One More Day, One More Game, One More . . .

If the concept of "Lions fandom" had a face, this is what it would look like.

The thing about being a Lions fan is that you get used to having to constantly recalibrate your expectations and goals – and when I say “recalibrate” what I really mean is “downgrade.”  As awful as it is, we’re used to it.  It’s the only way to survive as a Lions fan without being driven completely into an insane nether world of the soul where Failure Demons gnaw at your liver and the Ghosts of Failures Past all rattle their chains and then choke you out with them while you weep and beg the bad man to make it stop.  You have to stick and move, play little shell games with your own mind and convince yourself that up is down and black is white and that little things – idiotic, self-contained goals that are meaningless other than in a symbolic sense – are what truly matter.  Because, year after year, season after season, death march after death march, all we really have are symbols and meaningless tests of manhood and the scraps of our obliterated pride.

And so going into the game against the Packers, in the frozen hell of Lambeau Field, that blasted and barren plain where so many have died, where the corpses of shattered pride have come to rest year after year after year, I did what so many Lions fans did and made a solemn plea, spoken only to my own heart, and asked “Please.”  Simply . . . please.  In this year in which we have lost so much, in this year in which we dared to dream and were decapitated by fell beasts with swords made of our own suffering as we tried desperately to scramble up the beaches of the Promised Land, all we had left – all we have left – is that familiar battle for meaningless symbolism.  And it is because it is meaningless that it has come to mean everything.  In the absence of all else, in the absence of meaning, all that we have left to cling to is the meaningless, to root for abstract concepts like pride and honor, words that don’t mean a whole hell of a lot when you’re 4-8 and staring down a vintage season from hell.  But in the blasted wasteland of our souls, a wasteland made all too real in Lambeau Field, we cling to vestiges of meaningless words and the ghosts of abstract concepts that mock us with meaning that stretches forever just beyond our reach, turning us into poor Tantalus, forever trying to drink from forbidden waters.  And in the end, even though it’s just a sip, just a taste, something so small and absurd and insignificant that others would shrug their shoulders or laugh at our struggle, in the absence of all else, that struggle, that tiny little sip is all we have and it means everything.  When all else fails, when the world crumbles and breaks beneath our feet, when possibility narrows and leaves us suffocating in a fetid and collapsed tunnel of our own disappointment and naked terror, the one thing – the one goddamn thing – we always have left is the possibility, no matter how remote, that we can finally watch our team beat the Green Bay Packers in that godforsaken wasteland known as Lambeau.

It is such a fragile thing, such a delicate and barely tethered to reality idea, that it was impossible for me to even talk about out loud before the game.  To even admit that it was there, to even admit that I wanted it so very badly, would threaten its very existence, would remind me that it was all I had left to look forward to, that if this barely breathing symbolic dream was somehow smothered and then died that I would have to search for new battles, for new symbols, for new meaningless wars to wage, and goddammit, I am tired of having to do that.  I’m tired.  So very tired.  I’m tired of having to create new reasons to keep going, to keep watching, to keep caring.  The heart of my fandom wants to die.  It wants to quit beating.  It wants to give out and tell me to go do something else, like hunting hobos or writing poetry about aardvarks or something, anything other than forcing my corpse like a zombie through the halls of fandom one more time only to see it obliterated by failure and then picked apart by vultures from hell.  This is what it means to be a fan of the Detroit Lions for a lifetime.  It is a sentence, not a gift.

This is all very depressing but then again, so is being a fan of this shitbird franchise.  Last night, I even decided to do other things – ridiculous things – that at least made me feel happy while I DVR’d the game.  That kind of detachment is dangerous, warning signs from a heart that’s had to deal with way, way too much stress in a lifetime of misery and abuse.  But before you freak out on me, just know this – by the end of the Lions first drive, I had the game on live again because I am a goddamn addict and I don’t listen to my heart and one day that heart will explode and the fan in me will die a ridiculous and ugly death, I will poop myself and that will be that.  I will ride this thing to the fuckin’ grave because in the end, not knowing, not caring, is even harder than the knowing and the caring.  And that’s because deep down, in a place that I have no control over, I am utterly helpless and I am so inextricably tied to this idiot team, this horrible shitty franchise, that to simply cease to care is unfathomable.  You might as well ask me to quit breathing.

