My Heart Is Made Of Thunder And Joy

It'll make sense if you read the post. Maybe. Hopefully?

I spent most of the game swearing and wondering why God had forsaken me. It seemed like Fate was playing one of its awful tricks on us, allowing us to taste the future without actually getting to live inside of it. It’s a unique sort of torture, cruel and unrelenting, because you know that an inch here, an inch there, and the cold, gray bleak world you live in would explode into a Technicolor world of rainbows and sunshine and midgets dancing and dead witches and talking lions and retarded scarecrows and holy shit, L. Frank Baum was high as fuck, wasn’t he?

But we never get to live in that world as Lions fans. Instead, we’re stuck on the shitty ol’ Kansas farm with our worthless mutt and our Bible thumping old Aunt and Uncle who only have sex if the moon is in its proper phase and we are constantly harassed by some old bitch who cackles at us and constantly reminds us that we are failures and that our future is tied to the choking misery of the dirt and dust of the family farm and oh Lord, just give us those fuckin’ ruby red slippers already.

The defense was wonderful. Right from the start, the defensive line absolutely obliterated Donovan McNabb and I remember thinking how great it was to be able to watch the game and, for once, to actually feel like the other team was hopelessly fucked up and that all we had to do was keep it together and everything would be smiles and good times. Then Matthew Stafford looked like a dude who, well, like a dude who hadn’t played in almost two months and it seemed like whatever superpowers had been granted our defense had come at the expense of the offense and the whole damn thing started to feel like one of Fate’s cruel tricks. Ha ha ha! Gotcha! Yeah, thanks, Fate, you insufferable prick.

I spent the majority of the first half feeling like a schizophrenic bipolar mess. Whenever the Redskins had the ball, and our defensive line was unleashing the dogs of war, I could feel the sunshine and I could taste all the sweet, sweet candy and I could see St. Peter guiding me towards those beautiful gates. But whenever the Lions had the ball, and our offense was being eaten by the hounds from hell, I could feel the pull of the Failure Demon, I smelled acrid smoke and all I could taste was a big ol’ mouthful of shit. I swore at my television, I threw my hands up in despair and I screamed “Why???” like Nancy Kerrigan after she got bludgeoned by a fat guy with a pipe. And the entire time my brain kept telling me “Relax, my dude, we’re so close.” (Yes, my brain calls me “My dude” and I converse with him regularly. Does this surprise any of you? At all?)

But that was the whole point. We were so close and I knew it and that’s what it made it so terrible. That’s what made it hurt so much. We were there. Only, no, no we weren’t. Everything that was wrong before was now somehow right and the few things that had been right were terribly wrong and I just wanted to scream because it just felt so damn unfair and Oh Lord The Fear and . . . breathe, damn it. Breathe.

Hope is just a word. You can say you believe in it, you can tell everyone that you have embraced it, but it’s not something that you believe in. It’s not something that you embrace. You either have it or you don’t, and you don’t have it until you have it. I know that sounds like some ridiculous Yogi Berraesque “Hey, everyone laugh at me because I’m legally retarded” saying, but it’s true. The Fear will own you until Hope rips out Fear’s heart and shits in its empty chest cavity.

And so as the second half wore on, The Fear kept creeping up behind me, peeking its head over my shoulder and laughing like some deranged ghoul and all I could do was rock back and forth like a mental patient and try to pretend that it wasn’t there. But it was, and I couldn’t fight it off. It was horrible. The Lions suddenly couldn’t cover kicks, Matthew Stafford was still too inconsistent and oh God, I have seen this story too many times before and the bombs are falling and hey, isn’t that Rod Marinelli’s ghost? And oh shit, it’s screeching about pad level and . . . breathe, damn it. Breathe.

Our defensive linemen were heroic, thundering against the inexorable tide of fate because Fate, like Hope, is just a word and those were men without fear and if they were going to die, they were going to die on their terms and no one else’s, not History’s, not Fate’s and certainly not the Redskins’. And I rallied to that, I chose to believe, and I summoned up everything inside of myself and I watched with a pure heart and I cheered as Matthew Stafford threw a touchdown pass to give us the lead and the gray shadows of this world seemed to acquire a bit of blue, a touch of red, a hint of yellow, and I could feel the wall between the world we have lived in for fifty years and that Technicolor world of tomorrow start to disintegrate and I held my breath and I said “Please, please, please,” and then the Redskins returned a kick for a touchdown, everything went black and The Fear jumped up and laughed in my face.

