NFL Doormats Week 3 Predictions

It's NFL Week 3 and oddsmakers are taking bets, but here in the Doormat room the only thing we are taking is orders for pizza because it's going to be a long weekend in the cellar. Pull up your favorite moldy recliner with the cigar burns in it and get out your scorecard. The Oracle From the Basement belches and makes these predictions.

Gentlemen, please post your predictions as well! And welcome Colts to the Doormat DIvision!

Pats- 48
Nils-3
(It's time for a wake up call in Buffalo)

0-4-9ers- 10
Bungles- 7

Floppers- 17
Brownies- 13
 (It might be time for the Brownies to get back in the basement. After all, they are on the Doormat Division website banner!)

Buncos- 24
Titanics- 28

Kittens- 36
Yikings- 7

Gaguars- 9
Pansies- 28
(Cam gets his first win and only one for a while)

Jets- 48
Raydurz- 10
(Sorry, Raydurz, Jets are in the hunt)

Ravens- 28
Lambs- 10
(Ravens are stoked to get some respect back)

Cheeps- 10
Bolts- 30

Crudinals- 8
Seahags- 2
(Looks like a Mariners game, stiff of the week)

And now for the drum roll for the Dolts, please..............

Steelers- 56
Dolts- 0
(Don't worry, Dolts, you will get to enjoy the stale chips after a while)

And speaking of stale chips, I will never forget my first trip to southern Illinois. It was August and we were on a motorcycle. As we headed south from Chicago it got, as they say in those parts, warm and sticky. More like freaking hot and steamy.

Anyway, we hit thunderstorms around Effingham. I thought, "Dang, we are going to get cold now." But when the rains stopped, I was shocked to still feel warm as we buzzed down the Interstate. Nothing like 99 degrees and 80 percent humidity! The sun set before we reached Mt. Vernon. My face was peppered with large, humming, insects, leaving smear marks on my goggles. You could hear the cicadis as we drove. Despite the wind noise, the helmet, and the roaring v-twin, I could still here the "eeeeeeeee-eh-eeeeeeeeeeeee-eh" of the cicadis.

We finally reached Carbondale, wet, overheated, and covered with bug slop. I was offered a cold beer and a bowl of chips in the back yard. I listened to the 90 decibel throbbing of crickets and frogs in the night and watched giant moths flap around a Tiki torch. We had only been at the table for five minutes and I noticed my ice-cold beer was already tepid and the chips, well, they no longer crunched when you ate them. They were more like those frozen Ore-Ida french fries mom used to serve. You know, the ones that come out of the oven sweaty and squishy. No amount of ketchup can save those things. 

And that's kind of how it feels here tonight in the basement.