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maswartz · 4 years

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IN THE PROGRESSIVE COLLEGE TOWN where I live, one sees a lot of “Bernie” bumper stickers on a lot of Subarus. Probably these are remnants of 2016, when the Independent from Vermont masqueraded as a Democrat, dividing the party and hobbling Hillary Clinton’s campaign just enough to fuck up the final tally. Although I held with HRC then as now, I don’t begrudge anyone who supported Bernie Sanders in the primaries four years ago, when we first became acquainted with the ugly font and awful shade of blue on his campaign merch. But to support him today, after Trump, after Mueller, is akin to insisting, on Christmas 2019, that despite ample evidence to the contrary, Michael Jackson is innocent, because you really dig Off the Wall.

“Don’t they know?” I scream when I see these Bernie stickers. “Don’t they realize who he really is?” Apparently not. But then, to them, and to most on what Sean Hannity might call the “radical left,” Bernie is not a person as much as an ideal: A sort of liberal Santa Claus who will come down our collective chimney to deliver free healthcare and free college, and, with the aid of his ineffable North Pole magic, break up the banks, slay the patriarchy, eliminate racism, end income inequality, and tax corporations into insolvency—all while raising the minimum wage for his workshop elves. How he plans to actually accomplish any of this he only hints at—Bernie rarely deigns to answer process questions and usually gets grouchy when pressed for details—but it all sounds so wonderful we want to believe, just as we every year insist that yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Unfortunately, the flesh-and-blood Bernie Sanders, if elected, would not have the requisite power to fulfill his lofty promises—any more than the tipsy Macy’s Santa will leave the mall on a sleigh driven by flying reindeer. Bernie is a real person, and he is deeply, perhaps fatally, flawed. He would be a horrible candidate in the general election—like, McGovern-in-’72-level bad—and, more urgently, his nomination would ensure that, whoever won, the White House remained in Russian hands.

The Bernie extolled by the bros is a myth, just like the Trump that MAGA adores—just like Neverland, and just like Santa Claus. We need to face some cold, hard truths, before Sanders scolds and finger-wags his way to a second term for Donald Trump. We cannot permit this egomaniacal fraud to spoil yet another election.

Bernie is a socialist—but of the Union of Soviet Socialists variety.

Hey, there’s a reason Santa Claus wears red!

Bernie is a self-styled “socialist” who has bought, hook line and sinker, the Stalinist propaganda about Marxism and the glories of the Soviet Union. This was understandable if you were Dalton Trumbo in 1947. After all, the governing philosophy of communism is “let’s share everything so there is no want,” which is kind of appealing, especially next to the “fuck you, pay me” mantra of unvarnished Trump-variety capitalism. Seven-plus decades later, alas, the naïveté borders on delusional.

From the Young Peoples Socialist League to his membership in the Liberty Union Party, which sought to nationalize (and not just “break up”) the banks, to his time at the Kibbutz Sha’ar Ha’amakim, which extolled Stalin—who slaughtered more people than Hitler—as “Sun of the Nations,” to his hanging a Soviet flag in his Burlington mayoral office, Soviet boosterism is the thruline of Bernie's career.

Bernie took his wife to the Soviet Union for their honeymoon, as one does. For years, he extolled the virtues of the USSR. Rather than grok that it’s all KGB-fed propaganda and lies, he’s been a staunch Bolshevik apologist for his entire adult life.

I mean, the guy has a dacha, ffs.

Look, our healthcare system is flawed. I’d love some sort of universal coverage like they have in every other developed country. But the best person to promote the de facto nationalization of the healthcare system is not a Soviet apologist who once wanted to nationalize the banks, too.

Bernie is unpopular with Black voters.

To be fair, Sanders (likely) really does want equality and all those nice things he talks about. Good for him. The problem is that his vision of “socialist” utopia is absolutist and focuses too much on the (white, male) working class that he, like his beloved Marx, idolizes and idealizes.

Despite some high-profile Black supporters, Bernie remains unpopular with Black voters, particularly Black women. This, and not “the rigged DNC,” is why HRC kicked his ass in the primaries. Could it be that Black voters have made Bernie as a BS artist? Those are his initials, after all.

The failure of the United States to properly examine and make amends for slavery contributes mightily to the country’s enduring racism, on which MAGA feeds. Not to even discuss reparations is madness. Unsurprisingly, Bernie does not understand this:

Marcus H. Johnson@marcushjohnson

Bernie Sanders thinks reparations is "just writing a check" instead of a redress for state sanctioned terrorism, violence, and being shut out of the economic, political, and legal systems for 250+ years. How is reparations "just writing a check," and free college not?

Aaron Rupar@atrupar

Bernie Sanders on reparations on The View: "I think that right now our job is to address the crises facing the American people in our communities, and I think there are better ways to do that than just writing out a check." https://t.co/FXso34iSbs

March 1st 2019

470 Retweets1,065 Likes

To win the resounding victory necessary to defeat Trump and the Russian hackers threatening to sabotage yet another election, overwhelming African-American voter turnout is essential. Black voters are more likely to turn out in big numbers for Joe Biden—especially if he runs with Kamala Harris, as we K-Hivers hope—than yet another elderly New Yorker who makes pie-in-the-sky promises he can’t possibly keep.

Bernie is lazy.

Sanders spent the early part of his career flitting between low-paying odd jobs:

He bounced around for a few years, working stints in New York as an aide at a psychiatric hospital and teaching preschoolers for Head Start, and in Vermont researching property taxation for the Vermont Department of Taxes and registering people for food stamps for a nonprofit called the Bread and Law Task Force.

Then as now, he was more given to talking the talk than walking the walk. In 1970, the 30-year-old Liberty Union Party socialist was kicked out of a Vermont commune for not doing his share of the work. His days there were instead spent in “endless political discussion.”

Sanders’ idle chatter did not endear him with some of the commune’s residents, who did the backbreaking labor of running the place. [Kate] Daloz writes [in her history of the commune] that one resident, Craig, “resented feeling like he had to pull others out of Bernie’s orbit if any work was going to get accomplished that day.” Sanders was eventually asked to leave.

Eventually, Bernie found a career that would allow him to talk a big game but accomplish precious little: politics. For the decades he’s been in Congress, his record is pretty scant. Seven bills in 28 years, including two that name post offices, is nothing to write home about (unless you’re writing home to one of those post offices)—although Sanders has been a quiet champion of gun rights for most of his Congressional career, as well as a dependable “nay” vote on Russian sanctions, so I guess there’s that.

But hey, I’m sure a guy who has avoided labor as assiduously as possible for 78 years will magically turn into a workaholic as an octogenarian. That heart attack no doubt jump-started his engines. Speaking of which…

Bernie is old, and he just had a heart attack.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t actually a heart attack. Maybe it was just a life-threatening cardiac issue that required emergency surgery. We don’t know, because Sanders has not yet released his medical report. But he has promised to do so, just as he promised to release his taxes and then waited a million years to make good. Will he bring the receipts before next week, as he said he would?

The Speaker's Basilisk⚖️@PelosiLegatus

Why hasn’t @BernieSanders released his medical records yet? He just has a heart attack three months ago, which he lied about. What is he hiding from the American people? Why is the press so afraid to dig into his dishonesty?

December 23rd 2019

173 Retweets444 Likes

Even if his medical report checks out, I mean…there’s ageism, and then there are actuarial tables. A President Sanders would turn eighty in 2021, his first year in office. That would make him the oldest first-term president by a significant margin. He can’t live forever; in that way, he’s not like Santa Claus.