The Fear sat beside me and he held my hand as the Lions failed to pick up a first down and he told me that it would be alright and that he would take care of me and hey, hell isn’t so bad, you know? And I nodded, dumb, whipped again and the only thing that remained of that Technicolor world was a vague memory, rapidly dying. Donovan McNabb lined up to take the snap and I looked in Fear’s face and I was struggling, struggling, struggling to hang onto those hazy memories of that Technicolor world and I mumbled “Come on, interception, right here” and The Fear laughed at me and he shook his head in mocking pity and then Alphonso Smith wrestled the ball out of the receiver’s hands and stepped through my screen and told Fear to go fuck itself.

But The Fear is a terrible beast, and he still hid in the corner and slowly crept his way out until the Lions faced a fourth and one and I remember thinking “This is it. This is the game.” And The Fear slinked over and he hissed “You know what happens now, don’t you?” Yes. Matthew Stafford throws a touchdown pass and you, Fear, can go to hell.

And so it was. And then Hope rushed into the room, and he looked a lot like St. Calvin and he punched a hole in The Fear’s chest and as The Fear sank to the floor, Hope squatted over him and indeed, he shit in that asshole’s chest. Hope and I hi-fived and then I laughed at The Fear’s lifeless corpse and I looked up and the world was full of color and . . . oh . . . oh God . . . the future, it is so beautiful, and it is now.

And then Rex Grossman died and Ndamukong Suh danced into the endzone and as he did, an agent of The Fear, wearing a Redskins uniform, reached out and tried to tackle him, and the Lord of the House of Spears turned around and told him to back the fuck off, flicked him away like an annoying gnat, and The Fear faded away into oblivion and whatever barrier existed between us and the future was gone.

I have rambled deliriously here, and I am aware that it has all been incredibly ridiculous and probably incomprehensible, but I don’t really care. Every time I have watched the Lions get into a fight, I have watched them get knocked out. Sometimes, it has been in the first round and I have bitched and moaned and felt like we would never win another fight again. Sometimes, it’s been in round twelve and I have patted our boys on the back and told everyone to believe in Hope, that one of these days we would win one of these awful brawls. And then today happened and the Lions found themselves in yet another fight. The bell rang on the twelfth round and instead of slumping their shoulders, trudging out and getting KO’d, our boys stood up, looked straight ahead and said “I am not afraid.” And then they threw a mighty punch and the other guy fell down and the fight was over and we had won. And suddenly, Hope wasn’t just a word but a living thing.

I can’t complete this adequately. I just can’t. I barely know what I’m even writing, but maybe that’s the point. I am overloaded, filled with a cascade of emotions that don’t know how to be reasonable, that are utterly illogical and only express themselves in euphoric hoots and grunts. With about five minutes left in that game, I still lived in the old world, and The Fear had me, even if I didn’t know it. And I was prepared to bitch and moan and complain about how I don’t believe in moral victories. And then the game was over and I was smiling and laughing like a damn fool and Matthew Stafford had somehow thrown 4 touchdown passes, St. Calvin had caught 3 of them and Ndamukong Suh became legend. The struggles of the past no longer seemed to matter, and everything up until that moment when Alphonso Smith wrestled the ball away seemed to live in another world, a dead gray world that I don’t have to live in anymore because the world I live in is alive and in Technicolor. My heart is made of Thunder and Joy and the Detroit Lions are here, and I am Hope and The Fear is dead.

Scalping the Redskins: A Necessary Evil On The Road To Glory

Offensive? Sure, but these are strange and terrible times and our Manifest Destiny demands it.