The game itself was awful in the same way that all of the games have been awful this season.  There is no point in breaking it down, in asking what went wrong or why, because we all know what went wrong.  We all know why.  It is the same story, week after week after miserable week.  Slamming our heads against the wall one more time in the hopes that somehow we can piece the goo that was our brains back together into something coherent and sane and illuminating is not going to help us at all.  No, instead all we have is a sort of stunned and belligerent bewilderment, a vague disbelief constantly struggling with an insane and volcanic sort of rage.  In one moment we are moaning “Whyyyyyy?” like Nancy Kerrigan after getting clubbed in the knee and the next we are saying and thinking and feeling the vilest shit a dude or lady dude can say or think or feel.  This team breaks our heart, again and again, and we hate it so goddamn much because we love it, because it has the capacity to shatter us like that.  Jim Schwartz hasn’t caused so much vitriolic disdain because we think he’s just a useless turd or a worthless coach, but because his utter failure this season has been such a vicious betrayal of everything we believed about him and about his team.  Perhaps that isn’t fair and perhaps it says more about us than it does him or this team – it almost certainly does and that’s the tragedy of it all, the reason why this damn thing always feels so hard.  Every loss, every failure is magnified by the horrors of the past, and it’s why we sizzle like helpless ants underneath that magnifying glass while the universe laughs and tortures us like the cruel child holding it.  Jim Schwartz and this Lions team are caught up in something much bigger, much more horrible and much more tragic than themselves.  This is not about them but about us.  But this is just the way it is, and their failures, magnified though they may be into something warped and monstrous, remain failures all the same.

So where do you go when your hope lies shattered and the last vestiges of a symbolic triumph lay smoldering on the wasteland behind you while vile heathen natives wearing cheese on their heads dance to awful Todd Rundgren songs and mock your sorry ashes?  Well, you do what you always do, you somehow clamber back to your feet like a zombie and you lurch into the horizon, searching for brains and for a new symbolic battle to fight.  It’s already happening now.  We look at our remaining schedule and we see the opportunity to play spoiler to the Bears, to ruin their playoff dreams, and we groan BRAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNSSSSSSSS and off we go.

This is what it means to be a Lions fan.  Understanding this is an exercise in naked horror, and yet understanding it is vital to keeping yourself from falling into the pit of madness and despair that lies at the heart of places like MLive or the talk radio circuit.  You have to make at least a measure of philosophical peace with the horrible truth.  You just have to.  You don’t have to like it – hell you can hate it and kick and scream about it – but you have to at least reconcile yourself with its abominable truth.  The alternative is to simply cease to care, and when there is a part of you that takes that option completely off the table, that refuses to quit caring, all you have left is, well . . . the grim recognition of a horrible truth, which at least gives you something to work with.  You can do something with that, pivot around it, stay just far enough in front of it that it doesn’t consume you completely.

I am rambling, but such is my wont.  In the end, I suppose all I have come to say is that deep in my idiot heart I really, really wanted to beat the Packers, not because it means anything in terms of playoff races or momentum or anything like that, but simply because in its absence of meaning it meant everything.  It was a symbolic crusade in a world gone mad, a lonely old knight tilting at windmills, not even sure what to hope for, what to believe in, but finding something, anything really, just to keep going one more day, one more game.

That is what we have left as Lions fans in this season of despair.  That is what we have left as fans of a franchise that has redefined the concepts of failure and despair in the world of sport.  One more day, one more game, and then when that day and that game end the same way they have all seemingly ended for the last 55 years, the way they have all ended before you were even born, when your parents were babies and your grandparents were you, looking out over a world spread before them, hoping and dreaming the same way you do, you scrape yourself off of the earth and you look to the next day and to the next game and you keep doing this and you keep doing this and you keep doing this because it is all you know, because it is what it means to be human, to push forward with an indomitable spirit, with an unbreakable sense that someday, someday, someday either the world will reward you or it will end in a monstrous fireball, but you will not end first.  And this is what it means to be a fan of the Detroit Lions.