Bernie is a misogynist.

That Bernie Sanders is some sort of radical feminist, a paradigm for how men should be in the post-Third-Wave world, is almost as ridiculous as his stubborn refusal to comb his hair.

Before he launched his political career, he was a deadbeat dad. Remember, Bernie was a graduate of the prestigious University of Chicago, in an era when college degrees were relatively rare. Instead of putting food on the table, he was running quixotic political campaigns as the standard-bearer of a barely functional party. As Spandan Chakrabarti writes:

In 1971, Vermont was debating a tenant’s rights bill. One of the testimonials to Vermont’s State Senate Judiciary Committee came from one Susan Mott of Burlington, who said the legislation did not go far enough in prohibiting discrimination against single mothers and recipients of welfare benefits. Mott had one child and was on welfare. That one child…was Levi Sanders, Bernie Sanders’ son. Which begs the question, why did Bernie Sanders’ (former?) girlfriend and his son have to be on welfare? Where was the University of Chicago graduate’s considerable marketable skills? What was 5-year-old Levi’s father doing that he couldn't afford to support his own child? It turns out he was too busy coming in third with single digit votes.

To be fair, Bernie did bring home a little bit of bacon writing stuff like this:

A man goes home and masturbates [to] his typical fantasy. A woman on her knees, a woman tied up, a woman abused.

A woman enjoys intercourse with her man—as she fantasizes [about] being raped by 3 men simultaneously.

Even if those lines were intended as a provocative rhetorical flourish to be shot down later in the essay, I mean…what feminist ally would write something like that?

And then there’s the more recent sexual harassment issues that seem to be pervasive in his campaign offices. He missed one of the Russian sanction votes because he was busy dealing with it:

The only one to miss the vote was Sen. Bernie Sanders, I-Vt. He was meeting with women who had accused his 2016 presidential campaign of sexual misconduct, his spokesman, Josh Miller-Lewis, told CNBC.

As if to confirm his misogynist bona fides, Sanders this month endorsed the candidacy of Young Turks founder Cenk Uygur, no feminist ally—before the bad optics forced him to reverse course:

“As I said yesterday, Cenk has been a longtime fighter against the corrupt forces in our politics and he’s inspired people all across the country,” the Vermont senator said. “However, our movement is bigger than any one person. I hear my grassroots supporters who were frustrated and understand their concerns. Cenk today said he is rejecting all endorsements for his campaign, and I retract my endorsement.”

That Cenk is running for the California seat vacated by rising star Katie Hill, a victim of criminal revenge porn who was shamed into stepping down, makes the gaffe even worse.

Bernie is not a Democrat.

Of all the idiotic narratives spewed by the “Bernie bros” about 2016, the most asinine was that the process had to be rigged because the DNC clearly preferred Hillary Clinton to Bernie Sanders. Um…why would it not? Just as a New York Yankees fan club would want its leader to be a ride-or-die Yankee fan rather than a waffler who rooted for either the Bronx Bombers or the Red Sox depending on which was doing better that year, so the Democratic National Committee wants an actual Democrat to be its nominee. Duh.

And this was not any nominee. HRC was practically funding the operation herself, to help with the down-ballot races Bernie could give a shit about. Anyone can scold the country about big banks and wage inequality, but to actually, you know, govern requires working well with other people, a skill that seems to have eluded Sanders for the last 30 years.

Alas, the incorrigible Senator has learned nothing from 2016. He’s still playing the hackneyed “rabble-rousing outsider” card:

The Hill@thehill

Sen. @BernieSanders: "We are going to take on the Democratic establishment."

December 22nd 2019

426 Retweets1,930 Likes

The election of 2020 is, or should be, a referendum on Trump. It’s not about taking on the Democrats. That sort of internecine divisiveness is exactly what Putin wants. Which makes perfect sense when we consider that…

Bernie is (at a minimum) a Useful Idiot for Putin.

The bots go on the offensive whenever I tweet that Bernie is a Useful Idiot for Russia. But he is Useful, in that he operates as a divisive force in the Democratic Party, which aids Putin. And he’s certainly an Idiot, in that he doesn't realize the damage he’s done. But does he really not know?

The Mueller Report makes it clear that Russian IC was helping the Sanders campaign. Either Bernie didn’t realize this, and is an idiot, or he did realize it and played along, and is a traitor. Either way, the guy who hired former Paul Manafort chum Tad Devine to run his campaign cannot be trusted with standing up to Putin and the powerful forces of transnational organized crime, no matter how passionate his anti-Wall Street screeds.

(Sidenote: Tad Devine is now peddling his Kremlin-y wares for Andrew Yang, which perhaps explains Yang’s recent remark that he is open to granting Donald Trump a pardon. This, needless to say, is disqualifying).

Put it this way: Are we sure that a Nominee Sanders—an almost-eighty-year-old who just had a heart attack—would not pick the Russophile cult member Tulsi Gabbard as his running mate? The “anti-anti-Trump Left,” as Jonathan Chait calls it, is alive and well, sharing, “in addition to enthusiasm for Bernie Sanders, [a] deep skepticism of the Democratic Party’s mobilization against the president.” So: traitors, basically. Would not Sanders, if given the chance, throw meat to this rabid fan base, if only to generate more adulation? Do we really trust the judgment of the guy who can’t ensure that his own campaign headquarters is not a hostile work environment?

Bernie still, years after the fact, cannot understand that he contributed to HRC’s defeat—just as he can’t see that his ideas about the Soviet Union and communism have been debunked. He doesn’t have it in him to realize, much less admit, he was wrong. And why should he? As long as well-meaning people—especially young people; especially young women; especially pretty young women—keep “feeling the Bern,” he will continue to happily soak up the attention, like the insufferable narcissist he is. Why Millennials support the guy instead of OK-Boomering him to oblivion is a head-scratcher. Maybe it’s because he was born two months before Pearl Harbor and is therefore older than the Boomers?

Bernie Sanders is the Trump of the Left. Repeat: Bernie Sanders is the Trump of the Left. He’s an egomaniac who believes his own hype, like Trump. And like Trump, Bernie is selling snake oil; we just happen to like his brand of snake oil. He’s a bad mall Santa, promising everyone a pony, when all he can deliver is a lump of coal. And make no mistake: far from assuring a worker’s paradise, his nomination would bring about the end of the republic.

It’s not a “revolution.” It’s a con job. And it’s got the full support of the Russians.

#bernie sanders

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punk-in-docs · 7 years

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Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth, Chapter 8

TITLE: Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth.  CHAPTER NO: Chapter Eight SYNOPSIS: Tom Hiddleston AU Love story - Set in the Victorian Era… Circa 1858 to be precise… AUTHOR:@punk-in-docs  AO3 LINK: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4108306?view_full_work=true

~ “It was most strange, Violet, I grant you. The most unsavoury display of ettiquette I have ever beheld, and, to top it off, Mrs Sharpe was postively frothing at the mouth because of it…”

Elizabeth informed her close friend, Miss Violet Eliza Burchrowe, as they walked side by side, happily wandering under the cool sunshine, and still air of Russell Square.