It’s a strange feeling to have confidence as a fan of the Detroit Lions. It is even stranger to have that confidence when your team is 1-5. And yet, here we are, and here I am, confident and ready to watch my team win on Sunday. I’m not the only one who feels that way either, as the Lions are actually favored to win by those degenerates in Vegas. It probably helps that the Lions are actually 5-1 against the spread this season, which means that they have been better than anyone expected, even if they haven’t been quite good enough to win so far this season. It also probably helps that they actually did win one of those five games officially counted as a loss (The Martyrdom of St. Calvin NEVAR FORGET), and it helps that 4 of those 5 losses came on the road. It definitely helps that the Lions had a legitimate shot at winning 4 of those 5 games in the final minutes, and it helps that the Lions essentially hung with 4 teams who have winning records right now. In an alternate universe, the Lions are 5-1 after catching a few breaks and everyone is talking about them as the hot young team taking the NFL by storm and Matthew Stafford is healthy and smiling and taking cell phone pictures of his 14 inch dick in order to further shame Brett Favre and Jim Schwartz is having his brain implanted in a super computer by the government in order to ensure world peace and I’m the King of North America and me and my best friend, The Great Willie Young, fly up to Alaska every month to hunt polar bears and screw Eskimos or hunt Eskimos and screw polar bears or hell, all of the above.

But that is not the universe we live in, sadly. In the universe we live in, the Lions are a frustrating 1-5 and can’t quite seem to figure out how to actually win the damn games at the end. But all this has done has ramped up the ridiculous schizophrenia which has taken hold of the Lions fanbase and has driven us all to madness and confusion. I am ground zero for that kind of weird shit, and I feel like I am going mad. And it’s because I can’t quite make my optimism mesh with the fact that the Lions are indeed 1-5. How can a man feel good about his team when they are 1-5? How can he honestly stand in front of you and tell you that things are looking good? I don’t know and that’s the problem.

I suppose there are all the reasons I mentioned earlier – the daunting early schedule, the Lions competitiveness on the road, etc. – but a pessimistic man could also look at all of those things and say that the Lions still lost, and that while they were in a position to win all of those games, they weren’t in the lead in any of them during the second half. He could point out that the defense still isn’t very good and that the offense has struggled to run the ball. He could also point out that the team is still beset by awful penalties and retarded mistakes and hey, hey, hey, same ol’ Lions, amirite?

But fuck that guy. Seriously. I am feeling good and I don’t want to have to justify it. It’s like pornography. I know it when I see it. And what I see is a team that looks completely different than the one that went 2-14 last season, and it looks vastly different than whatever the hell it was that called itself a team that went 0-16 two years ago. This is a real, live football team, and hey look, that dude is fucking the shit out of that midget tranny. (Like I wasn’t going to go for the quick porn callback. Come on.)

I think something happened to this team in the game against the Packers. Up until then, it felt the same. It felt like the Lions were just going to roll over and die, just like they always do. Last year, they were in the same situation, heading into Green Bay with a backup quarterback, and they were shut out and in the aftermath I damned everyone to hell and suggested that Daunte Culpepper be drowned in Lake Michigan like a retarded puppy nobody wants. (I’m sorry, that’s a horrible thing to say. Puppies shouldn’t be compared to Daunte Culpepper. They don’t deserve that shit.) But this year, the Lions went out and they fought, and they died, but before they did, there was a moment when it felt like they might actually live, and it was a moment that I think changed everything.

In that moment, the Lions and their fans knew what it felt like to be alive, and it was the first time, I think, that we had really felt True Hope. Up until then, we had accepted our terrible fate, our inevitable death, because we didn’t know what it felt like to live. We told ourselves that we had hope. We said that we believed in it. But how could we? We didn’t even know what it was. But that moment was different. We saw that we could live, we saw that there was a different world out there for us, we felt all of it - the electric beauty of the moment, the powerful nourishment of Hope, all of it - and we finally – finally – truly believed.

I know that sounds like some Pollyannaish bullshit, but fuck it, I don’t care. We went out the next week and curb stomped those asshole Rams and then the next week we went into New York (well, New Jersey) and nearly beat the Giants with our third string quarterback. This is a team that won’t stop now. It’s a team of inevitability, a team who will just keep coming and keep coming and keep coming until they finally break through whatever invisible barrier is left and then they will win and they will keep winning and holy shit, this is how a real team is formed, dudes and lady dudes.

Of course, it’s entirely possible that I have been swept away in some sort of crazed dementia and am currently standing in the middle of a nut house, wearing a diaper and one of those newspaper hats, playing with little tiny army men and barking orders at them. Okay, Ndamukong, you hold the middle, Alphonso you take the left flank, Louis you guard the rear and oops, I just shit my pants.

I’m not discounting that as a real possibility, but fuck it, if it takes utter madness to achieve true joy and happiness then to hell with it, let’s get crazy up in this motherfucker.