Disintegration

To paraphrase a dude who loves - LOVES - to talk: They wanna be assholes, let them be assholes. It's not my problem.

Indeed.

That's What You Get For Falling in Love

Lions fans, after the game

Shortly after the Lions lost in the 11,689^thperformance of The Passion of the Roary, I did the idiotic thing and headed to Twitter where of course everyone was freaking out and beating each other about the heads with spiked bats laced with the tears of the fallen.  While I was there, I noticed this tweet from Jim Schwartz earlier in the day:

@jschwartzlions: Some Bon Jovi on the way to Ford Field: " In and Out of Love", "Bad Medicine".

Indeed.

Hey, that’s what you get for falling in love.

It’s hard to know what else to say in the wake of that fiasco, which somehow made the previous fiascos this year look like orderly and happy parades through the streets, with children laughing and waving from high atop floats rather than the screaming firetrucks down a burning main street with half-naked firemen hanging off the back wailing and telling everyone to run for their lives that they have felt like.  No, somehow this one managed to be even worse, which is a hell of a trick to pull off and yet here we are.  I guess in this scenario the firetruck also blew up right in front of a school and all those laughing and waving children are on fire and hey look, now they’re dead.

Right now, all anyone wants to do is parse through the rubble, the broken bodies, the ashes of the dead and look for clues and evidence and argue and argue and argue and ARGLE BARGLE ARGLE BARGLE!  The camps have armed themselves and are going to war and now I find myself galloping away back into the woods where I once roamed in solitude, alone with my own insanity, leaving behind the cookfires and both the happy people with their grand dreams and the sad people with their hairshirts and prayers to the drowned god, where I will live in a shack and shoot anyone who trespasses on my land.

The Lions are 4-8 and they have gotten to that point in ways both awful and hilarious.  In other words they are not just 4-8 but a true Lions 4-8.  Our good pal @Geekized tweeted me after the game and asked me what the hell happened and I told her the only thing I could: at the end of the game the Lions went Full Lion.  She understood exactly what that meant and I’m sure all you do too.  The Lions went Full Lion.  What else can you say?

Look, it doesn’t really matter why the Lions are 4-8.  They just are.  There is no one who deserves to be saved from the rabid scorn of Lions fans right now.  But everybody has their reasons.  Everybody thinks everyone else is an idiot or a charlatan and the tribe has been torn asunder, with one side saying we should string up Jim Schwartz and the boys and let the crows eat their entrails and the sun bake whatever’s left-over of their clearly shrunken brains while the other has taken up arms to defend poor King James and his court, patting him on the back and saying Buck Up There, Lil’ Camper and telling the others that they should be ashamed for speaking against their Lord and Savior and this is why I have retreated to the woods, to this safe-haven known as Armchair Linebacker, where I can sit in my shack and shave my head and beat myself with a club in peace.

I am done arguing and I am done because what the fuck is there to argue about?  The Lions are 4-8.  Nothing else really matters.  I sort of just want to take Calvin Johnson and The Great Willie Young fishing for a weekend where we can sit in peace and quiet in a tiny boat while a giant bulldozer plows over Ford Field and everybody inside and the zombie hordes stalk the streets eating each other’s brains.  And then we can come back and make a better world together.

I’m going to say something really awful here but when the Colts were driving at the end and were down to their final handful of plays, a sick, masochistic part of me actually wanted them to score, I think.  That is a horrible thing to admit but I think my disdain for this team has gone that far.  A part of me – not a big part but it’s there – takes a perverse sort of satisfaction in watching them suffer, because then at least they will have no excuses.  At least then they will have to take to their quiet places, where they are alone with their own hearts and souls and admit to themselves that goddammit, they need to change.  The horrible truth though is that they won’t do this and instead they will find some crack to squeeze through, some shell-game of the mind that they will play that will make it all okay, that will make it not their fault but the result of some ineffable THAT’S JUST THE WAY IT GOES SOMETIMES madness.