Violet had joined the three ladies Farrow, Elizabeth, Felicity and Araminta, on their jaunt into the Milliners – Felicity insisted she needed new laced gloves for the ball, and Elizabeth needed a mask to go with her costume. And as Araminta had been bristled into a most uncouth state by the happenings of yesterday, she had also decided that Elizabeth must have new pretty things to wear to the masquerade ball Friday night.

And she had been moved as such into a state of irritation and affrontery, because Marcus Burke did not call upon Elizabeth yesterday, as he had promised to do so.

There had been outcry in the Farrow household. Mrs Sharpe had been raging and snarling, storming about the place rattling off that it was the height of impolite ignorance, how could he have snubbed the woman he was wishing to court in such a manner? And if she had it her way she’d have him flogged for such disrepectful insolence. Elizabeth, however, listened politely with her genteel look on her face, It wouldn’t do any good to let Mrs Sharpe know that, on the inside, she was still tingling with the indulgence of Sir Thomas’s kisses.

Mrs Sharpe then felt moved to declare that Elizabeth had full entitlement to dismiss and reject Marcus Burke next time, if he dared or bothered to call on her. And that when he saw her at Lady Hartwright’s ballt his Friday, then he was going to kick himself for how lovely she looked. Especially with one handsome Duke at her side. Whose attentions, Elizabeth was warned, she would receive most wholly.

She had smiled til she looked like a looney at that. Gladly, she thought to herself. She remembered laughing as her father interjected himself on the words Araminta was rattling off to her, peering down over his paper from across the room, eyes beading with mirth and pride behind his spectacles as he smiled to his eldest.

“I told you he was odious, my dear Libby.” Sir Richard added. “But now, I have a feeling that you are not the least bit downhearted about Mr Burkes snubbing you..?” He asked.

Elizabeth burst into a smile, laughing through her words.

“I dare say not at all, Sir.” She beamed, chortling through her words, conveying how little she truly did care for the man now she had Sir Thomas.

Mr Farrow smiled widely, before his paper was up across his eyes again. But not before he could usher a look across to Mrs Sharpe, who stood floundering in ire and wrath at being disparaged by Marcus Burke. It was a look that vexed her greatly, and unsettled her nerves, it seemed to say in a manner most smug, I-Told-You-So-My-Dear’

Elizabeth Farrow, then stood. Clutching onto her new favourite book. ‘Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell’. Kissed Mrs Sharpe on the cheek, and flounced away upstairs to the second Library.

“Have no heavy heart over the matter, Mrs Sharpe. I would not wish Mr Burke back again in such fervent haste. Sir Thomas is quite plentiful enough of a suitor for me.” She beamed, lifting her blue skirts up, and sweeping out of the room. Grinning like a medicated fool.

Mrs Sharpe turned to see her husband clutching the paper across his face. And she stood there, her mouth gaping like a guppy fish, before she shut it, flittering about as she tried to right herself. Not able to believe it all.

“Don’t worry dear.” Richard Farrow spoke, not having lowered the Times.

“A Duke is the only man wanting to court her now, Is he not? I wagered you’d be over the moon about that? It was most lucky I sent for him to dine with us, was it not?”

He spoke. Araminta just knew he was smiling with fanatical glee that his match making attempts had outbid hers. He had seeked to outdo her attempts as soon as he had come to know Sir Thomas’s amiable character. Plotting all along to invite him to dinner so that he could start the easy process of falling madly in love with his daughter. It had been a strategy of his all along.

“Pray, do not vex me, Sir.”

She had gritted back lowly through clenched teeth. Before sweeping out of the room. She was in dire need of a tonic now. Her head was starting to pain her also with the strain of all the incident.

Sir Richard was left chuckling to himself…

Subsequently, as to Mrs Sharpes wishes to see Elizabeth most beautifully attired for Friday, next morning, by twelve o’clock, they had all been in the hall, ready to leave, coats, gloves and hats on. They were also taking Aristotle for a walk through Russell park on their way to the Milliners for Felicity and the Dress makers for Elizabeth.

They were all gathered to leave when Violet Eliza Burchrowe, Elizabeth’s eldest and dearest friend, called over to see how she was faring with her suitors.

It was not uncomon for the two girls to call upon each other most frequently, they often took tea at each others houses two or three times a week. They were as thick as thieves, and to their supreme delight, they lived down opposite ends of Montague Street, so they were overjoyed as little girls, to find they were neighbours too. At balls, the two could always be seen gabbling away to one another eagerly, smiling and grinning away. Violet was a supremely sweet girl, and a Elizabeth’s best friend. They oft joked that they were secretly twins, swapped at Birth. As Elizabeth’ s middle name was Violet, and Violet’s was Eliza, that they were indeed, twins seperated at their birth.

The only downfall to that plan, was that they didn’t much look alike. Violet had terribly long tumbling locks of rich brown hair, coiled tight into walnut coloured curls. Her eyes were a green to look at, but they shifted into tones of hazel in the sun. Her skin was not as pale as she often remarked she’d like it to be. And she always moaned that her beauty paled in comparison to that of Elizabeth’s.

Violet would always slump down in her seat and remarked with distain that her looks were terribly bland. Most definitely not helped by Elizabeth’s outstanding virility and beauty, and the flare of Miss Farrow’s hips were remarked throughout Bachelor’s in London to make birds sing when she drew near. Whereas, Violet, herself, she often grumped morosely, would be lucky enough if a bird did it’s buisness on her bonnet when she drew close.

She was admired by no such gaggle of men throughout London. She, much like her friend, enjoyed her life as a maiden, she too read books with vigour, enjoyed taking tea with Elizabeth, and long walks through hyde park with her own dog, Brunel. Whom, it had to be said, was not a dignified canine. He was a wide lumbering Corgi, who waddled everywhere and had a spoilt diet of leftovers and too much love. Subsequently, Elizabeth could see the little toddling wobble of her friends, plump, dog strain on it’s lead to get to Aristotle. Whose own tail wagged furiously at seeing the butter coloured wobbly mass of fur that made up Brunel. He was a sweet animal really, Elizabeth supposed, beady little brown eyes, wet soot black coloured nose, and a lollopy tongue that flapped about when he tried – hilariously – to run.

“Violet.” Elizabeth had greeted, beaming with delight on seeing her, crossing to place a kiss on her acquaintances cheek.

“Excellent timing, We were just off to the Milliner’s for Felicity, and were going to take Aristotle through Russell square, oh, won’t you join us?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’d adore it. And I pray, you simply, MUST tell me of this Duke, Sir Thomas… Lady Jane Prideblight’s gossip column speaks of little else….”

Violet smiled, linking her arm through Elizabeth’s as they started off out the house down the steps. Aristotle straining on the lead Felicity held in her hands.

Aristotle, was, perhaps a polar opposite of Brunel. He was a terrior – a terror more like – whose legs were long and gangly, and his body small, covered in wiry bristled fur. His snout was long, as was his beard and eyebrows. He too had a coal black nose and beady mischevous little eyes, his fur was a silvery white, dotted with streaks of beige and grey spots on his saddle and legs. His ears too of a musky sienna colour. And often the dog would cause such mischief about the house, Elizabeth didn’t half wonder if he had the spirit of the devil in him. He buried twigs behind the sofa cushions, tried to steal scraps from cooks bins, and just generally grated so upon Mrs Sharpes nerves most greatly…

Elizabeth adored the cheeky mongrel down to the last wisp of fur on his head.

As Elizabeth and Violet got down to the street, with Araminta and Felicity following them, they all three, apart from Elizabeth, were gabbling eagerly over the Duke. Elizabeth held back, smiling, as her three accomplices gaggled about her.

