Detroit Lions 2018 Preview, Part Who Even Knows Anymore: Cultural Studies

Throughout this dumb Joycian (Joyecian? James fucking Joyce, alright?) preview filled with characters both banal and sublime (I salute thee Great Willie Young and your dude Heimie) I have made repeated reference to spiritual and karmic energies, blithering about cultures and so forth, and to most people, especially in this debased age, such gibberings are akin to sorcery, the bleatings of a stupid man of superstition who probably still believes in alchemy and a literal hell. To be fair, I am a Lions fan, alright? And yes, I do believe in these things. Well, spiritual and psychic energies, anyway. I think they have a power that can’t really be quantified by stats, and if you want to say I’m an idiot, that’s fine, but 60 years of Lions history are sneering right in your soulless face and so am I. Get fucked.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so defensively hostile. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s impossible to truly preview the Lions without acknowledging the obese pregnant elephant in the room, it’s fat nuts (look, it’s both pregnant and has nuts, don’t be a bigot, it’s 2018) dragging across our faces as we weep and pray for a merciful death that never comes. 60 years. 60 fucking years. How do you contextualize that? You can’t. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe if you’re 75 years old, you can do something with that in your brain, but probably not. After all, anyone who’s actually had to suffer through all 60 years of that is surely melting away in some home, mind shattered, pudding dribbling from the perpetually downturned corners of the mouth, tear-ducts burning, burning, burning because they haven’t been able to make any more tears for years now. Horrible, horrible.

It is simply not enough to make reference to individual moments, to those “random” skull-fuckings by the league, to Process of the Catch or 10 Second Runoffs or Dallas, just Dallas man. They are just fragments, horrid moments of time that shatter like glass when we think of them, sending tiny shards of fear and loathing into the darkest corners of our mind, moments, slivers, that haunt us but never tell the whole story because to do so would require us to put all those slivers back together into one gruesome and terrible picture which would take our whole minds with it into a screaming chasm of despair, trapped like fucking General Zod and the gang in Superman II as they hurtle into the Phantom Zone.

You can’t explain it. I can’t explain it. I have spent I don’t know how many million words by now trying. It’s not possible. I suppose all you can do is lay it all before you and try to take it decade by decade, era by era and see where this shit went so horribly wrong. So let’s do that, or at least try. Maybe we’ll get closer to understanding this thing, or maybe we won’t. I don’t fucking know.

In 1957 the Lions won the NFL championship. It was their third championship in six years (can you even imagine such a thing now?) and their fourth championship game appearance during that same stretch. This was a dynasty, the sort of thing people convince themselves will last forever because that is how it is today and today is all we have and tomorrow is just today’s reality reinterpreted either optimistically or pessimistically depending on your own nature. It’s not actually real, so whatever is happening Right Now is reflected in how we imagine the future. Anyway, that future must have seemed limitless, full of beauty and glory to Lions fans. At what point do you think they began to realize it was all going horribly, horribly wrong?

The coach of that 1957 team was George Wilson. It was actually his first season as head coach and he must have thought “shit, this is easy” as he prepared his Hall of Fame speech. He lasted eight seasons and never won anything again. But at that point, it must have just felt like a waiting game, that eventually the Lions would get there again. I mean, they weren’t awful. They had four more winning seasons in seven years including an 11-3 record in 1962. Alex Karras was running wild, and things must have still seemed Alright. I mean, can’t win every year, right?

Wilson was done after the 1964 season. The Lions went 7-5-2 and it must have been nice to have actual standards. Harry Gilmer took over for two years, two losing seasons in which people must have started to get at least a little antsy, right? But they were still only a decade removed from their third championship and that buys a lot of time and a lot of good will. Lions Disease wasn’t really a thing yet. They were just a formerly great and proud team trying to work their way back. That was it.

Of course, I have to mention the whole Bobby Layne curse thing, where he famously said the Lions would never win again after they traded him (well, at least for the next 50 years, which just proves that Bobby was a forgiving optimist, I guess.) At the time, that was probably pretty easy to brush off though, the ravings of a bitter veteran. Time is the only thing that can make a curse “real” and time was still on the Lions side.

The Joe Schmidt era took the Lions into the 70s. As one of the greatest players in Lions history, it must have brought a lot of goodwill and good feelings, and the Lions were never horrible under Schmidt. His last four seasons were winning seasons and he even took the team to the playoffs in 1970. They lost, naturally, but still.

At this point, the Lions still weren’t “the Lions” and all that means to us today. They were 15ish years removed now, and I imagine Hope had turned into something more like a wistful sigh, like two lovers whose fire had gone out but were still comfortable and happy together. It’s not like it was, but it’s still a decent life, right?

After Schmidt came a run of mediocrity, as the Lions won 6 or 7 games every season until 1978 under four different coaches. By now, it had been twenty years, and those wistful sighs had probably begun to turn into a quiet but savage desperation, nibbling away at the soul year after year, the memories of youth now faded and twisted into something sad. The love was gone, but so too now was the happiness and the comfort. Left in its place was probably a sort of unspoken resentment. Things had begun to turn poisonous.

In 1979, the year of my birth, the Lions finally bottomed out, finishing 2-14. They were “the Lions” now, but if you told fans then they still had another almost 40 years to endure, and that those 40 years would be even worse, they would have rebelled against their own minds, their own souls. They would have smothered their wife in her bed and then Benoited themselves from a weight machine.