And while yes, that is just the way it goes sometimes, sometimes should not equal fifty years and to just blithely accept that crosses the line from wise serenity to depraved madness.  It’s exactly the sort of willful denial I was talking about in my last piece, when I went nuclear on everybody and felt like I needed a cigarette or perhaps a nice fine shot of China White after I was done writing it.  But I don’t want to do that again.

Look, I feel horrible and ashamed that even a tiny part of me felt like that, that even a single molecule of my body wished for bad things to happen, but I suppose it’s no different than a beat up woman, aged beyond her years, sitting in a run-down apartment complex secretly hoping that her man gets knifed on the way to the horsetrack by a gang of lowly muggers.  This is what it has come to.  I don’t have the strength to leave him myself and so I hope Fate will somehow figure my shit out for me.

It’s vaguely cowardly and definitely tragic and yet it is all too real.  All too real.  I was all set to show up here after the game and sing psalms about the glory of St. Calvin.  I even had a title picked out and everything: “Divine Intervention”.  Yes, I planned to spend roughly eight billion words fellating St. Calvin but then everyone else went and fucked it all up and, well, here we are, sitting in a run-down apartment complex wondering whether or not we should blame ourselves because our man got knifed by some street thugs who stole his wallet.

The truly tragic part of all this though is that after getting knifed and robbed, that son of a bitch is just going to stagger home and beat our ass and in the end we’ll be lying in the bathtub again, bleeding, eyes swollen shut wondering if that support beam can hold the weight of a body.  And meanwhile that son of a bitch is just sitting in the living room, drinking his own pain away, having sloppily stitched himself up, and he’s shouting at us and telling us it’s our own damn fault, that we should’ve done this or done that and that if we only loved him better, loved him harder, that he wouldn’t have to do things like this to us.

But we’ll crawl out of that bathtub and start cooking him his two dollar steak on the hot plate because that is just what we do, and we’ll snuggle up next to him tonight on the pull-out couch with the cigarette burns in it and we’ll feel glad and thankful that at least we have someone and don’t have to wither away all alone like that old biddy who lives next door and smells like cat piss.  This is what being a fan of the Detroit Lions means and I have no room to judge anyone because I’m frantically flipping that steak, trying to tell if it’s done or not through these swollen eyes and hoping that he’ll give me a kiss on the cheek and a slap on the ass when I’m done just like everybody else.

This has been a dark and fucked up post but this has been a dark and fucked up season.  Don’t blame me, I am but a humble chronicler of the times, just a poor fool living in a shack in the woods, trying to drown out the horrible noises made by the warring tribes with the click-clacking of a keyboard and the screaming of my own shattered soul.  The Lions lost today and they lost in a way that was horrible and yet somehow perfect, and I have become death, the destroyer of worlds and one day, a thousand years from now, some poor fool will find these words in a cave and his people will know the faces of both True Evil and True Pain.  And somewhere, my soul will still roam the cosmos, desperately awaiting that moment when the Lions, my Lions, fulfill that soul’s long-suffering hopes.  This is the sort of thing that religions are founded upon, epic tragedies and wandering souls, and today’s game is but a chapter, a sliver in time, a single stanza in that great dirge, and one day in that far off future people will kill each other over those words found in a cave, shields brandished with Lions logos and old priests will carry wooden crucifixes with a bearded idiot name Neil hanging from them and I can only hope that Pope Willie Young will find a way to end the madness before it consumes us all.  But don’t cry for me, friends, for I am already dead.  Go Lions.

A Culture of Denial is a Culture of Failure

Jim Schwartz addressing the media about Matthew Stafford's "outstanding" mechanics.

