Oh man . . .Most people will tell you that the result of preseason games are essentially meaningless. They're not wrong. And most people would therefore say that the Lions beating the Cleveland Browns was not so much an occasion worthy of joy, but a pointless result existing only because according to the rules, one team must win these stupid games. And on one level they are of course correct. On another level, though, they need to shut the fuck up and pay attention. Because I'm gonna tell you right now that the Lions win over the Browns is meaningful in a way that is rare in this world.
Indeed. This game is known throughout Michigan and Ohio as The Great Lakes Classic. It is about establishing state supremacy. The winner gets the rights to all Great Lakes shipping for an entire year and the winner's residents are allowed to descend upon the loser's state with whips and chains and enslave the whole damn bunch of them. It's in both the Constitution and the Bible.
Look, I am not a violent man, but the laws of my great state compel me to travel to Cleveland with my brethren and pistol whip the mongrel hordes that crawl desperately through the streets with fear in their eyes and wild panic in their hearts. Some would say that a mere game shouldn't decide such things, but we have existed as a state for 173 years now and it has worked for us so far.
Sure, it will be tough watching some poor wretch pulled from the streets of Cleveland snarling at me from within a specially reinforced cage while I menace him with a cattle prod but if it wasn't for those bars that son of a bitch would try to eat me. And while I don't condone the institution of slavery, I believe that I can teach these lowly sinners something about life. I can mold and shape them into something worthy of the word human. They are Ohioans by birth and therefore they are without grace or dignity and are irrevocably doomed. But I am a man of such decency and such kindness that I will try to mold them into something resembling a Michigander, beings of such pure and radiant light that to look upon them is to look upon heaven itself. No, those poor fools will never approach such heights, but they can at least look up to them, see us standing on those lofty peaks and try to imitate us. They will be little more than pets, I'm afraid, but as I love my cat and dog, I shall love my Ohioan slaves.
And I understand that the nation will be shocked at the footage of a street gang from Flint pillaging the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, pissing on displays of Jimi Hendrix and Chubby Checker, lynching a life size cutout of Elvis Presley and burning Little Richard in effigy. These are horrible things, things that the average man from the outside just doesn't understand. Nor should he. But these are the stakes of this awful game. We all understand this, on both sides, and we accept it.
Look, I don't necessarily take any joy in it. It simply has to be done. It does not fill me with happiness to flog Drew Carey with a steel cable while he staggers naked through the streets, crying and begging for mercy, but both he and I understand that this is just the way it must be.
In a little under two weeks, on the morning of September 12, before the first game of the season, we will all gather together at the Renaissance Center in Detroit, near Ford Field. There we will all draw lots to see which of the captured Ohioan slaves will be given to each one of us. It's not a pretty sight. They are all herded together into giant industrial sized cages, naked and hungry and are assigned via a lottery system to their new owners. I myself am hoping for an old lady who can cook vegan food and a young athlete who I can pit against my neighbor's stable of gladiators. Then again, I know very well that we are dealing with Ohioans here and there is a very good chance that I will end up with a semi-retarded cripple who will just shit on my floor and cause me nothing but misery.
Of course, not every Ohioan will end up in the care of a beneficent man such as myself. Some of my compatriots are angry and vengeful people and they will take their slaves and cast them face down into the Detroit River. The mass of bodies will become so terrible that we will be able to use them as a human bridge to Canada. I don't want this to happen, but I understand that it does. I know this because last year, after the Browns beat the Lions in the preseason and my noble state fell under the dominion of savage Ohio, I had a cousin who was drowned in the Cuyahoga River by his new owner just for laughs. It was horrible. I myself was beaten severely by a drunk from Akron but he would often pass out early and I would be free to spend my nights corrupting his wife and teaching his children how to read, which is a crime in Ohio. Thankfully, we were all later rescued by Matthew Stafford, who sacrificed himself so that we could all once again be free.
Which brings me to my next point, that we are but ordinary citizens reaping the benefits of the hard work of a few, good, strong noble men. We owe them our very freedom. Already, they have taken control of their own slaves and have gathered in their just rewards. Ndamukong Suh has full ownership of Jake Delhomme's family after he slew Delhomme in the heat of battle. I feel sorry for Delhomme's family, who have to wake up every day to see Jake's head mounted on Suh's wall, but again, this is just the way it is. Kill or be killed, you know?
And of course, The Great Willie Young has hundreds of slaves, lucky men and women who will soon worship him like a god. When they return to Ohio, they will return with the Good Word, the gospel of Willie Young and his message will spread even further. Of course, Colt McCoy already knows the word, for he was burned by its truth, and today he just staggers aimlessly around the Great Willie Young's compound, blind and naked, muttering gibberish to himself. Not all are meant to stare directly into the Burning Bush.
But The Great Willie Young is a compassionate man and he will allow McCoy to serve as his footstool whenever he receives foreign dignitaries at court and for that I commend him. Such a noble and glorious man.
And of course, we cannot forget about the trophy. Yes, that's right, the winner of the Great Lakes Classic receives a trophy. This year, the trophy is the hollowed out skull of Eric Mangini, which is currently in the possession of Jim Schwartz. The skull has been shaped into a cup, from which Schwartz drinks the blood of his fallen enemies. It is a ritual as old as time itself (or at least dating back to 2002. Same thing really.) and after a week, Schwartz will pass the cup on to Gunther Cunningham who will then pass it on to Scott Linehan who will then pass it on to Matthew Stafford and so on and so on until finally, at a ceremony at The Great Willie Young's compound, the cup will be broken and ground into dust and then snorted by Willie Young who will then depart on a two week long "spirit quest". He will take with him several dozen of his willing slaves, and when he returns he will be all alone, covered in blood and more powerful then ever and we won't ask any questions.
But those are the consequences of such a momentous game and I'm just glad we won. Could it have been better? Definitely. The back seven of the defense appears to actually be footage taken from Hiroshima on the night of August 6, 1945. They are horrible and they will keep me from descending into that orgy of ridiculous optimism which keeps threatening to take me.
There was a point in the game where I allowed myself to dream big. The offense will score a ton of points this season. Matthew Stafford has looked ridiculously good so far, Jahvid Best looks like the heir to a certain martyred Saint we all know and love (God, that's a quote that is going to come back and make me look utterly ridiculous. I just know it. Wait, you mean it already does? Well, shit.), and St. Calvin is, of course, St. Calvin. And I told myself that if the front four of the defense, who have looked like world beaters at times this preseason, can get enough pressure up front to help out the secondary, then . . . maybe. Of course, then I remembered that we will be starting Stephen Boyd (the actor from Ben Hur who's been dead for 33 years, not the retired Lion) at middle linebacker and a collection of Lem Barney's anal fissures in the secondary. Optimism = crushed.
Well, that's not entirely true. I'm still optimistic. It should be a fun season. I'm just not wildly optimistic and I harbor no delusions that this is a playoff team or anything like that. But for now, they are the winners of the Great Lakes Classic and because of that, the residents of Michigan are all winners. Like Joseph Paquette, the herald of Sisu, who will get himself a slave who can carry him on his back on his return trip to Munising. Or like Ted Nugent, who will have a whole new species to hunt on his vast property. It's a good day, a Michigan day, and we will take comfort in that even if the future remains hazy and a little frightening.
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