Fuming, freethinking, foul-mouthed firebrand Frank furiously flung a flurry of fantastically filthy, full-throttle fucks—furled, feathered, and ferociously fast—at the fickle, flimflamming, flat-footed fiasco of a coach, flipping, fizzling, and face-palming as the frayed, fraud-filled framework of an offensive fixes fell flat; “for fuck’s sake,” Frank frothed, “these flimsy, fault-ridden, fly-blown fumbles and interceptions feel like a forever-fest of fruitless, fubar’d folderol,” before furthering the flood with fresh, feverish, free-ranging, furnace-hot fire fan fury: “fix the freaking failed playcalls, flush the flaky pro offensive features, and forgo the faux-pious, finger-wagging press conference feedback,” he fumed, “’cause I’m finished fostering fairy-tale forecasts from feckless, fainthearted, fair-weather fans,” finally, with a final, full-bodied, floor-rattling “FUCK,” forging forward, fists firm, feet flying, and fearlessly fending off every festering, faithless, failure-prone fragment of that farcical, face-planting, fishy-smelling, fun-sucking fracas of an O-line.