It occurred to me earlier that I had yet to even think about the Lions game this weekend against the Colts.  These are the things that happen when your season degenerates into a forced death march through the desert of the damned back to the hell fires that have slow roasted our souls for far too long.  I haven’t really thought much about the game against the Colts because I simply don’t want to.  My brain is in revolt.  When it comes to the Lions, it has gone on strike.  Solidarity, brother.

Earlier today, though, the name Titus Young started being thrown around again and at least a few synapses of my brain decided to cross the picket line and so here we are.  I wish it was a better place, a place where Titus Young didn’t get suspended for acting like a passive-aggressive five year old, but well… yeah.

Just in case you haven’t heard the rumors, here’s how it basically breaks down: against the Packers, Titus decided to throw a petulant little shit-fit because he didn’t think he was getting the ball enough, so, naturally, he did what all rational adults do and intentionally lined up wrong multiple times because, uh, that’ll show ‘em I guess.  Of course, this then led to Jim Schwartz basically exiling Titus from the team for a while (and if this is true then “for a while” probably should have been “permanently”) only to welcome him back to the fold this past week.  And now practice observers report a sullen Titus Young roaming the sidelines of the practice field, picking up trash like he’s been sentenced to community service or some shit.  No word on whether or not he’s been wearing an orange vest.

I don’t really have anything to add to that.  The inanity of it speaks for itself.  It practically screams out LIONS DISEASE in big, flashy neon lights for the whole world to see.  It is the Lions equivalent of the infamous SPARTY NOOOOOOO, which if you don’t know is a reference to Michigan State’s almost supernatural propensity for fucking up at exactly the worst possible moment in the worst possible way.  It is a well-known phenomenon in this here state of mine, and while those on my side of the aisle laugh uproariously and use it as a punch-line, I can understand how my Spartan friends feel about it because goddammit, that’s how shit like this Titus Young news feels to me as a Lions fan.  It is just so quintessentially LIONS, you know?  In that strange and terrible way we are all too familiar with.  ROARY NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  Indeed.

It is with that crawling its way laboriously through the halls of my shattered mind that I sit down to write about this weekend’s game and while parts of me are trying desperately to cling to shreds of whatever leftover enthusiasm is still littering those weird halls (at least the ones that Titus Young hasn’t metaphorically scraped up along with his literal janitorial duties – and by the way, I think I’m going to nickname Titus Young “The Janitor” from now on.) other parts of me – and if I’m being honest, the more dominant parts of me – have simply ceased to care.  At least in a way that doesn’t feel like some false put-on, some forced attempt to throw up shredded pom-poms and lead some sort of perverse spirit rally for the congregation.  This season has sucked, yo.  Actually, it hasn’t just sucked, it has suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked, and I will not pay fealty to it out of some misplaced sense of loyalty and honor.  Fuck it and fuck this team.

I’ll still watch – why not? – but I’m not going to pretend that I’m into it just to placate some foolish juvenile need to engage in some sort of dumb tribalism.  I have been through too much, I have seen too much, and goddammit, I will not put myself through this just to prove a point.  I have too many scars, too many old wounds that never quite healed.  I walk with a permanent limp, my face is disfigured and I drool when I talk.  I have been beaten upside the head too many goddamn times and people look away when they see me because I make them uncomfortable.  I go to support groups and am surrounded by people who tell me to love myself and that everything will be alright but goddammit, I can’t even feed myself without making a mess and I have to wear a diaper and sometimes the diaper leaks.  Things are not alright and I’m not going to lie to myself.  I am a Lions fan, and that is a truth that is filled with stark, naked horror, a truth that cannot be spruced up or made into an inspirational holiday story for the kids.  My team’s mascot is Titus “the Janitor” Young and nothing I gibber on about is going to change that.

