In the history of professional sports franchises, the Cincinnati Bengals stand alone for one, unimaginably stupid-ass reason: their uniforms try to make them look like the thing they’re supposed to be. The New England Patriots, for instance, have a picture of a patriot on their helmets. The Miami Dolphins have a picture of a dolphin on their helmets. The Bengals, on the other hand, have orange helmets with black stripes. They have stripes all over their garish uniforms. They’re not uniforms, actually; they’re costumes, or at least the most innefective tiger camouflage ever conceived. It would be like the Patriots taking the field wearing tri-cornered hats and carrying muskets, or the Dolphins wearing translucent gray-green wave caps with blowholes punched in the top. The Kansas City Chiefs don’t wear headdresses. The New Orleans Saints don’t wear sackcloth robes. The Chicago bears don’t wear brown uniforms covered in fur and gnats and matted feces, at least not since Jim McMahon retired. But then there are the Bengals, a roster full of grown men taking the field every Sunday dressed up like trick-or-treaters. I keep expecting them to show up one of these weekends with striped, felt tails sticking out the back of their pants and fake plastic fangs in lieu of mouthpieces.
You know what, fellas? You’re NOT a tiger. You will NEVER be a tiger, no matter how much you like to dress up like one. For the love of Christ, there aren’t even any tigers IN Ohio. Get with the program, jagoffs.
I’m going back to bed now.