This week, we get another chance to break through against the Redskins, and for the first time really, I feel like we’re there, like okay, now is the time to finally beat a team just because that’s what you do when you’re a real live NFL team. The freak show is over and now the fun begins. That’s what it feels like. This is going to make it hilarious when fate inevitably ethers me and then shits on my chest, but fuck it, I’m not afraid.

I am degenerating into wild ranting but I just can’t help myself. I am shouting non-sequiturs like some deranged bum, pantsless, standing on the street corner smelling of urine and failure, and I don’t blame you if you are frightened by such a scene. I am too. But this is what joy and hope does to a man who has been hardened and molded by the fires of hell. This is what True Belief does to a man who was educated in the ways of Fear and Anguish. All I can do is try to hold onto to some semblance of reality, to occasionally come up for air and look at the numbers and check to see if my genitals are still there (wait . . . what?) and make sure that I am at least tenuously still tethered to reality and not floating in some far off fantasy candy land filled with rainbows and blowjobs and angels playing harps and St. Peter laughing at me and telling me there’s no way I’m getting through those gates.

And I’m trying to do that. I really am. I’m trying to remain rational, but fandom by its nature is irrational and stupid and filled with ridiculous flights of fancy, and so I don’t want to turn into some jackoff Sunday school teacher either, wagging a stern finger at all the immature children and pissing all over the hopes and dreams of the young and the idealistic. And that’s where I find myself right now, trying to find that balance between Hope and Reality. The sad part is that I have no idea how to do this. This is all new to me and so I guess we’ll just have to try to get through it together. We’ll have some laughs, we’ll cry some tears, I’ll lose my pants and you’ll shake your head in shame and regret. Deal?

So just how does this Redskins game look through this new filter? Well, I think it looks pretty good. The Lions have played well enough to win so far this year . . . and shitty enough to lose. But the good stuff is becoming more and more evident and hey, isn’t that Matthew Stafford’s music? It is! The Lions almost pulled out that game against the Giants even though they were being led by nothing more than Grit and one of David Eckstein’s used jockstraps. So, yeah, it’s kind of an upgrade from that to the dude who was the number one overall pick in the draft last year. I am incredibly anxious to see just how well this Lions offense can run with Stafford at the controls.

The bad news is that the Redskins have been pretty good defensively. Carlos Rogers has played well at cornerback and DeAngelo Hall finally got his shit together last week and went crazy against the Bears. Meanwhile, Brian Orakpo is cold killing fools and Albert Haynesworth . . . well, Fat Albert finally accepted the fact that he is a sack of shit and has seemingly settled into a role of situational defensive tackle. Seriously, I read something this week where Albert basically said he was a piece of shit who had no idea how to play in the 3-4 and so it was good for him to only play in the nickel package. I mean, what the fuck?

Anyway, the longer he settles into his role, the better he’ll probably be, and if he’s finally got his footing under him, then that could suck for the Lions. The good news, however, is that Haynesworth is still a human turd mountain and isn’t anywhere near the 100 million dollar hate machine the Redskins thought they were getting. He’s just a fat guy who gets in the way every now and then. Meanwhile, I think that DeAngelo Hall’s crazy ass game against the Bears, in which he intercepted four passes, will actually help us this week. D-Hall’s the type of dude who only cares about making the big play. He doesn’t give a fuck if he gets burned. He just wants all of those delicious interceptions. This will likely lead to him gambling like a coked up Kenny Rogers out of his brain after 72 hours of straight blackjack, binging on peyote and Indian whores on a reservation casino. That motherfucker will slip up, and when he does, a gang of heavily muscled grim looking Indians will show up to strip his ass naked and throw him into the dumpster out back.

For our purposes, that translates into DeAngelo taking a wild run at the ball and then everyone laughing as he ends up laying on the ground while Nate Burleson does a twelve step dance routine into the end zone. Seriously, look at this quote from DeAngelo Hall:

"And (the defensive backs) had been harping on, 'Put us in some zones, man, so ... we can make some breaks and not have a whole lot of responsibility. We can just kind of freelance.”

Jesus. Now that is a dude who just doesn’t give a fuck, you know? We can exploit that. Heavily.