“Did you know, he is most enamoured with her? and he brought gifts enough for all of us…” Mrs Sharpe smiled.

“Not to mention he kissed her most madly when Mrs Sharpe and I left the room..” Felicity grinned, eyes malicious and cheeky.

“Felicity!”

Elizabeth chided, her cheeks growing quite hot.

Violet’s mouth hung open in a smile.

“What?” The youngest Farrow gaped.

“He Did! And you can’t deny. Because when we came back with the tea his lips were much redder before, as were yours. And your hair had been mussed at the back…” Felicity cooed. Seeing her sister redden.

“Well. Miss Farrow, it seems he is most taken with you.” Violet grinned, waggling her brown brows at her friend, who patted her softly with her hand. Trust Elizabeth, she could never harm a flea.

“Brunel. Leave!” Violet barked out as the dog dived for a steaming lump of horse droppings on the road.

Elizabeth smiled.

“So, do you think Marcus Burke will receive you again after his rude refusal of you?” Violet asked. Her eyes looking over to her friend, who looked back, and had quite the widest grin on her lips she had ever seen.

“I am in no hurry to wish him back again. As far as I am concerned, the drunken lout can go away, and stay away..” She beamed.

“Such words..” Violet gasped.

“How so?” Elizabeth asked, tone searching.

Violet stuttered and tried to gather her words in her head for a moment.

“I’ve, I don’t, come to think of it I do not think I have ever heard you talk down to someone, not in al the one and twenty years I have known you…” She described.

“Well..” Elizabeth held out.

“Mr Burke is, I grant the man, a handsome fellow. But, his manners and words are about as friendly and polite as they are obliging.” Elizabeth explained, as the two ladies waited a moment to cross the street.

“Which is?” Violet asked.

“Not the least bit so. Not one jot.” She cut off.

“I think you love the Duke a great deal, Elizabeth, especially if you allow him to kiss you, on the mouth, in broad daylight in the front parlour…” Violet hushed softly. Watching her friend blush again, she was doing that a lot this morning…

“He is so very amiable…” Elizabeth sighed with a smile, looking down at her skirts with a dreamy not-quite-here look on her face.

“And rich…”

Felicity added with cheek as they got to the park, and she steamed ahead of them, running as she held up her skirts, aristotles lead in the other hand as she found a stick and threw it for the canine.

“And hugely generous…” Mrs Sharpe grinned. Before she chided Felicity that it was not becoming for young ladies to run, as such. And she ought be careful how high one hitches ones skirt, in public, no less…

“Did you know he brought me this very fine brooch…” Mrs Sharpe supplemented. Making her chest prominent so Violet could see the dark black jewel on a silver oval that glinted in the sunlight, winking at her.

“He gave Felicity some sweets, and to Elizabeth, a book of poetry no less..” Mrs Sharpe beamed, back was the –I’ve-got-the-world-on-a-platter hint of pride in her eyes.

“I fear, Elizabeth, that I may need find some new female acquaintance very shortly, less you make my life look evermore deploably boring.” Violet grinned, watching as Elizabeth rubbed her friends hand soothingly.

“Violet. You will fall head over heels for a man one day soon, and when you do, I pray you will have kept me as a friend to tell me every last sordid detail..” Libby smiled.

Violet looked her friend in the eyes and gave her a wry smile and a look of disbelief crossed her deep brown eyes.

“Maybe your Duke has a rich handsome cousin?” Violet asked. This caused Elizabeth to throw her head back and laugh.

“Oh Violet..” She spoke through a half laugh. “I am quite confident you’ll not need any help from me. You have the most stubborn manner and a beautiful disposition. I wouldn’t be surprised if a secretive shy man somewhere, isn’t half in love with you already…” Elizabeth smiled and winked.

“You’re a very kind Liar, Elizabeth. Always have been.” Violet smiled out.

“There goes that stubborn flare..” Elizabeth counteracted.

They all walked in silence for a moment, watching as Brunel huffed and puffed, belly dragging on the dewy grass below as he wobbled to keep up. Sniffing idly at this and that. In the meantime, she had quite lost sight of Felicity and Aristotle. She suspected Felicity was most probably flirting with the nearest ten and six old boy, not paying her dog any heed. The damn dog was probably off his lead and terrorizing squirells somewhere…

“Oh, I read the most disgraceful shred of gossip in Lady Jane’s column today, I forgot to tell you. You were in it…” Violet spoke up after a minute or two. Grinning inanely.

If there was one thing about Violet that vexed Elizabeth greatly, it was that she adored reading gossip columns. Lined with every nitty gritty detail of what people of London society got up to that would incite scandal. This caused Libby to roll her eyes and rather lean towards the notion that the bin, would be a better place for gossip cloumns to line.

The two girls were walking quite briskly now, ahead of Mrs Sharpe who had stopped to speak to Lady Mottram. Elizabeth and Violet gained speed ahead, but gave the elder women a graceful curtsey as they walked on. Felicity also caught up with them, going to Mrs Sharpes side with Aristotle straining on his lead. Her sister’s cheeks were quite red, her hat sat askew on her head, as if it had come off when she ran. Probably after Aristotle in attempts to rescue some poor animal from the beastly canine, Libby thought.

“You know I care not one spec for society gossip authors..” Elizabeth bristled.

“Well, actually…” Violet hushed, looking over her shoulder to make sure that Mrs Sharpe was definitely occupied.

“…It reported that at noon, yesterday, Mr Burke was seen, drunk, stumbling into the Gaiety with some friends, all of whom bachelors, and then he was seen leaving to return to his house with none other than Mabel Loxley, the infamous chorus and stage girl!” Violet shushed to her friend, leaning close to her ear.

Elizabeth felt sullied. That she had let such a man as that into her home, listened to his tales. Served him tea. Possibly even had inclinations – before the Duke came along – to marrying him. What kind of sordid affair would that be? That she would be married off to someone who would most probably find comfort outside her house, as her husband. She swallowed, she felt sick to her stomach. Her blue gloved hand going to press there as if to quell it. Violet noticed her friend had gone a little green looking..

Violet’s face dropped.

“Oh, my Libby! I‘m so sorry, I didn’t think..” She admonished herself.

“No, heaven’s, Violet, I’m fine.” She rasped. “I just, It’s a shocking thing to admit that piece of information is of little next to atonishment to me, Marcus Burke is, he’s. He’s not kind.” She added.

Violets perfectly lovely face creased down, brows pulled too as she listened.

“He warned me, horrible things, awful words, I shan’t repeat them. But, he told me he would not take kindly to me if I took the Duke for a husband.” Libby admitted, getting the secret off her chest.

Violet didn’t like one bit, the hint of worry she saw in her kind friends eyes.

“Well. He better watch his back, saying such things, now you have a titled gentleman to protect your interests.” Violet spoke forcefully.

“He’s not my titled gentleman.” Libby insisted, fiddling nervously with her glove in a way that made Violet know she wished he was. That flush decorating her cheeks. He eyes on the floor again.

“You’ve kissed the man, Elizabeth Farrow. He’s as good as. And totally smitten with you, I’m sure of it.” Violet spoke gently with a wide smile.

“Maybe..” Libby smiled, still gazing down at her folded hands.

“I say, why is that gentleman pointing at you..” Violet asked.

