This is rocket surgery man.
Pay close attention.
The bye comes along half way through the season when tarot readers and consultants of the heavenly bodies know well that the glass is already half empty. Hence a shadow of impending doom doth fall across your lintel and a vague scurrying may be heard upon the chill wind at sunset and your teeth may well be set on edge.
The right to the rest in the second week of the finals falls upon the traditional weekend of the filling of the glass when the flocks are released into the hills for the spring pasture and the cooing of the doves heralds the hatching of the eggs and the harvesting of the guano from the lintel in the bright, warm sun of the morning. The mothers of the flockers take to the streets to beat the remnants of the meat from the various floor coverings and rugs while spontaneous chorus lines erupt into song and high kicks everywhere.
That's just how it rolls.