Of course, Brian Orakpo is still Brian Orakpo and Jeff Backus is still Jeff Backus, which . . . gulp. *nervously tugs at collar* And Laron Landry is a fucking psychopath (in all the best ways) who will attempt to maim and murder anyone wearing Honolulu Blue. That is not a good thing, especially since Stafford might be made of glass, crepe paper and the easily shattered dreams of a child. But I am sure that the Lions know this and I am going to assume that they are going to have some sort of Zulu Warrior stationed in the rafters with a blow dart in case Orakpo leaves Backus on his back like a retarded turtle and bears down on a helpless Stafford while we all scream NOOOOOOOOOOOOO and beat our couches or chests or wives or children or pets or whatever the fuck is closest in that terrible moment. It’s important to believe in Plan B’s and if our Plan B happens to be a Zulu Warrior with a blow dart then so be it.

Defensively, the Lions will frustrate us, just like they always do, but the good news is that so far this season - and especially since the Packers game – they have shown an ability to sprinkle in some good plays with the bad. And since Donovan McNabb is probably legitimately slow and a notorious fuckup, that bodes well for us. Like I said a couple of days ago, McNabb’s biggest crunch time moment saw him puke all over the field. The dude will make a terrible throw and I think our defense is capable of making him pay for it. He was terrible last week against the Bears and the only reason that isn’t a bigger story this week is because while McNabb was running around without his pants on, Jay Cutler was staggering down the field covered in shit and drool in front of a horrified audience, casually jacking off and screaming at the top of his lungs about how pod people controlled by President Obama and Oprah stole his life force and also his classic DT1 Yamaha Dirtbike.

I actually wish that Clinton Portis was playing but the Redskins finally took him out behind the barn and shot him and then sold his parts to that weird guy down the street who makes mystery meat stew which has allowed Ryan Torain to emerge as a legitimately good NFL running back. However, I believe that I will be rewarded by Karma since I traded Torain to Raven Mack in our fantasy league because I knew that was his boy. Surely, such a noble gesture will be looked kindly upon by whatever gods have spent the last half century skull fucking us, right? RIGHT???

In the end, I think that the Lions will be able to move the ball against the Redskins. I think there will be some inconsistency early, especially because Stafford is bound to be a bit rusty, but I think he’ll also be able to take advantage of DeAngelo Hall’s aggressiveness and the presence of Grit Merchant Drew Doughty at safety for some big plays in the passing game. I think the Lions can use the Redskins’ aggressiveness as a defense against them. The offense preys on that sort of shit. Aside from burning Hall, the Lions will probably try to get the Redskins to overreact on screens and the short passes that they love to run, which should then in turn open up the field deeper for Stafford and his cannon arm to rain down hell, which should then make the Redskins skittish enough to back off and then get murdered by Jahvid Best. That’s what I’d like to see happen anyway. Will it? Well, I choose to believe in Hope, so I will say, in the immortal words of St. Francis of Assisi, “Fuck yes.”

And while the Lions will benefit from big plays on offense, the Redskins will be killed by big plays going the other way thanks to McNabb fucking up. Besides, in the Redskins four wins this season, these have been their point totals: 13, 17, 16, 17, so . . . yeah, it’s not like we’re dealing with the Greatest Show on Turf Rams here, you know? As long as the Lions can hit 20 points, they should be able to win this game. That’s not exactly a high threshold. And finally, let’s not forget that the Redskins lost to the Rams, 30-16. They have some good wins, but this is a team that the Lions can beat, and finally, I can say – and mean it – that this is a team that the Lions should beat. And I think they will.

FIVE NO DOUBT TERRIBLE PREDICTIONS

1. Stafford starts slow but ends up completing 22 of 36 passes for 258 yards and 3 touchdowns with 1 interception.

2. Best finds enough room to pick up 70 yards on 16 carries. He also catches 6 passes for 55 yards. He accounts for 1 touchdown.

3. St. Calvin catches 7 passes for 123 yards and 1 touchdown and I start to break out with the weird Dr. Manhattan shit that I did last season.

4. McNabb will complete 25-39 passes for 265 yards and 1 touchdown, but he’ll be picked off 2 times, and each one will be a killer. This will be the difference in the game.

5. Torain will run for 78 yards on 22 carries, as the run defense finally stiffens with the return of DeAndre Levy to the lineup. After the game, The Great Willie Young will ceremonially scalp Torain for being a Redskin and will have to be restrained by his teammates and the ghost of Andrew Jackson when he gets carried away with flashbacks to his days as a warrior during the Indian Wars.

