You would think that I would have more to say following a Lions victory, but . . . you’d be terribly, terribly wrong. Really, I don’t feel like there is that much to say but in the spirit of my idiot vow to post something every day, I need to do, uh, something. I guess? I mean, I have come this far, there are only three weeks or so left and it would be shitty to just collapse now. After all, I am made of iron and insanity and my heart is a gentleman and a warrior poet, and . . . I’m not even sure what I’m gibbering about. Anyway, I am feeling listless and uninspired and I don’t even have the construct of my game predictions to work off of here. I mean, I guess I could take a look at how Erik Kramer did or for how many yards St. Barry actually ran for 19 years ago, but . . . but . . . I am so uninspired that I can’t even decide how to finish this sentence. Maybe I need to gnaw on the adrenal gland of a jackrabbit or consume Ernest Hemingway’s heart in some seedy Indian sweat lodge in order to gain some sort of primitive, semi-mystical creative boost. Hell, I don’t know.
So, what then? What should I talk about? How about nothing? Indeed. Instead, I am going to turn to my e-mail inbox, which saw this little gem float down from heaven, or at least from a dude named Matt S. I hope he doesn’t mind me posting it. It is weird, but it made me laugh and really, that makes it perfect here, right? Anyway, I love my readers and the weird little community that has arisen around our fandom and this is just one more reason why. Enough of this gibberish. Take it away, Matt . . .
THE KING HATH DEVOURED MUCH CHEESE, AND IT THREATENS E'EN NOW TO RUMBLE FORTH FROM HIS SWEAT-PANTS!
Would that the pitiful sheep of Saint Louis were of a stronger stock, as their battered, shorn hindquarters provided the fleece for the King's finest Sun-day breeches, which strain this night to hold back his unctuous blasts. But nay, they trumpet forth, bursting the seams like proud Ndamukong, with impact just as force-ful, and an aftermath most distressing. You see, dairy agrees not with the King, and he has had more than his fill this day.
ONWARD through the barren chariot-lots of De-Troit charged the oozing hordes of Green-Bay, eager to dispatch the King's warriors. They presumed to breach mine borders and desecrate mine orphaned waifs. They presumed to spill Leonine blood, to drop their petticoats and put flesh to flesh, to grab the King's men by their proud manes and launch volley upon volley of reeking lim-burger seed deep into our choc'late caves, bubbling into a fondue most foul. They presumed no less than to rend and sunder mine very kingdom in 'twain.
They presumed much, my faithful subjects.
And thusly, they were fucked.
Alas, so was the King's DVR, so he will trust his burnt-lip griots to relay to him tales of victory most sweet. You see, the King spent this day deep within his Queen, stirring her loins like his hardiest wenches stir his bottom-less vats of blue-cheese dressing, and he was present on the field of battle only in spirit. But as the piled corpses of the Cheese Heads will attest, it mattered not.
Nay, for in the King's stead rode mine bravest Spartan, a son of the Green and White who has burned enough of both to know nothing of fear, and still less of arithmetic. HARK! This brave general learned as a youth the tools he needed to fillet the Wisconsinite armies, and he deployed said education on the fields of battle today, Gutting Every Defender. Indeed, one might say that he was learn-ed to the level of GED. Hail, brave Spartan! Well met!
Even in absentia, the King stamps his royal sceptre upon the greased fore-heads of all who challenge his throne. And yet, there is so much more glory to come. To-day's victory is only an appetizer, the skinned-potato, the fried-cheese-stick, the wing of the buffalo, perhaps some poppers, and those nachos, do we have any more mini tacos--
I have lost mine train of thought.
NEVER THEE MIND! The King would dispense naught but these final couplets--and another fragrant burst--before he lays down his crown this eve.
They wore helmets of cheese upon their curs-ed heads.
Ours were as steel.
Their will was soft, and creamy, with a delicate rind.
Ours was as iron.
Their field general was a tiger from the bubbling swamps of Baton Rouge.
We were Lions.
All hail the King.
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