John Price
pro gambler/drinker
- Joined
- Sep 19, 2008
- Messages
- 388,030
- Likes
- 31,774
**Frank Fleming’s Fury**
It was a bleak Monday morning in Cleveland, the kind where the gray sky mirrored the collective mood of Browns fans. Frank Fleming sat slouched in his favorite recliner, a coffee mug in one hand and a remote in the other, replaying highlights—or more accurately, lowlights—of yesterday’s Browns game on his ancient television.
“Lowlights,” Frank muttered bitterly. “That’s all it ever is with this team. They couldn’t score if the defense packed up and went home.”
The Browns had just dropped another game, this time to a division rival, and the target of Frank’s ire was none other than quarterback Deshaun Watson. Frank had spent months defending Watson to his friends, family, and anyone else who dared question the massive contract Cleveland had handed him. “Franchise quarterbacks don’t grow on trees,” he’d said back then. Now, with Watson throwing interceptions like they were party favors, Frank was feeling the sting of buyer’s remorse.
He picked up his phone and logged into Twitter. His fingers hovered over the screen as he crafted his latest rant.
“Another game, another disaster,” he typed furiously. “Deshaun Watson making $230M guaranteed and can’t hit an open receiver to save his life.”
Satisfied, he hit “Post” and leaned back, waiting for the likes and replies to roll in. It didn’t take long. His notifications lit up with a mix of agreement and pushback.
“Typical Cleveland overreaction,” one user replied.
Frank snorted. “Overreaction? Are you kidding me?” He fired back: “You think I’m overreacting? The guy’s stats look like something out of a horror movie. 98 yards passing and two picks—what part of that screams ‘elite QB’ to you?”
Frank wasn’t done. He opened the Browns subreddit, his digital battleground of choice, and posted a tirade titled “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH: WATSON ISN’T THE GUY.”
“Listen, I was one of the guys who thought this was it. That we finally had a quarterback who could win us something meaningful,” the post began. “But it’s week after week of the same crap! Overthrows, underthrows, no throws! And don’t even get me started on his decision-making. Who throws into triple coverage on 3rd and 15?! My dog could’ve read that coverage better!”
As usual, the replies were a mix of support and scorn.
“Relax, Frank, it’s only his first full season back,” one commenter wrote.
“Oh yeah, ‘relax,’” Frank muttered aloud, reading the reply. “That’s the Cleveland mantra, isn’t it? ‘Relax while your team invents new ways to embarrass you.’” He pounded out another reply.
“Spare me the excuses. We didn’t guarantee him $230 million for ‘potential.’ He was supposed to be *the guy.* We traded picks, sold our souls, and for what? A QB who plays like he’s scared of his own shadow?!”
The venting wasn’t making him feel better. Frank switched off the TV, grabbed his old Browns cap from the coffee table, and stared at it. The logo—grinning Brownie the Elf—seemed to mock him.
He thought back to all the heartbreaks: The Drive, The Fumble, the 0-16 season. And now this. “Curse this team,” Frank said aloud, though he knew deep down he didn’t mean it. He’d be watching next week, just like he always did.
As the day wore on, Frank’s phone buzzed with notifications. Some comments agreed, others called him a “fake fan,” and one guy told him to switch to supporting the Steelers if he was so miserable. That last one made Frank laugh.
“Miserable?” he muttered to himself. “Buddy, if you’re a Browns fan, misery is just part of the package.”
He sighed, opened his fridge, and grabbed a beer. He raised the bottle to no one in particular and said, “Here’s to next Sunday. God help us all.”
It was a bleak Monday morning in Cleveland, the kind where the gray sky mirrored the collective mood of Browns fans. Frank Fleming sat slouched in his favorite recliner, a coffee mug in one hand and a remote in the other, replaying highlights—or more accurately, lowlights—of yesterday’s Browns game on his ancient television.
“Lowlights,” Frank muttered bitterly. “That’s all it ever is with this team. They couldn’t score if the defense packed up and went home.”
The Browns had just dropped another game, this time to a division rival, and the target of Frank’s ire was none other than quarterback Deshaun Watson. Frank had spent months defending Watson to his friends, family, and anyone else who dared question the massive contract Cleveland had handed him. “Franchise quarterbacks don’t grow on trees,” he’d said back then. Now, with Watson throwing interceptions like they were party favors, Frank was feeling the sting of buyer’s remorse.
He picked up his phone and logged into Twitter. His fingers hovered over the screen as he crafted his latest rant.
“Another game, another disaster,” he typed furiously. “Deshaun Watson making $230M guaranteed and can’t hit an open receiver to save his life.”
Satisfied, he hit “Post” and leaned back, waiting for the likes and replies to roll in. It didn’t take long. His notifications lit up with a mix of agreement and pushback.
“Typical Cleveland overreaction,” one user replied.
Frank snorted. “Overreaction? Are you kidding me?” He fired back: “You think I’m overreacting? The guy’s stats look like something out of a horror movie. 98 yards passing and two picks—what part of that screams ‘elite QB’ to you?”
Frank wasn’t done. He opened the Browns subreddit, his digital battleground of choice, and posted a tirade titled “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH: WATSON ISN’T THE GUY.”
“Listen, I was one of the guys who thought this was it. That we finally had a quarterback who could win us something meaningful,” the post began. “But it’s week after week of the same crap! Overthrows, underthrows, no throws! And don’t even get me started on his decision-making. Who throws into triple coverage on 3rd and 15?! My dog could’ve read that coverage better!”
As usual, the replies were a mix of support and scorn.
“Relax, Frank, it’s only his first full season back,” one commenter wrote.
“Oh yeah, ‘relax,’” Frank muttered aloud, reading the reply. “That’s the Cleveland mantra, isn’t it? ‘Relax while your team invents new ways to embarrass you.’” He pounded out another reply.
“Spare me the excuses. We didn’t guarantee him $230 million for ‘potential.’ He was supposed to be *the guy.* We traded picks, sold our souls, and for what? A QB who plays like he’s scared of his own shadow?!”
The venting wasn’t making him feel better. Frank switched off the TV, grabbed his old Browns cap from the coffee table, and stared at it. The logo—grinning Brownie the Elf—seemed to mock him.
He thought back to all the heartbreaks: The Drive, The Fumble, the 0-16 season. And now this. “Curse this team,” Frank said aloud, though he knew deep down he didn’t mean it. He’d be watching next week, just like he always did.
As the day wore on, Frank’s phone buzzed with notifications. Some comments agreed, others called him a “fake fan,” and one guy told him to switch to supporting the Steelers if he was so miserable. That last one made Frank laugh.
“Miserable?” he muttered to himself. “Buddy, if you’re a Browns fan, misery is just part of the package.”
He sighed, opened his fridge, and grabbed a beer. He raised the bottle to no one in particular and said, “Here’s to next Sunday. God help us all.”
Not sure why anyone would read such a long line of text but that's just me. 