“What gentleman?” Libby asked, throwing her head up and looking around, they were in the centre of the park. And many figures were taking strolls on the pleasant sunshine of the afternoon.

“Over there, look…” Violet encouraged, tilting her head over to the North east corer of the park, intersecting right their path. As they were coming from the southwest.

“Who is it?” Elizabeth asked, straining her eyes to try and see.

“I can’t tell myself.” Violet winced, also squinting to try and see.

“Well, we may want to stop examining him as if we are squinting old biddies..” Elizabeth added.

“Shush.” Violet added. “He’s moving closer now, and I think I can make out that another gentleman is with him…”

“Wake me when this get’s interesting…” Elizabeth added drily.

“Oh, OH. Oh, Elizabeth, It’s Benedict Carlton! And the gentleman beside him is, well, I’d say next to Mr Carlton he is quite the handsomest gentleman I’ve ever seen. That long hair looks divine, and those eyes, their like diamonds..” Violet dreamt aloud.

Elizabeth head whipped around faster than a heartbeat. Her eyes looking across to see a handsome, black haired gentleman, clad in dark colours, walking next to Mr Carlton, smiling like the devil.

“Elizabeth, do you know him?” Violet asked in a hot whisper,

“Could you introduce us?” She added as the two men drew closer.

Violet watched as her friend could not take her eyes off of the handsome black haired god of good looks.

Her smile grew, intensifying all the while.

“Violet Burchrowe, meet Sir Thomas Kenworthy, The Duke of Chatsworth.”

Elizabeth smiled, her eyes not having left the approaching man for a second…

The resulting look of horror on Violet’s face was priceless…

It was a pleasant day in London. And much to Sir Thomas’s surprise, Benedict had even been so good as to join his house guest for breakfast, at the shockingly early time of ten past eight. Benedict had damn near stuck his dinner knife into Sir Thomas’s thigh, as the gentleman’s first response at seeing the lethargic man – who oft it had to be said, laid abed til noon – stride downstairs to take breakfast, surfaced bathed, washed, shaven and dressed all before ten o’clock, Was to lean across and clap his palm to his friend’s forehead, asking him if he bore a fever.

Nonetheless, Thomas had smiled his wide charming smile, ignored Benedict’s scowl, and miraculously managed to survive breakfast with his friend without the hindrance of a knife being daggered into his leg. And, afterwards after Thomas wrote more of his correspondance, both to Iris, and to settle some tenant problems back in Derbyshire, Benedict had read idly, and swanned about being most irritating to his friend, insisting that he was quite, bored.

As Benedict looked out of doors and declared it to be a most pleasing day, He suggested they take a walk through Russell Square. Sir Thomas didn’t mind this at all, but that he had to answer some letters first if they were going to make it to Chatsworth by weeks end. But after half an hour of Benedict being the most annoying man in christendom, Sir Thomas then vowed he would do anything to get the damned man to stop annoying him most greatly.

He had been amusing himself for the past half hour by flicking little pieces of balled up paper at Tom’s back, seeing how fair his aim was. Sir Thomas, who had been sat facing away from the infantile chump at the small writing desk in the front room, had to put up with tiny globes of writing paper hitting his back in rapid sucession, circumvented across the room from the futon where his friend reclined, oft with a hissed curse following the assualt, curses such as;

‘damn!’ or ‘blast!’, or ‘botherations!.’

Or, if his aim was astonishingly respectable, and managed to hit the back of his head, or his upper ear, He would then hear a jovial celebratory whisper of ‘Bullseye’

Sir Thomas, as a consequence to his acquantainces newfound little game, had leapt from his chair like a shot after approximately what felt like the 10,000th ‘Bullseye’ and daggered a glare that could have intimatidated Napolean Bonaparte and all of his French Armed Forces. Looking back to see his nuisance of a companion giving him a ridiculously outlandish and annoying grin. Sat with his long legs folded over the arm of the sofa as he grinned like he had quite gone stupid.

Sir Thomas then remembered smiling wryly to himself and thinking… Gone Stupid? Why, Heavens no. That bothersome menace was already there… Reigning Title of Stupid.

Prince of all that is royally stupid

King and grand surveyor of all stupidity.

Emperor of stupidness.

His friend answered the glare with an infuriatingly cheeky grin, swinging his legs over the arm of the futon, and asking in akin to manner that made him seem like a despondent toddler;

“Can we go for a walk now? I’m jolly bored…” He bleated.

Thomas grit his jaw.

“Before I quite find a way to somehow kill you using only my ink pen, yes, I suggest walk for the sake of your impermanence.” He snarled in terse temper.

“You narking sod.” He had added under his breath.

Benedict grinned all the more. Throwing a ball of paper over his shoulder as he swaggered out of the room with cocky confidence. Seeing that his credulous and enraging actions had got the better of his friend.

So, Both gentleman pulled on their coats and hats, Benedict grabbed his cane, Wheras Thomas decided to leave this. The sun was shining merrily down upon London, so it would be of little use to him. And they had set off…

They talked idly about Politics until Benedict decided it too dull and mundane, In a way only Benedict could.

They instead moved onto discussing other, more personal matters, relating to Sir Thomas’s buisness about town, and about matters relating to one certain Miss Elizabeth Farrow.

“So, you quite like this woman then?”

Benedict asked as they came to the North East corner of Russell square. Seeing that many other titled ladies and gentleman had chosen to take a stroll about London aswell. Well, mostly Mama’s and their frilly silly girls, as Benedict likes to refer to them. Already they had passed three young Miss’s whom they had made the pleasure of meeting once before. And Benedict had given each of them that melting debonair smile of his until they went quite pink and damn near tripped over their own feet. Their Mama’s – who did obviously not approve of such attentions – dragged their daughters out of the path almost by thwir ears, out of the way of who was reputed to be the most dangerous Rake in all of London. The danger being, that Benedict knew he was the worst sort of Rake, he knew the true limits of his dangerous smile and his deadly charms, This – to society mama’s – meant that just being within walking distance of the man was throroughly ill-advised.

Especially with swayable young ladies present. They were a rakes veritable prey.

“I dare say so, yes.” Thomas smiled.

“I was afraid of that. You know she will not be easy to obtain…”

“Afraid of it?” Sir Thomas asked.

“You’ve fallen head over heels for one of the most desirable and well known women in London. It will not be a quiet, or bothersome free chase for her hand..” Benedict warned.

“Of all the things you warn me about, you chose this? You, the man who can go from none to three mistresses in one week…” Sir Thomas stated.

Benedict levelled his friend a shrewd look, that made him look like he knew what he was talking about.

“She must be mentioned in gossip columns every damn day. Which means when you begin to court her, so, by extension, shall you” Benedict added.

“Of this I am aware…” Sir Thomas pointed out.

“But I fear sir, that as you are a gently bred gentleman, It is my duty as an avid attendee of silly balls and social norm, that this fact shall mean you will not be easily led to her, nor she to you. The whole of London knows Marcus Burke is seeing her too, and they will go to great lengths to remind you of that. Furthermore, every Mama with a girl aged ten and six or over will want to steer you away if they find you are the least little bitty bit disinclined from her.” He notified

“What am I? A Galleon? No Mama nor her silly frilly girls, as you say, shall succed in steering me from Elizabeth. I am courting her. Aswell as, other, things..”

Sir Thomas grinned. It wasn’t often that the man let his charm seep into his handsome smile, but now was such an occasion, and Benedict noticed this with prying interest.