PREDICTED FINAL SCORE: LIONS 24, REDSKINS 17

The Adventures Of The Great Willie Young: Willie the Black, Scourge of the Vikings

If you feel the need to catch up, just click on the tag at the bottom of this post titled Willie Young and prepare to have your mind melted.

This week’s tale comes down to us from Ireland in the early 9^th century, where it would seem that The Great Willie Young had retired to the tranquility of a monastery following his blood soaked exploits in China. There are some who question the date and the voracity of these accounts, seeing as how The Great Willie Young was also supposed to be in China around this same time, but those people are small minded fools who don’t understand that the concepts of space and time are meaningless to a being of pure light like The Great Willie Young.

No one knows quite when The Great Willie Young arrived in Ireland, but monastery records seem to indicate that he had already been living there for quite some time before the events of today’s tale unfolded. In fact, it would seem that he was there for decades, never aging, while the other monks grew old and feeble. Apparently, the monks believed this to be a miracle of God, but not before there were some internal squabbles over witchcraft.

This account (translated and cleaned up to make sense within the confines of the modern vernacular) from a monk named Father Bernard explains further:

“Father Sheamus began to assail the good name of Father Willie, condemning him as a witch and threatening to burn him at the stake, but Father Sheamus was without support, as Father Willie was much beloved by the majority of the flock. There was a great tumult and Father Sheamus attempted to set Father Willie on fire. But he was attacked by a great host of friars before he could get to Father Willie, and they set upon him with a variety of axe handles and open handed slaps. In the fracas, Father Sheamus was choked to death with a set of rosary beads. The perpetrator was never found, and the majority were content to conclude that he had been slain by the hand of God himself, who in His infinite wisdom had grown angry with Father Sheamus for questioning the nature of His living miracle. Father Bertrand, the head of our order, explained that Father Sheamus was now in hell for his assault and that we should pray for his soul, damned though it may be. Father Willie, for his part, was quiet, as usual, and all he would say was that he didn’t understand what the commotion was about and that he just had good skin.”

It would seem that The Great Willie Young was oddly subdued during his time at the Irish monastery, but there are some indications that this was due to an overwhelming desire on his part to “cleanse his soul” as he reportedly told a fellow monk. Again, Father Bernard elaborates:

“I once asked Father Willie how he came to join us. He just smiled, and in his kind, quiet voice, he told me that he was brought to us by God. I asked him from whence he came, and he just looked off into the distance and said ‘Everywhere . . . and nowhere.’ I pondered the wisdom of these words and stayed with him in prayer for the better part of the day. At times he would speak and I would listen. He told me of his need to atone for the many sins of his past. He said he had the blood of the wicked upon him and told me a strange and bewildering story of wrestling with a Panther God that I took to be metaphorical. He also made several references to an Oriental wife who had passed on and to slaying a Turkish Sultan while in the company of a Spaniard named Don Juan de Austria. It was all extremely confusing. He then smiled, and said that blood was not the only human liquid he had found himself covered in. I recoiled in horror and prayed for his soul, terrified at the thought of him being tortured with human excrement. He told me to stop, and said that he was just joking. I asked him what a joke was, but he returned to his prayers. A few hours later, he admitted to me that he had lain with a woman. I asked him if it was just the one and he laughed and told me that I was a quick learner and that I had made a good joke. I just stared in bewilderment and then wondered if it was possible that he had lain with two women. I asked him to tell me their names, but Father Willie just sighed and told me that I would die of old age before he finished with the list. I shuddered at the thought of such wanton carnality and asked him what a man who had experienced the pleasures of the flesh in such extremes was doing in our midst. He told me that it was the only place where he would not be tempted, although he remarked upon my own womanly bosom. He then explained again the concept of a joke while I prayed for his soul. He finished by telling me that his ‘Uncle Richard’ was tired. I confessed I didn’t understand, and so he said ‘You know, my dick?’ I did not know.”

Obviously, The Great Willie Young had taken up residence in the monastery in order to get some much needed rest. Although he was an immortal, he was still subject to the general weariness that plagues us all, and even a great being such as himself needed time to reflect upon his many deeds and, uh, conquests.

