challenge their fandom personally. And I’m not above hitting below the belt. I’ll tell them if they don’t want to step it up they should become fucking Dolphin fans and go down to Hard Rock Stadium in Miami and drink margaritas with J-Lo, Fregy and Darius Rucker—wtf is a Darius Rucker anyway?”

Crackleknob realizes he might lose friends by calling them out, but it’s a chance he’s willing to take—”for football, for the city of Buffalo, for the Bills.” 

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But it was Twitter member Liz Smith who had the most memorable tweet. She instructed Poloncarz to take the two-thousand page impact statement and: “Shove it up your ass.” That tweet was remarkable in that it marked the billionth time someone on Twitter urged him to implant something in his ass during his three terms as the Erie County Executive. Notably, in addition to Poloncarz only national figures such as former president Trump, entrepreneur Elon Musk, and of course, actor Richard Gere have reached the billion threshold.

Ms. Smith is an infrequent tweeter and doesn’t really follow politics. She said her disdain for the County Executive came about during the pandemic when Poloncarz would post videos of himself singing and playing guitar. “I’m mostly a stalker on Twitter. I like watching the car crash rather than being part of it,” she said. “But when Polonpuke started posting those videoss it drove me crazy. He can’t sing, he’s a shitty guitar player and he ruined one of my all time favorites: “Take Me On.” Now, when I load it into the jukebox at the bowling alley on Saturday night after I’ve had a gummy and a couple of Fireballs all I can see and hear is that fucking douchenozzle. Damn, straight I told him to shove his impact statement up his ass and I’m going to keep doing it. One billion down, ten billion to go.”

Among the most popular Twitter suggestions for insertion in the County Executive’s backside include: his acoustic guitar, Dr. Gale Bernstein’s overtime pay and his own head.

Asked for comment regarding the milestone, Poloncarz’s office issued the following statement: “The County Executive remains committed to providing the people of Erie County with excellent on time services while holding the line on taxes. And despite popular calls via Twitter for Mr. Poloncarz to stick, shove or wedge: impact statements, reviews and initiatives in his Lackawanna funk trunk, the County Executive remains equally committed to keeping that portion of his body obstruction free and pristine . . . or as pristine as possible.

County Executive Poloncarz is up for re-election in 2023.

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Ingerfish is of the opinion that if the Bills or Sabres ever win a championship the fabric of Western New York and its people will be irreparably changed for the worse. Thankfully though, Sunday’s second straight loss was a step toward preserving who we are as a community—it was the universe righting itself.

“Let’s face it, ” said Ingerfish, “we are the world’s biggest and most lovable losers. Instead of running away from that, we should embrace it and feel proud. Enough of this trying to rise above our station and be something we’re not. We suck and we should celebrate that. I mean, the Bills are 0-55 in Super Bowls and the Sabres are 0-51 in Stanley Cups. Who sucks like we suck?”

He also noted a few other unique Buffalo attributes: we get nine months of winter, City Hall is a giant phallic symbol and the mom-rock band The Goo Goo Dolls are the biggest act ever to come out of the area, At the other end of Lake Erie in Cleveland: The Raspberries and The Dead Boys, to name just a couple. That kind of futility isn’t just happenstance, it’s who we are, it’s our manifest destiny.

Ingerfish believes with Super Bowl or Stanley Cup wins we’ll lose the collective inferiority complex so central to our being. He fears such victories will make Western New Yorkers prideful and self-respecting and will encourage wellness behaviors like: daily flossing for good oral hygiene, mindful meditation for positive mental health and regular checkups for STD’s to remain yeast and HPV free. 

“If this happens all of the sudden rather than breaking tables, swilling Fireball and downing double orders of wings, the 716 will be overrun with a bunch of posers drinking chardonnay, reciting poetry and really meaning it when they shake hands and wish peace to other parishioners in church. Is that who we really want to be?” Ingerfish asked without a hint of irony.

He went on to say he is optimistic that the status quo will prevail. He cited the fact that after the 6-1 start, which saw the Bills at the top of nearly everyone’s power rankings, there are valid concerns regarding the team’s long term chances for success—Josh Allen’s injury and his recent interception problems, there remains no viable receiver outside of Stephon Diggs, suddenly the run defense is porous and there are continuing injury issues team wide. The universe, according to Ingerfish, is righting itself.

With glee he finished, “Buffalo: sucking today, sucking tomorrow, sucking forever.”

The Bills play the Cleveland Browns Sunday at Highmark Stadium in Orchard Park.    

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