“Something you have not told me?” He asked.

“Yes.” Sir Thomas grinned.

Benedict raised a brow.

Sir Thomas stood firm.

“Well?” Benedict pushed.

“Well what?”

“Don’t be endearing. Tell me at once…”

“I may not want to tell the vexation who flicks paper at me what happened when I called upon her yesterday…” Thomas eluded.

Benedict wanted to hit him.

“For gods sake, man. Out with it!” He demanded

“You petty gossip mongerer..” Sir Thomas accused.

“… and yet I thought you so unflappable and distanced from shreds of paltry natterings.”

Benedict glared at his friend like he was imagining bringing down the tip of his cane sharply onto his foot.

“Before I appease the wishes in my head, and throw you under a carriage. Tell. Me.” He demanded through gritted teeth.

“She certainly returns my affections. I could tell that much from when I kissed her.”

Sir Thomas beamed. Remembering the sheer wonder of the embrace he shared with her. It had left him in the clouds all evening.

“You’ve kissed her?”

Benedict asked, surprisingly shocked for a man as acclimated to passion as he.

“Pray tell, how on earth did you manage that with Minty Sharpe hovering over you like a match making vulture?” He asked.

“She was out of the room at this point. I would never embrace a woman anywhere on her persons with her chaperone sitting two chairs away. You mistake me for a man of lesser respect and dignity.”

Benedict leered at him.

“So. Miss Farrow has succumbed to your lust, then, has she?”

He asked with a grin that was all fox, and no hint of the man behind it.

“She would make a very fine Duchess. I’d swap just one of her kisses for everything I own. Or hold most dear.”

Sir Thomas dreamed. Thinking of how soft her pink lips were, and how she had arched unto him.

“Well, that’s foolish. She’s only a woman. And an innocent to boot, her kisses can’t be that magnificent, she is not yet well trained” Benedict supposed.

“You make her sound alarmingly like a dog. And, You haven’t kissed her.” Sir Thomas beheld.

“Not yet I haven’t”

Benedict grinned. His blue eyes sparkling like two polished windows catching the sun on a bright summers afternoon.

The smile instantly faded from Sir Thomas’s face.

“I say, Is your sister still as handsome as ever?” Benedict asked suddenly. Inclining his favour to the lovely Iris Thatcher-Kenworthy

“Right. I’m going to hit you now. Once for that comment about Iris, and second for stating your wishes to kiss Elizabeth. Where would you like me to aim first?” Sir Thomas growled, flexing his hand.

Benedict’s eyes roved across to ahead of their path, before they went quite brilliantly charming in the way they lit up. And his smile increased ten fold.

Miss Elizabeth Farrow was gliding straight in their direction, followed by a gaggle of ladies. That Violet Burchrowe girl by her side, talking away to her friend.

“Pray. Sir Thomas, You wouldn’t wish violence upon me with such a gently bred lady making haste in our direction, would you? Because that to me, and indeed, to her, would manifest that you are of a vicious tempered man to your future Duchess…” Benedict grinned

Sir Thomas snapped into alertness like a dog who’d just spied a squirell running up a tree. His head whipped round so far Benedict feared he’d do himself an injury. And his icehip coloured eyes scanned across every figure he could happen across.

“Miss Elizabeth?” He asked, searching for her.

Benedict pointed.

And sure enough, there she was, walking along at a slow pace, with an unknown companion on her arm. Both ladies dressed fetchingly in striking hues of blue. Elizabeth wore a blue bowler hat covering her wild red hair, maybe that’s why Sir Thomas hadn’t spotted her straightaway, his eyes were trained to look for the beautiful red hues of her untameable tresses. The girl she was walking with, and talking too was also uncommonly pretty. He hadn’t met her before, long curly brown hair, and eyes the colour of melted choclate, and just as warm, he thought. She too, a most handsome girl. Eyes and fair skin brought out by the striking sapphire blue of her dress. Whereas Miss Elizabeth looked heavenly in her powder blue striped gown, adorned with orange shades of floral pattern that quite matched her hair.

They drew ever, closer, neither men nor women speaking to their friends. And Sir Thomas watched as Miss Elizabeth’s companion looked as if she’d just been told cheese was harvested from the moon, her cheeks tinted a pretty – embarassed – shade of pink. Elizabeth However, was smiling at him, for him, and her smile directed to him alone, as he approached her.

“Good Afternoon Miss Farrow.”

Sir Thomas smiled, looking at her face and knowing that her beautiful features were always fairer in person when compared to the jaded conjourings of his memory.

And then she smiled wider, her lips tipping up at the corners, making dimples crease in her cheeks. And Sir Thomas got so very lost as to where he was. His heart was beating like a caged animal and he wanted to kiss her again. Right there. On the very spot she stood. In public, and out of doors no less.

So lost was he, that it took a nudge from Benedict’s elbow into his back to tug him back down to reality.

It was damned inconvenient that. Nonetheless, he remembered where, and who he was.

Benedict watched as the reliable, and passive man who had once been his friend now turned into a stumbling, blubbering mush of a boy in the presence of Miss Farrow.

And he quite agreed what Sir Thomas had said earlier. She would make a fine Duchess…

But, Sir, Carlton thinks, if you should favour a most contented and blissful marriage. It would do you well to not have to pick your jaw up from the floor every time you, look, at your wife.

@wolfsmom1 @inkededucatednnerdy @damageditem @echantedbytwh

#victorian era #historical fiction #historical romance #tom hiddleston #AU #fan fiction #dukes #duchesses #suitors #falling in love #love

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flauntpage · 6 years

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Losing in Style – Ten Takeaways from Titans 26, Eagles 23 (OT)

Dilly Dilly!

The Eagles choked on the road and looked bad doing it, blowing fourth quarter and overtime leads en route to a walk-off touchdown loss.

That has to be the worst defeat of the Doug Pederson era, yeah? I can’t think of anything else that matches Sunday in terms of overall disappointment and distaste. Maybe you can look at the Detroit game back in 2016, when the Birds were 3-0 and coming off a bye week. That was a deflating loss that started the eventual tailspin, though expectations then weren’t even close to being what they are now.

Last year featured only one real clunker, the road loss in Seattle, but that was wiped out by a bounce-back win against the Rams just one week later. The season finale didn’t count for diddly poo and the Kansas City loss took place in week two, so whatever with those games.

Therefore, I think we’ve reached the following conclusion –

Yes, this was the worst defeat of the Doug Pederson era.

1) The secondary

Easy to point fingers at these guys, so we’ll start there.

First, the personnel was different with Rodney McLeod on the shelf. Jim Schwartz brought in Corey Graham as expected but decided to use Avonte Maddox at safety in dime looks while leaving Rasul Douglas on the bench. That amounted to 20 snaps (28% of the game) for Maddox, who had the big interception early but slipped on the Corey Davis touchdown. You saw several instances of confusion in the secondary with Maddox covering the deep middle third of the field and playing a position he says he never played before.

The tackling was poor, the Titans found some holes in the zone coverage, and you were just waiting for someone to step up and make a play, which didn’t happen, not in the fourth quarter or overtime at least. Ronald Darby missed tackles. Jalen Mills got beat deep a few times. Graham was culpable on the horrible 4th and 15 conversion. Sidney Jones and Malcolm Jenkins committed overtime penalties.

Individually it was poor, but I also don’t think they were set up the correct way, and that’s on Schwartz.

