The Eagles have officially started to solidify their label as the most talented team in the NFL who will end up 7-9.

It’s no coincidence that Scott Hartnell of the Flyers mooched off 50-yard line seats and was in attendance. No, the Eagles lost their balance and landed flat on their faces all by themselves.

And so for the third consecutive week, the Squeam Team squandered away a fourth quarter lead falling this time to the San Francisco 49ers 24-23 at the Linc. The losing tune has become so familiar that Eagles fans, shuffling and hustling to work this morning, are whistling it like that bad song you just can’t shake off. It’s the same old song and dance for Reid and his coaching staff of imbeciles. The feeling round town is Big Red’s million dollar mansion is starting to crumble.

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Never underestimate Andy Reid’s uncanny, and often times natural ability to make stomachs turn more rapidly than E. coli.

Most Sundays, couch coaches rise from droopy seats, and wince and curse at a no pulse television as if in any near second they’re going to rip a challenge flag from their Sunday sweat pants.

Andy Reid has that effect on people.

He’s the reason Eagles fans don’t chose to quit smoking until after football season. He could melt an igloo instantaneously with his aimless meandering. Eagles fans would challenge his breathing patterns if they could.

And I’m about to toss my red flag on the field.

The fact that Andy Reid is the most winning coach in Eagles history means just as much to me as the Phillies being the most losing franchise in MLB history. We live in a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately existence. The “what was” is meant for high school social studies classes.

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Like the rest of you, I was pretty mad last night. In fact, I immediately flew off the handle. I said some things that bordered on exaggeration. I woke up today and looked at the clock. I realized it was morning and realized the Eagles loss wasn’t a dream. Welcome to the mind of a Philadelphia sports fan, where a win or loss controls the mood of your following week. We hang our heads during the work day on Monday. Some don’t even go into work. We’re on edge, and ready to verbally assault anyone who says anything negative about the team.

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If while sitting at the bar your stool feels a little warm, get used to it. If your recliner cushion seems to melt your rear end right into it, it gets worse.

The Eagles have yet to throw a meaningful pass in a season that holds any weight, and rival fans are already holding you accountable for dauntless predictions and chest thumping prematurity. It’s tiresome, often times annoying, trying to defend a self- proclaimed dream team that’s far from a breezy slumber.

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At a birthday party on Sunday, my 1 year old son Chase picked up a shovel to play with in a backyard sandbox, when from underneath a cockroach scampered. Chase stumbled back, pointed at it with candid toddler horror, and said, “yucky.”

In a twist of irony, on Friday morning when Chase was sitting on my lap watching the Cowboys/Broncos highlights from the night before, I pointed to the screen and told him, “Cowboys yucky,” repeating slowly until he comprehended.

He recited it with perfection and turned around to meet my approval. I flashed a satisfied grin.

That’s my boy.

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