"Funny?" I'm just trying to point out the facts on the ground for this cheshire cat of a team that exists purely as the remaining grin of Joe Willie, long after the rest of him has faded into drunken, sagging, Suzie Kolber-attempted-kissing clowndom.
I fear Deus is right, and Patterson is in the new Jets active player protection program, where anybody who has any danger of making the roster is kept from public view for ego preservation reasons.
I know their fanbase is looking forward to the day that they evolve the requisite thumb dexterity to whack each other with antelope bones to please a monolith, but in a way you have to respect those guys. They are still JEST fans, after the years of frustration, failure, and usually well-earned abuse. Behind the glazed, tearful eyes of each of them is the rudiment of what makes other fans human. They feel fear, and anger, and (unbelievable as it may seem,) surprise, at their team's on-field exploits. They continually feel hope. The question is really not whether they can reason as we do, but whether they can suffer. And God knows, they can suffer.
It is for this reason that I donate to People for the Ethical Treatment of JEST Fans, or PETJet. (PETJF is too hard to say out loud.) They should be left alone, without human interference, to pursue their niche in their own ecosystem, the subway tunnels beneath New York City and increasingly the swamps of New Jersey.
Perhaps I am a bleeding heart, but even the most hard-nosed realist must understand that a predator needs a prey animal. I'm afraid we've hunted the JEST fan to the brink of extinction. Adaptive paper sack frills are springing up in the Meadowlands. Young JEST fans are becoming Giants fans, mainly because of the viral YouTube of the JESTfan kid crying about how the season is (once again) over for his favorite team about 10 games in.
But you can change this. If you want an NFL where buttfumbles, AWOL players, and foot-fancying coaches can thrive, where on any given sunday any given team can beat the New York JEST, give now.
The doormat you wipe your feet on depends on it.
(Actually I just wanted to put this in for the charity-commercial feeling... but damn those lyrics are spot on)