The Waltsurrection

Dear readers, you know intimately that we here at Panther Rants have, in the past, made it our sovereign duty to gently chide He Who Went to Bowls. Verily, it was our motto, our creed, our very raison d’être. It ingrained itself within us as surely as the label of rapacious-in-appetite doth brand itself on the forehead of Charlie Weis. It is not without some difficulty then, devoted readers, that we must separate ourselves from this doctrine of Wlatsploitation. We know, as you do, that He Who Went to Bowls was not a terribly good coach at Pitt, but we are big enough men (where it counts, if you follow) to admit that we were at least partially erroneous in our furor to run him out of town because of the relentless desire to “reach the next level.”

Alas, it may be that the next level is unachievable for Pitt football. In the past three years we have suffered greatly. And lo, the pain of the Fiesta Bowl thrashing was bitter and stinging to be sure. But does it truly compare to what Wannstedt hath wrought? Under He Who Went To Bowls, there was always the potential for goodly returns; ye, hope was indeed omnipresent, even if hopes crashed more often than not. But hope, at least, is something to which we can latch like the clinging hooks of Velcro; in the absence of hope, there is emptiness, despair. In other words, we have what we currently have – the feckless Dave Wannstedt administration, which succeeds only in its failure, its divisiveness, its seemingly unholy desire to bring about the ruination of the attitudes of Pitt fans everywhere.

Thus, dear readers, we at Panther Rants must acknowledge that, flawed though he was, He Who Went to Bowls was our last, best hope. For now, we wallow in this dark pit of despair, surrounded by empty promises manipulated by oblivious tongues, spurred on by thoughts that have been forged in vacant brains. Walt Harris, he of the butt of our jokes, faces our mockery no longer; his replacement has been cast down in his stead. Our creed is reborn, with new targets in place: a jumping-jack lunatic who handcuffs his young players; a dim one who is drowning and associates with those of ill repute ; and, of course, He Who Does Not Go To Bowls himself, a clueless buffoon flabbergasted by failings of his own design.

Behold then, friends, what would have been unthinkable but three years ago, a rebirth of what we long considered dead. Behold…the Waltsurrection.