But, a man such as The Great Willie Young is a man of great destiny indeed, and such a man is not allowed by the fates to rest for too long. And so it was with The Great Willie Young. It would seem that on an early Spring morning, while the shores were clouded in mist, a young friar began to scream in pain. When he turned from the walls of the monastery, where he had been sitting, looking out over the great ocean and reflecting upon the wonders of God, the other monks noticed that he had been struck by an arrow in the chest. He staggered forward and then fell from the walls. It was only a moment later that a great clamor arose as a great ship appeared out of the fog. It was a Viking ship and they had come to raid the monastery, to pillage and plunder. The monks, defenseless, began at once to pray for salvation. And it was in this moment that The Great Willie Young’s rest came to an end.

Once again, Father Bernard:

“There was an awful tumult. Grown men screamed and wept at the sight of those terrible heathens. A young brother by the name of Friar Stephen tried to rally the rest of us aged men to the defense of the monastery, but he was struck by an arrow, which pierced his eye, and he fell dead. I watched in horror as his corpse was dragged away and defiled by the first wave of those heathens, terrible men, giants with unkempt hair and wild eyes, who flew out of their boat as if they had been given wings by the devil himself. They broke down our walls and began to ravage everything in sight. I hid behind a barrel and prayed for a quick and merciful death. All seemed lost, when suddenly, Father Willie burst out of the chapel with a giant axe in his hands. He dove into the path of the rampaging heathens and began to slay them one after another.”

And so the battle commenced. By all accounts, it was a terrible and bloody battle, in which the Vikings, led by their captain, Torvald the Red, so named for his flowing fire red hair, found themselves waging war with The Great Willie Young and a motley band of pathetic monks, most of whom soiled themselves and fell to prayer in the face of their enemies. An account taken from a Viking saga:

“The Christians fell to their knees and begged for mercy but there was none to be had. We had ridden the open seas for months and we were hungry, tired and in need of war. The captain invoked the great name of Thor and began to crush all those before him with his mighty war hammer. We were disappointed that there were no women and so some of the men began to take sexual liberties with the frightened Christian monks. They were like stupid lambs ripe for slaughter and we reigned in blood. Torvald the Red had stripped one monk naked and had proceeded to march him around the monastery at the tip of his sword to much laughter from the men. I, myself, stole some jewels from an unguarded room and relieved myself upon the altar of their god.”

It was an awful scene, but the Vikings were soon in for a terrible surprise. More from the Viking saga:

“It seemed as if we could do whatever we wanted, that we were more gods than men, but as I was defiling a fat monk with apple fresh cheeks, I heard a great cry, a terrible frightened cry. I ignored it, assuming it to be the pathetic bleating of the Christians, but soon the cry was accompanied by words and I recoiled in horror and fear myself when I heard them: “Willie the Black is here!”

It would seem that Willie the Black was a legendary figure from the edges of Norse history, a figure who was half mythical and half real, existing in stories from before time itself. The Norse rarely spoke of him, and when they did, it was clear that they believed him to be some sort of figure of the underworld, roughly akin to our own devil. It was said among them that he was the only man to ever war with Thor and win. They claimed that Willie the Black grabbed Thor by the beard and dragged him all around Valhalla, viciously sonning him in front of the Norse community of gods and fallen spirits. They claimed that Thor even wept and begged Willie the Black for forgiveness but Willie the Black just laughed, stripped Thor naked and spanked him, humiliating him.

Willie the Black pops up only occasionally in the Norse anthologies, but his name carried with it great dread and was seemingly known and understood by all Vikings. It was customary to curse his name if it needed to be said, and it was believed that in the end of days, Willie the Black would return for one final terrible battle with Thor, which would determine the fate of humanity once and for all. We do not know the origin of these tales or how Willie the Black came to be so feared, but needless to say, his presence on the field of battle was enough to send the Vikings into a frenzied panic.

More from the Viking saga:

“I felt a stream of urine run down my leg and I forgot all concept of conquest and ran for the safety of the ship. I had heard tales that Willie the Black was capable of swimming through the waters like a great sea snake, but my only hope was that he would be content to destroy my compatriots and would let me sail away in shame and misery.”

