Can’t get the stink off
He’s been hanging round for days
Comes like a comet
Suckered you but not your friends
One day he’ll get to you
And teach you how to be a holy cow

So have you had enough yet? Or is it gonna have to happen again? Because, let there be no doubt, it will happen again. And again and again.

The worst part is that it’s just such a waste. That seems to be the overriding theme of this season, and perhaps this latest era of Saints football.

I have no idea whether or not this team rebounds and ends up in the playoffs. They’re certainly good enough to do that. But what I do know is that this team has pissed away three games… already. They’re pissing away the season. They pissed away last season. Twice. All indications are that they’re pissing away the Drew Brees Years and the Reggie Bush Years. It’s all just such a big fucking waste, and that’s what hurts the most. It’s those three little words that just make you want to stick a screwdriver in your throat: coulda, woulda, shoulda.

It’s downright disgusting to think about what could be.

Chalk it up to the fickle finger of fate, if that helps you to sleep at night. Blame the injuries if it helps. Blame the officials for screwing us twice in the last three games, including perhaps the single most embarrassingly seat-of-the-pants, make-it-up-as-you-go 60 minute display of officiating I’ve ever seen, which took place last night. (Sour grapes? Damn straight, and I’m not about to apologize for it either.)

It’s a testament to how good this team is that they’ve overcome all of that.

The one thing they haven’t overcome is their own bedwetting problem. And that’s why we’re where we are right now.

If it’s not a missed kick, it’s a dropped pass. If it’s not a dropped pass, it’s a fumble. If it’s not a fumble, it’s a penalty. If it’s not a penalty, it’s a defensive back getting torched. If it’s not a defensive back getting torched, it’s an utterly inexplicable play call. But it’s always something.

It’s taken about 150 separate misfortunes to land this team at 2-3 and all alone in the NFC South cellar. Ordinarily, a Saints fan could take solace in that. But not this time. Because about 146 of them have been self-inflicted.

Earn it. Indeed. This team has earned everything they’ve gotten through these first five games.

Don’t get my sympathy
Hanging out the 15th floor
Changed the locks three times
He still comes reeling through the door
One day I’ll get to you
And teach you how to get to purest hell

You do it to yourself, you do
And that’s what really hurts

I’d go on, but my heart just isn’t in it today. I wish I could muster up a punch line or ten for ya. I wish I could bring myself to rant on for about 30 more paragraphs. But this team punched me right in the brain last night. Again. And then they kicked me in the balls when I was already down. Again. Maybe in a day or two, when the bleeding stops….