I honestly do think Douglas would make more sense as a 6th defensive back out there or converted safety, and I know what you’re thinking, ‘here goes Kinkead with his West Virginia shit again,’ but just hear me out:

Avonte Maddox has the body type and skill set to be a slot corner. 6’2″ Douglas played in an unorthodox 3-3-5 defense in college where he moved around in a nickel base. He’s taller, more rangy, a ball hawk who doesn’t have great speed but has soft hands and goes up and attacks passes. 5’9″ Maddox played hard-nosed stuff on the inside at Pittsburgh. I personally believe, as Miss Teen South Carolina once said, that you could use Douglas to cover for McLeod, move Sidney Jones to the outside, and play Maddox on the inside, where he competed during training camp and preseason. I really don’t understand using him as a dime safety.

It’s important to point out that Tennessee came into this game throwing the 2nd fewest passes in the NFL. Last week they ran it 35 times and only threw it 21 times in the win against Jacksonville. This time around they threw it 43 times and ran it 22 times, numbers that do skew a bit due to the extra minutes provided by the overtime period, but that’s pretty close to a 66% pass to run ratio, which is not their game at all.

In more simple terms, the Eagles got torched through the air by a running team.

2) Jalen Mills

Not a great game. I especially enjoyed the finger wagging after the dropped pass that literally had nothing to do with his play at all.

On the afternoon, he gave up 99 yards on three targets, including a 20 yard pass interference play where I thought he did a good job to recover from a stumble before wrapping the receiver prior to the ball arriving:

It’s really not bad coverage. He stays with Davis there, he just has to drop the hands, specifically the off-hand in front of the ref, which killed him last week.

I do wonder where the safety help was on the pair of plays where he got beat deep. That’s hard to identify without the all-22 film, which is released by the league on Wednesday, but here’s what I found going through the regular video:

That was the 51 yarder to Davis. The Eagles were in cover 3 and Graham bit on a shallow route, leaving Mills with no cover over the top.

Also this:

The Titans run a couple of receivers on the strong side and Davis hits Mills with a double move on the outside. Graham can’t help because he’s trending to the side with multiple route runners.

Otherwise that’s it, Mills wasn’t targeted beyond those three times, not that I see when I go over the game film.

I wrote a column last week that basically amounted to “Jalen Mills is what he is,” which is a 7th round draft pick, a solid tackler, a physical overachiever who really does not have elite speed or elite athleticism. I think people have to remember that he beat out guys like Leodis McKelvin and Ron Brooks and Aarony Grymes for a spot, which brings us to where we are now.

The thing with Mills, is that when he gets beat, it looks bad. Ronald Darby got beat yesterday and Sidney Jones committed a horrendous penalty in overtime. Those plays are killers, but they don’t happen 35 yards down the field. When Mills bites on a double move in space with no safety help over the top, the optics of his fuck ups just look worse than the optics of other people’s fuck ups, even though everyone is fucking up.

Is that a fair point?

I’m not saying he’s an amazing player, I’m just trying to come at it from an angle other than “omg Jalen Mills sucks cut his ass right now.”

3) Personnel and play calling

I thought Carson Wentz looked pretty good on the day. I wouldn’t put too much of the fumble on him since Lane Johnson did his best turnstile impersonation on that play.

Defensively, I mentioned the Maddox deployment earlier. Fletcher Cox played 60 snaps for an 85% mark and Haloti Ngata was up to 52%. He and Michael Bennett (51%) have been preferred to Destiny Vaeao on the inside and Bennett has been playing a lot of time there also because the depth at DT is not what it is at DE.

Offensively, they gave Jay Ajayi 15 carries, nine of which took place later in the game. Wendell Smallwood carried the ball five times and Josh Adams was given zero carries while Corey Clement missed the game through injury. The Eagles really did not run the ball much through the early part of the game, just six times out of 25 play calls through the Birds’ first four series. Doug didn’t commit to the ground game until later on.

Pederson also only showed eight under center sets on the entire day. Most of the running came out of the shotgun, and a lot of the under center play-action passes were disastrous, with the offensive line struggling to allow those slow-developing sequences to flourish against a strong Tennessee pass rush.

As for special teams, DeAndre Carter had a really nice punt return doing spot duty back there. The Eagles had zero kick returns, which would have gone to Smallwood if Ryan Succop hadn’t booted every single thing into the end zone.

4) Offensive line

Poor game from the Eagles’ best unit.

I don’t feel like this was talked about much during the week, but Tennessee was the first 3-4 base defense the Birds played against this year. I don’t know how much that played a role in the O-line struggles, but I want to think it did. Harold Landry and Jayon Brown had good games on the left side of that D, and they really do show you a lot of looks that fluctuate from a front three to a front four or five, with guys coming at you from different angles than what you’d get in a typical 4-3.

Here’s an example of one of those slow under center play-action passes that just took too long to develop:

I have no idea what Lane Johnson is doing there. He sticks a hand out and holds position while Brown runs right by him, so it makes me think they were trying to set up some sort of screen.

But look at this Titans’ front –

They’re only running two defensive linemen here, a pair of tackles in DaQuan Jones and Bennie Logan. They put three linebackers on the line of scrimmage and rush five while using Rashaan Evans and safety Kendrick Lewis in shallow coverage:

Looks like some 2012 Eagles wide-9 shit there. I like the 3-4 base because you can do a lot of different things with hybrid defensive end/linebacker tweeners, which Tennessee has plenty of, studs like Landry, Brian Orakpo, and Sharif Finch.

Carson Wentz was sacked four times Sunday, which follows five sacks allowed last week and three the week before. Wentz was hit 11 times total on 52 drop backs and the line conceded six tackles for loss.

5) One-dimensional?

The Eagles defense held Dion Lewis and Derrick Henry to 24 rushing yards.

Seriously.

Marcus Mariota accounted for 46 of the Titans’ 70 rushing yards, which was their lowest total of the year, even with an extra overtime period to pad their numbers.

Again, it’s not really a defensive line thing. They make teams one-dimensional, and when they do, the secondary should be able to clamp down in nickel assuming you can get a decent pass rush going or throw some different blitz looks at the opponent. They sacked Marcus Mariota three times, flushed him from the pocket other times, hit him on six occasions, and did do a decent job overall, decent enough to the point where that game should have been won in regulation.

The Eagles generally have trouble with Russell Wilson type quarterbacks who can run around like a chicken with their head cut off then heave a 50 yard ball to one of five receivers running a route. That wasn’t Tennessee yesterday, but there were a few occasions where Mariota was able to extend plays with his feet and they rolled him and bootlegged him about 6-7 times during this game.

I think the line was pretty gassed by the time the Titans were on their 34th and 35th minute of possession in overtime. You can’t sustain a pass rush against a team going 66% to 33% in a pass/run ratio for five periods of play. It just doesn’t happen. At some point, the secondary needs to make a play, and they didn’t.

Also, can people stop saying the Titans suck? They don’t suck. They were 9-7 last season and won a road playoff game. They are 3-1 this year. They are a decent team.

6) Zach Ertz

He’s on pace to have a million targets this season, or at least it seems that way.

Seriously though, he’s been targeted 33 times through four games, so he’s projected to receive 132 targets over the course of 16 games.

For context, DeAndre Hopkins led the NFL with 176 targets last season. Travis Kelce was the top tight end with 123 looks. Ertz hit 110 on the season, so he’s well on pace to shatter that mark.

