Hey everyone! It’s your good pal Juice here! It’s been a long while since I talked to you, but I have a bit of bad news.
I’m dead!
Yes, you heard that right, the Juice is no longer loose, as I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil, hit a tee-shot into the rough that I couldn’t save, and finally find myself in a fourth and long with no choice but to punt.
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Oh my god we are SO very much back.
It’s been FOUR long years since the last All-Philadelphia Royal Rumble. We survived a pandemic, a Donald Trump presidency (though, ya know, that might change later this year), dozens upon dozens of 76ers second round exits, and two horrifically shitty championship ventures that we’re STILL trying to get over.
The last time we did this was 2020. Nobody had any idea what COVID-19 was yet, Ben Simmons still had a working spine, and we were all looking forward to the innovative ideas Joe Girardi would be bringing to the Phillies.
It’s been four years of garbage since. We’re wallowing through a horrendous Eagles collapse, the Phillies blew the NLCS against a pitiful Diamondbacks teams, the 76ers are still a piece away, and the Flyers are the Flyers. Nobody cares about the Flyers.
So it’s time. It’s time to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps, look to the future, and absolutely bust Howard Eskin open with a steel chair.
Ladies and gentlemen, the All-Philadelphia Royal Rumble is BACK.
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There will never be another John Chaney. There can’t be another John Chaney, because a coach who speaks his mind in such brazen and devil may care ways would be IMMEDIATELY cancelled in this day and age. He wouldn’t have lasted two seasons if he had coached in this century.
Would anyone survive goon gate? Could any coach barge into an opposing coach’s press conference and threaten to kill him? Oh my goodness no. But John Chaney could, because John Chaney was a legend and could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
Even today, 26 years later, I still randomly say “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you Calipari!” to myself and have a good chuckle. There was nobody better.
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This is it Philadelphia. The moment you and I have long been waiting for. The time is ripe for a new leader of men to take the Philadelphia Eagles by the balls and mold it into a franchise you’d be proud to bring home to momma.
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It’s going to be one of THOSE years I see. Cringing every single time Carson Wentz drops back just waiting for him to either airmail a pass 15-feet over a receiver head, spike a ball at their feet or throw yet another momentum killing interception.
Throwing your hands to the heavens and closing your eyes at yet ANOTHER head scratching call from Doug Pederson. Watching as yet another high Howie draft pick fails to make any kind of impact on the field whatsoever.
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In the great Grand Floridian
There was a Coach
Thinking in his room
Warding off thoughts
Off losses and doom
And there were two horrible contracts
And two worthless players
Who made no shots despite all our prayers
And a fanbase who loved to grouse
And no championship trophies to be had in our house
And a superstar center with a brain full of mush
And a coach way out of his league whispering “hush”
Goodnight 76ers
Goodnight playoffs
Goodnight Gargano eating his meals in a trough
Goodnight hope
Goodnight to our GM the dope
Goodnight Sixers
We need more mixers
For the spirits we need
Drank down our gullets with greed
And goodnight Brand
On a one way flight to Kazakhstan
And goodnight Shake
A wide open three you could not make
Goodnight Ben and your cries of glee
And goodnight to his subluxated knee
Goodnight window
Goodnight efforts to not be a lush
Goodnight nobody
Goodnight Embiid’s brain made of mush
And goodnight to the coach whispering “hush”
Goodnight hopes
Goodnight air
Goodnight championship dreams everywhere
Rob Manfred is like a horse trying to play the piano. He hits all the wrong notes.
With his recent 8-game suspension of Dodgers pitcher Joe Kelly for not hitting any member of the World Series cheating Houston Astros and making goofy faces towards their dugout Manfred has essentially declared that worse than domestic violence.
Let’s examine this not so incredulous claim after the jump.
Using sophisticated hacking technology, the Coggin is able to give you an exclusive look at today’s in-progress NFL social media class for its athletes. Due to several social media faux pas, the NFL mandated the course be taken by several of its most recent
Let’s take a look at the ongoing meeting transcript, shall we?
Yesterday marked the horrifying 27 year anniversary of the 76ers deciding to draft a gawky 7-foot, 7-inch, unathletic version of Frankenstein’s monster over the sublimely talented Penny Hardaway in the 1993 NBA Draft, dooming the franchise to mediocrity until its resurrection by Allen Iverson.
Bradley made a living hanging out at the three-line and meekly patrolling the paint for some of the sorriest Sixers squads I’ve ever seen, while Hardaway and a young Shaquille O’Neal led the Orlando Magic to an NBA championship appearance and several successful postseason runs.
Bring up Bradley to any Sixers fan, even if they weren’t alive during the mid-90s, and they’ll instinctively wretch as memories of the least intimidating ever version of the Slender Man permeate their subconscious.
Half a season into his rookie year and Philadelphia fans knew the organization had drafted a complete dud.
This intrepid Coggin reader, @Cmalet50 on Twitter, and his buddy knew Bradley was a slob months before he even stepped foot on an NBA floor. He shared an incredible story with the Uncle Coggin, which you can see read after the jump.
Enough is enough. At this point I think we’d all rather watch replays of “Little Big League” and “Major League” on the MLB network than get our hopes up for the off chance the player’s union and the owners decide to stop lobbing passive aggressive tweets at each other to, you know, actually play baseball.
70 games. 60 games. 50 games. 90 games and we play into December in front of rats with open bottles of Schnapps at Citizens Bank Park….who gives a shit. It doesn’t matter at this point.
The Coggin Toboggan 