The thing is – the singular macabre piece of tragicomic horror that drives this whole absurd thing – is that I can’t help it.  I can’t look away.  I can’t turn away.  I can’t abandon the idiot’s carnival that is the Detroit Lions because it is a part of me, they are a part of me.  They are the scars, the wounds, the limp, the drool, the shit-filled diaper.  I can’t abandon the Lions because abandoning the Lions would be abandoning myself.  You can’t choose who you love, even if who you love is a crackhead family member who keeps stealing your shit and ruining your life.  It is part of your DNA, encoded into your being and to try to extract it is a fool’s endeavor, like medieval charlatans trying to turn lead into gold.

I’m still here and I will be here until the end of time, just a ragged and broken skeleton, rotting under a hell-sun, wearing Honolulu Blue and setting fire to my eye-sockets and screaming a horrible death wail, a banshee scream that never ends, that just circles through time, frightening those in the past and those in the future, wrapping us all in one big goddamn horror show that is eternal.

Jesus Christ, this is maudlin and bleak, even for me.  But this is where I am as a fan and I’m not going to lie about it.  But what the hell, a new week is a new week and like they say in the support groups, we just have to take it one day at a time, or in this case one game at a time.  The good news – if you can call anything “good news” in this season of the damned – is that this one particular week has the chance to be not a total and complete butt.  And by that, I mean I actually expect the Lions to win.  This is not that farfetched – I mean, let’s be honest here, for all the woe is me stuff above the Lions are not a horrible football team, they’re just a horribly dysfunctional football team which is a fatal flaw I have become completely convinced they will be unable to overcome anytime soon.  This means that they will still win games, just like the Wayne Fontes era Lions won some games.  If that’s good enough for you, then what the hell, have fun.  I just wanted more.  Fuck that, I needed more.  But if Jim Schwartz channeling Wayne Fontes and coddling Matthew Stafford while he Scott Mitchells his way down the field and our one transcendent superstar, St. Calvin, takes the sins of the world upon his shoulders a la Barry Sanders is what works for you, then by all means, enjoy.  It’s just that you and I remember that time very, very differently.

I should have mentioned this earlier when I was discussing the Janitor Young incident but I forgot and hey, these things happen when you sit down to write and have no idea what to say – you just free-write and hope that you make sense somewhere along the way.  But yeah, anyway, that quick mention of Schwartz coddling Stafford reminded me of something I saw a couple of days ago.  It was a headline on MLive that said “Matthew Stafford’s mechanics ‘outstanding’ according to coach Jim Schwartz.”

Yeah.  What in the hell do you even say to something like that?  That level of denial is so deeply ingrained that the only thing you can do is sort of shrug your shoulders and then collapse into a heap of tears, muttering “Oh God” over and over again and then writing maudlin suicide notes like this infernal post.  That, coupled with the Titus Young story, is everything that is wrong, everything that has ever been wrong, with the Detroit Lions.  It is exactly that sort of ridiculous Baghdad Bob bullshit that turns hard times into a culture of losing, into the culture of Lions Disease.  It is a culture born of denial and passive-aggressive dickery.  You can read the failed wailing and idiot epitaphs of a dozen catastrophic Lions head coaches in Jim Schwartz’s words.  You can hear their ghostly whispers dancing around the word “outstanding.”  Jesus, they have poisoned his mind and oh, the horror, the horror . . .

Look, I have kinda gotten carried away here the last few paragraphs.  I meant to segue into a discussion about why I think the Lions will beat the Colts on Sunday – and I think they will – but there are more important things to discuss here.  I am sick and goddamned tired of the willful denial which props up our fanbase.  When things are going well  (I know, I know, this occurs at roughly the same rate as the appearance of Halley’s Comet)  the fear-mongers refuse to embrace it because they don’t want to be hurt again.  They deny reality in order to save themselves.  But when things take a turn for the Millen, people deny that shit too and claim all is well like Kevin Bacon screaming his ass off in the street in Animal House while anarchy reigns because they need to believe in order to protect themselves.  It’s two sides of the same miserable coin and I’m fucking sick of it.  This is not okay and if you say that it is, then right now you’re part of the problem and you’re just helping to perpetuate this miserable cycle of denial.  You are feeding Lions Disease.  You are making it strong.  Congratulations.

