This One’s For You, Bud

October 20, 2004
This One’s For You, Bud

by Dave Sabo

Don’t let the 20-10 score fool you – it wasn’t that close. The Texans marched into the Dump on the Cumberland last Sunday and walloped the tar out of the scrubs that Nashpatch fans so desperately try and make themselves believe aren’t our hand-me-downs.

Now, it’d be really easy for me to sit here at my keyboard and take potshots at a depleted and floundering franchise, but who benefits from that? I mean, I could make the obligatory jokes about “Oiler” fans being unable to end their misery by flinging themselves out a window since it’s only about 5 feet from the window of your average doublewide to the ground.

Based on the four pickles he heaved up, I could speculate about where Steve “Shooter” McNair spent his Saturday night tossing back Kamikazes and Hurricanes before hopping into his ride for the drive home. And, I could wonder aloud if somebody had the good sense to hide the “gat” he likes to wave around while he’s good and liquored up. After all, alcohol, firearms and a solid ass-whupping don’t mix. Further, I could question whether or not “Shooter” got a call from the NFL asking for that 2003 co-MVP award back.

I could make cracks about the “Oilers” gettin’ beat like a red-headed stepchild while providing said red-headed stepchild (in the person of the decidedly yokel-looking Rocky Boiman) and the opportunity (in the instance of Jonathan Wells TD dive) for the Texans to beat on him.

I could ask if anybody besides me expects to hear the words, “Would you like to try our new Doublemelt Pizza for just $9.99?” every time “Oiler” head coach, Jeff Fisher, opens his mouth.

I could gloat about Jason Simmons most recent knockout blow, this one so devastating, it not only knocked out uber-wuss “Oiler” RB, Chrissy Brown, he concussed HIMSELF, too!

I could put out an APB on the jock that AJ twice faked “Oiler” CB, Samari Rolle, out of at an absolutely critical juncture.

I could inform everyone that the hideous baby blue alternate jerseys the “Oilers” wear when the Texans roll into town aren’t an attempt to stick it to Houston fans, but are, in reality, the spoils of a “Going Out of Business” sale at the local Klown Kollege (or, as it’s more popularly known, Vanderbilt University).

Based on the sideline shots of those pigs the “Oilers” have waving pom-poms, I could even haul out the old, “Why didn’t they install Field Turf at the Dump on the Cumberland?” “So the cheerleaders could have a place to graze!” joke.

Yes, I could do ALL that, but I won’t. Because Sunday wasn’t about the dopes that decided to keep on backing a 38-year loser rather than making a fresh start with a man of class and high character. Nor was it about the organization that said 38-year loser has bungled the operation of and that said dopes keep on backing. No, Sunday was about the 38-year loser.

Bud Adams likes to say (and the morons who worship him like to parrot him) that Houston should thank him for the Texans and Reliant Stadium. Without him and his being driven out of town, they would not exist, he claims. Based on that “logic,” I can only assume that Bud, a WWII veteran, owes a great measure of thanks to Adolf Hitler and the Nazis for that stunning new memorial on the Mall in Washington, DC.

Let’s be clear. In infinite lifetimes, Bud could NEVER accomplish what Bob McNair has with the Houston Texans. In the case of Reliant Stadium, he was given the opportunity to do just what Bob McNair accomplished, namely, receiving the backing of the local business community, local government and the local populace. But Bud is so reviled within Houston, as both a businessman and a human being, he failed miserably.

You just KNOW that during last February’s Super Bowl, while Bob McNair was all but crowned king of the Houston sports scene and was all over national television, Bud was off pouting about how all that could have been his. Not in a million years. For cripes sake, in 30 years, he couldn’t arrange for fans to freaking tailgate at games. Playoff bonuses for coaches were a turkey or a ham. The little turd spent the last few years bitching and moaning and whining about a $4 million franchise fee for his pretend football league team. If it came down to spending $700 million for an NFL team…please. Bob McNair is a frigging god. Bud Adams couldn’t carry his checkbook.

But, at least the “Oilers” were beating Houston’s new team like clockwork. Now, even the dimmest Nashpatch fan knew it couldn’t last forever (although you can damn sure bet they thought it would last longer than it did), but somewhere in the back of the tiny, misshapen lump that passes for his head, Bud Adams truly believed that the “Oilers” would always beat Houston. At least, while he was still alive they would. And, now, he doesn’t even have that. All he has now is the privilege of flying to the backwaters of Tennessee to sit in a second-rate stadium and watch a second-hand team with a second-hand name and laughable uniforms flounder around going nowhere.

After the ’99 AFC Championship Game, but before his boys choked up a Super Bowl title, Bud got a little bit ahead of himself and did a little taunting aimed at Houston and its fans. On this occasion, I’d like to return the favor.

There’s no ring on it, but I’m holding up a finger. Take a good look at it, Bud.

Dave Sabo is still trying to recover from one of the greatest weekends in Houston sports history. He’d appreciate it if you could keep it down to a dull roar. And maybe bring him an aspirin or twelve and some Gatorade. Thanks.