I drew a diagram of what I believe was his route chart and heatmap:

Ertz just kept finding that soft spot in the middle of the zone, and Wentz hit him there over and over and over again.

Ok, here’s the real thing.

White lines are completed passes and green is yards after the catch:

Close enough.

Ertz caught 10 of 14 targets for 110 yards Sunday, though Wentz didn’t find him in the end zone.

That honor went to:

7) Alshon Jeffery

Gotta be the biggest positive from otherwise shitty afternoon.

He just makes plays that other receivers can’t make. I’m talking about tough sideline grabs, contested back shoulder throws, jump balls in the corner, and key red zone receptions.

Alshon caught eight balls for 105 yards and a score, and while the touchdown might have been his best grab, he really had a couple of early snags to get himself and the Eagles going. Particularly, there was a great 34 yard reception he made on a 3rd and 4 to keep the chains moving. He caught another one later going up against Malcolm Butler and the only blemish on the day was the catch and fumble that disallowed a first down in Tennessee’s half of the field.

Welcome back Alshon Jeffery, or “Jefferies” if you’re a moron and still can’t get his name right.

8) Doug’s best call?

Probably the decision to pound the ball with the running game to begin overtime.

That’s about it.

9) Doug’s worst call?

Obviously I hated the choice to punt with three minutes left in the fourth quarter on that fourth down and four. The Eagles got the stop and got the ball back to force overtime, but that punt felt antithetical to everything we’ve seen from Doug over the last year or so.

I also did not like the third down draw play right before halftime, the run on 3rd and 3 at Tennessee’s ten yard line. You’ve got Alshon matched up 1v1 in the red zone. Throw him the damn ball.

That felt like the same shit Penn State did on Saturday night in their Ohio State choke job, running the ball when everyone knows you should have thrown it instead.

This just didn’t feel like a Doug Pederson type of game. Mike Vrabel was the coach making gutsy fourth down decisions on the other sideline.

10) Like deja vu all over again

We got Chris Myers and Daryl Johnston and Laura Okmin for the second straight week. Shouldn’t that be a violation in and of itself? Why not just rotate the crews so they aren’t calling the same team two weeks in a row?

The good thing was that Myers was unable to mispronounce “Clement” this time, since Corey Clement didn’t play. It did sound like one of the pair kept saying “Ajayi” wrong, but I honestly did not pay much attention to the broadcast. This group is fine, but they just don’t do anything to get me super excited OR super annoyed. They just sort of exist, which isn’t the worst thing in the world.

My only real complaint with the broadcast is that we got that commercial with the hypnotist sitting in his front yard. He snaps his fingers and asks some guy to clean his gutters, then says this:

“Todd, you go make me a “fertata”

I don’t know why he pronounces it that way because the dish is a “frittata.” It’s an Italian egg-based casserole type of thing, and it’s spelled with the F-R-I, not F-E-R. There’s no such thing as a “fertata.”

Anyway, that annoys me, but not as much as the Eagles losing on a 16 play, 75 yard drive in overtime.

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flauntpage · 6 years

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Losing in Style – Ten Takeaways from Titans 26, Eagles 23 (OT)

Dilly Dilly!

The Eagles choked on the road and looked bad doing it, blowing fourth quarter and overtime leads en route to a walk-off touchdown loss.

Therefore, I think we’ve reached the following conclusion –

Yes, this was the worst defeat of the Doug Pederson era.

1) The secondary

Easy to point fingers at these guys, so we’ll start there.

Individually it was poor, but I also don’t think they were set up the correct way, and that’s on Schwartz.

In more simple terms, the Eagles got torched through the air by a running team.

2) Jalen Mills

Not a great game. I especially enjoyed the finger wagging after the dropped pass that literally had nothing to do with his play at all.

It’s really not bad coverage. He stays with Davis there, he just has to drop the hands, specifically the off-hand in front of the ref, which killed him last week.

That was the 51 yarder to Davis. The Eagles were in cover 3 and Graham bit on a shallow route, leaving Mills with no cover over the top.

Also this:

The Titans run a couple of receivers on the strong side and Davis hits Mills with a double move on the outside. Graham can’t help because he’s trending to the side with multiple route runners.

Otherwise that’s it, Mills wasn’t targeted beyond those three times, not that I see when I go over the game film.

Is that a fair point?

I’m not saying he’s an amazing player, I’m just trying to come at it from an angle other than “omg Jalen Mills sucks cut his ass right now.”

3) Personnel and play calling

I thought Carson Wentz looked pretty good on the day. I wouldn’t put too much of the fumble on him since Lane Johnson did his best turnstile impersonation on that play.

4) Offensive line

Poor game from the Eagles’ best unit.

Here’s an example of one of those slow under center play-action passes that just took too long to develop:

I have no idea what Lane Johnson is doing there. He sticks a hand out and holds position while Brown runs right by him, so it makes me think they were trying to set up some sort of screen.

But look at this Titans’ front –

5) One-dimensional?

The Eagles defense held Dion Lewis and Derrick Henry to 24 rushing yards.

Seriously.

Marcus Mariota accounted for 46 of the Titans’ 70 rushing yards, which was their lowest total of the year, even with an extra overtime period to pad their numbers.

Also, can people stop saying the Titans suck? They don’t suck. They were 9-7 last season and won a road playoff game. They are 3-1 this year. They are a decent team.

6) Zach Ertz

He’s on pace to have a million targets this season, or at least it seems that way.

Seriously though, he’s been targeted 33 times through four games, so he’s projected to receive 132 targets over the course of 16 games.

For context, DeAndre Hopkins led the NFL with 176 targets last season. Travis Kelce was the top tight end with 123 looks. Ertz hit 110 on the season, so he’s well on pace to shatter that mark.

I drew a diagram of what I believe was his route chart and heatmap:

Ertz just kept finding that soft spot in the middle of the zone, and Wentz hit him there over and over and over again.

Ok, here’s the real thing.

White lines are completed passes and green is yards after the catch:

Close enough.

Ertz caught 10 of 14 targets for 110 yards Sunday, though Wentz didn’t find him in the end zone.

That honor went to:

7) Alshon Jeffery

Gotta be the biggest positive from otherwise shitty afternoon.

He just makes plays that other receivers can’t make. I’m talking about tough sideline grabs, contested back shoulder throws, jump balls in the corner, and key red zone receptions.

Welcome back Alshon Jeffery, or “Jefferies” if you’re a moron and still can’t get his name right.

8) Doug’s best call?

Probably the decision to pound the ball with the running game to begin overtime.

That’s about it.

9) Doug’s worst call?

I also did not like the third down draw play right before halftime, the run on 3rd and 3 at Tennessee’s ten yard line. You’ve got Alshon matched up 1v1 in the red zone. Throw him the damn ball.

That felt like the same shit Penn State did on Saturday night in their Ohio State choke job, running the ball when everyone knows you should have thrown it instead.

This just didn’t feel like a Doug Pederson type of game. Mike Vrabel was the coach making gutsy fourth down decisions on the other sideline.

10) Like deja vu all over again

My only real complaint with the broadcast is that we got that commercial with the hypnotist sitting in his front yard. He snaps his fingers and asks some guy to clean his gutters, then says this:

“Todd, you go make me a “fertata”

Anyway, that annoys me, but not as much as the Eagles losing on a 16 play, 75 yard drive in overtime.

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