It’s time to take a goddamn Big Boy Pill.  It’s time for Jim Schwartz to walk up to Matthew Stafford and say “Yo, your mechanics are kinda fucked up so let’s fix this shit before it gets even worse.”  It’s time for everyone involved to take a look at the situation and admit to themselves that what they’re doing isn’t working.  You can cherry pick stats all you want and tell me that this is the same team that went 10-6 last year but they’re 4-7 and that’s all that matters.  And honestly, even while you’re over there gibbering about them being an 8-3 team that’s just had some bad breaks I can point out that they could just as easily be 1-10 right now so let’s just split the difference which puts them at, well, it puts them at 4-7.  You know who does that whole WELL WE COULD HAVE WON THIS GAME AND THIS GAME AND THAT ONE AND IF THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN THEN WE COULD HAVE TOTALLY WON THAT ONE???  Losers.  That’s who.  Denial worshipping losers. 

I know these are incredibly harsh words and I am basically standing alone yelling at literally everyone else who calls themselves a Lions fan, and hell, I’m even yelling at myself because I’ve done that too, but goddammit guys, at some point you have to stop whining and playing the victim and denying that real, substantive problems exist.  The simple fact is that the Lions didn’t win those games.  They lost them and you’re right, they lost them because they didn’t get the miracles that they got last season.  But what’s so fucked up is that so many people don’t seem to realize is that that’s the problem right there.  If you’re relying on miracles to be the foundation of your team’s winning strategy then you’re not just up shit-creek without a paddle, you’re drowning in that foul son of a bitch.

I don’t want to be writing these words right now.  I want to be praising Glorious Leader Schwartz and writing odes to The Great Willie Young but enough’s enough.  Things are not right, Matthew Stafford’s mechanics are not outstanding, the Lions don’t somehow deserve to be 7-4 or 8-3 or whatever fantasy land scenario y’all have concocted in order to call a temporary truce with the horrors of your own heart, and this is not a good football team, or even anything approaching a good football team.  This has nothing to do with offseason arrests or any red-herring bullshit like that and everything to do with the fact that this football team is fucking failing before our eyes.  No one is out to get them.  No one is unfairly persecuting them.  STOP MAKING EXCUSES.  THE LIONS ARE NOT A GOOD FOOTBALL TEAM AND THEY’RE NOT A GOOD FOOTBALL TEAM BECAUSE THEY WON’T TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR BEING ONE.

Sorry about the all-caps meltdown there but I’m sick of this shit.  I’m sick of the excuses and all the mewling bullshit that accompanies it.  Just stop it already.  Christ. 

Okay Neil, deep breath, we’ll get through this.  You’re right, other Neil.  You’re right.

Anyway . . . sorry, but a man needed to say some things and a man has said them.  I wish I had talked more about the actual game against the Colts this week – I certainly intended to – but Great Truths got in the way and when Great Truths decide to speak, you just have to get out of the way and let them.  The Lions should beat the Colts and, well, honestly that kind of says it all right there.  The Lions should beat the Colts because they are just objectively a better, more talented football team.  And yet the Colts are 7-4 and the Lions are 4-7.  This is not a mistake, or a fluke or any other excusatory bullshit you want to throw out there.  The Lions come into this game with a shittier record because they have earned that shitty record.  If they stop reveling in their own denial and coddling those parts of themselves which tell them that it’s okay to be a 4-7 team because it’s not their fault but everybody else’s then they will beat the Colts.  It’s as simple as that.  If they stand up and take responsibility for themselves, for their record, for who they are and who they want to be as a team then goddammit, there’s no reason they shouldn’t win this game against a rookie quarterback leading a team without a head coach a year after that same talent-deficient team went to zombie town.  If you can’t beat a team like that without making love to excuses then goddammit, just get the hell out of the way and let somebody else take a shot because I have no time for that weak shit anymore.

Lions win and if they don’t, it’s their own goddamn fault.  It’s time to grow up.