Hard Targets: Why Owners are Not Smitten With Jason Witten

Let me start out by welcoming my loving, beautiful, adoring readers to the playoffs. If you didn’t make the playoffs you must just be reading for two possible reasons: 1) You want to hear how my pet chicken is doing or 2) You get off on reading borderline hateful, extremely spiteful, condescending rhetoric. I cannot blame you for either reason. My chicken is fine by the way, gleefully pecking at what few crumbs of food I can spare as I’m down to my last few schillings, thanks to your dearest Tehol betting the farm on the Seahawks against Miami two weeks ago(Thanks Razzball bet the farm). Yes, I literally bet my farm, and now myself and the chicken are forced to roam the streets looking for an internet cafe sleazy enough to allow me to type inside without getting complaints by other customers. The trick is finding the real “Emo” places, you know the ones where people dress like vampires and wear black pants so tight you wonder how in God’s name they got them on? Then having to offer ...