The slaughter was immense. Both Vikings and Christian monks fell on that dreadful day, but in the end, the battle turned in favor of The Great Willie Young. Once again, Father Bernard:

“Father Willie emerged with his great axe and screamed ‘Come get some, motherfuckers!’ It was an odd choice of words and I did not understand them, but the Vikings fled in horror, screeching amongst one another about Willie the Black. I took this to mean Father Willie, and I watched from behind my barrel of shame while Father Willie descended upon them. He tore out their beards and defecated on their fallen bodies. It was awful and awe inspiring at the same time. Truly, this was a man of God, a man of great power, an angel of heaven and glorious vengeance.”

The battle culminated in a terrible showdown between Willie the Black and Torvald the Red. The showdown was short and violent, as Willie became enraged when he saw Torvald’s flowing red hair. If you’ll recall from the initial account of Willie Young, gathered following the NFL Draft, it is believed that The Great Willie Young has a deep hatred for all things red following the death of his father, the Cheetah God, at the hands of British redcoats on safari in Africa. The Great Willie Young howled with great rage and swung the mighty battle axe in his hands, bringing it down upon the head of Torvald the Red, splitting it open like a ripe melon. He then chopped the man’s hair off and claimed it as a trophy.

Again, Father Bernard:

“Father Willie emerged from the battle covered in blood with a mane of red hair in one hand. I looked up at him in stunned awe while the rest of the heathens attempted to flee. Father Willie caught them all one by one and calmly dispatched them with his mighty battle axe. Some of them begged for mercy, but Father Willie had none to give. Several of them were slapped to death by Father Willie’s mighty hand. I later asked him how this was possible and he told me ‘Bernard, baby, they know better than to mess with Big Willie’s pimp hand.” As usual, his words were exotic and mysterious and I took them to be the Word of God.”

It would seem that one Viking was allowed to escape. His final account, taken from the saga:

“I hid myself in the bowels of the ship as it sailed aimless towards the sea. I peeked out just before the ship was retaken by the fog and I saw the spirit of Willie the Black. It had risen to the height of 100 feet and it breathed fire and I saw my captain’s pelt in his hand and I wept tears of both fear and anguish. I know I will die before I meet another man, and so I tell this tale so that all may know the horrors of Willie the Black, scourge of the Vikings.”

The account of this lone Viking was found on a drifting ship off the coast of France. No body was ever found and it was whispered amongst the French that his body must have been taken and devoured by the mysterious Willie the Black mentioned in the journal. The legend later grew to the point that William the Conqueror, upon sailing from Normandy for Britain, claimed that he was in the company of Willie the Black, which was said to inspire fear in the hearts of the people of the British Isles, with the exception of the Irish who were said to have merely smiled, for they believed Willie the Black to be a patron saint of theirs, much like St. Patrick or the dude who invented Guinness. But that is all a tale for another time and we must return to today’s story.

After the battle, it would seem that The Great Willie Young was ready to once again move on. He said his goodbyes to the grateful monks, who had come to revere him as something more human than human. Several of them insisted that he was an angel and one or two of them even claimed that he was God Himself. The Great Willie Young just laughed at them but he didn’t deny anything.

One last time, Father Bernard:

“I kissed Father Willie’s feet and asked him if there was anything I could give him. He laughed and asked me if I had a daughter. I just stared in confusion at him before he just shook his head and said ‘Damn, Bernard, you dumb as fuck.’ I told him that this wasn’t true and that I could speak. He explained that this is not what he meant when he used the word ‘dumb’ and then just shook his head and said ‘Never mind, you just proved my point, my man.’ I was overjoyed that I had proven his point and I smiled. He just laughed and told me to ‘Stay cool.’ I replied that I was quite comfortable and he just laughed and told me I reminded him of a fellow named Lennie Small. I assumed this was a great compliment and so I smiled, and with all the confidence that brought, I was able to summon the courage to ask Father Willie how he had been able to defeat those terrible heathens. He said ‘I just hate Vikings. Always have. Show me a Viking, and I’ll wreck that purple motherfucker. Fuck a Brett Favre. I plan on whipping some Viking ass for years to come.’ I just stared at Father Willie in wide eyed awe and then he vanished in a cloud of sweet swelling smoke and I fell to the earth and thanked God for sending us such an angel.”

Today, a statue of The Great Willie Young can be found on the spot where the old monastery once stood, and in various Scandinavian villages, the name of Willie the Black is still spoken with fear and dread, and some say that on dark, moonless nights, Willie the Black will appear and he will slaughter any found wandering outside their homes because Willie the Black does not rest, and he will haunt the Vikings until the end of time.