That 1979 season was also the culmination of a decade of horrific pain, both for America as a whole and Detroit in particular. I won’t get into a whole Nixonian cultural hangover discussion because that would take another 10,000 words (or more), but that was there, certainly. The 70s were a decade in which Americans lost Hope, in which they stopped believing in the American Dream. It had turned into something like poison to them, a cruel mockery of all that they had once believed themselves to be, of what they knew they could never be again. Their Glory Days were over. Everything after would be a convulsion, a death rattle in which one could see the entirety of their life, of the American life, in their final breath. This was the decade that saw the Lions truly fall from grace. As metaphors go, it’s pretty fucking obvious.

But more than that, it was a particularly horrific decade for Detroit. The riots of the late 60s tore the city apart, and then the recessions and decline of the auto industry in the 70s fucking broke it. It became a city of utter desperation, people clinging to their rapidly fading memories of what life was supposed to be like, of the promise of a good union job and a spirit of We’re In This Together. It had all become twisted, distorted, ruined as the backbone of America broke and left us all spiritually and psychically paralyzed. Detroit was that backbone, and it’s snapped vertebrae are still trying to be fused and rebroken and fused again by desperate dreamers and believers in the power of the human spirit if not America.

This was the city in which the Lions found themselves breaking, breaking, breaking with each passing season until, finally, in 1979, they broke for good. It was fitting, I suppose, because in addition to all the grand cosmic metaphors, the rest of Detroit’s sports teams – the Tigers, the Red Wings and the Pistons – were also mired in a lost decade of despair. It was truly the Worst of Times for everyone.

And that’s how the Lions entered the 1980s, a decade which was even worse than the one that preceded it. The Lions never won more than 9 games (they did it twice, in 1980 and 1983) and the moment I became aware of the Lions, sometime in the mid-80s to 1987ish, they were in the midst of losing 11 games or more 4 times in 5 seasons. This was a terrible world to be born into.

By now, it was Known. The Lions were “the Lions,” but wait! Hope was on the way.

That Hope was named Barry Sanders, and there was a moment, in 1991, when the Lions went 12-4 and beat the shit out of the Cowboys in the playoffs (their lone playoff victory in the last 60 years) when it seemed like they had finally climbed out of their hole, that they had finally shaken off whatever psychic Failure Demons had attached themselves like parasites, and were ready to run into a new era. It was the 1990s, America was back, baby! And so were the Lions.

But not really. The whole thing was a cruel mirage, just a prologue to the horrors that were to come after. It was like one long con of the soul, a brutal setup for a punchline that only the worst devils could laugh at. Barry Sanders ran and he ran and he ran but it never meant anything. He ran and Wayne Fontes looked stupid on the sidelines, and then Wayne Fontes was finally fired but it was too hard to believe anymore. There was only a sort of wearied cynicism, well earned, that ate at the Lions like some great, hideous psychic rot. It had been 40 years now, and the last ten had seen a player of impossible talent, of transcendent beauty and grace, lead a team that had dudes like Herman Moore setting records at receiver, and none of it meant a goddamn thing. What do you do with that? How do you tell yourself that it will ever get better, that it can ever be any better?

Bobby Ross was hired to replace Fontes, and there was perhaps a glimmer of hope. After all, Ross had won a national championship at Georgia Tech of all places and had led the fucking Chargers to the Super Bowl. He was the Real Thing. Naturally, within two seasons he had utterly broken Barry and he never won a goddamn thing again. Barry retired, disappearing into the horizon like Bruce Banner or Anton fucking Chigurh, and what can you say, man? How do you explain something like this? How did it feel? It felt like nothing. That’s because there reaches a point where pain isn’t enough, where desperation doesn’t matter. There is just . . . nothing. A senseless and meaningless nihilism that takes over because it’s the only thing left.

And the Matt Millen showed up.

Jesus Christ! Somewhere Cormac McCarthy is furiously scribbling all this down. The Millen era was of course gross and horrific and by this point “the Lions” and all that was loaded into that term became a vicious parody of itself. Jay Leno was using it for cheap jokes. Jay Leno! It doesn’t get any lower than that. Meanwhile, the rest of the world finally cracked and burned.

2008 was the first year I wrote about the Lions. It was also the end for Matt Millen, and the pinnacle of Lions misery. 0-16. Rod Marinelli waddling around like he left a load in his diaper, gibbering about pad level. Broken people, broken everything. The economy collapsed again, people were throwing shoes at the President, and nothing made sense anymore. Lost. All lost. It had been 50 years now.

The next ten were chronicled pretty extensively here, give or take a Caldwellian walkabout of my fandom. You know the story since then. You have lived it. I have written over a million words about it. That isn’t even an exaggeration. I had to invent people to get through it. My mind and my soul have been broken, my fandom something more of an existential odyssey of perpetual penance and sorrow than anything else. And so fifty years have stretched into sixty. A demented gameshow host is now the most powerful man in the world. Vaya con dios, y’all. Vaya con dios.

So what do we do with that? How can anything else matter when previewing the Lions this season? It is not just karmic energy or whatever. It is a fucking 100,000 foot tall tsunami that will drown us all no matter what we do, no matter how much we prepare. It is just there and we’re gonna drown in it. Say your prayers.

That is all horrible, of course, but this is what it means to be a Lions fan. Everything else is just a child’s whisper in a hurricane of fire and death. I don’t know, man. Do we need to hold a giant bonfire in the middle of the ruins of the Silverdome, with priests and witches chanting as we burn the past one item at a time? We need an exorcism, an old priest and a young priest. We need something, anything, to get rid of these fucking Failure Demons once and for all, or else they will never stop haunting us, ruining us from within. We’ve already had the best running back ever, the most talented man ever to step foot on a football field. We just had the most dominant receiver in the NFL. We have one the best quarterbacks right now. And none of it has mattered against the power of those goddamn Failure Demons, against the weight and horror of the past 60 years. It hasn’t just broken us, it has broken Barry Sanders, it has broken Calvin Johnson, and I figure we’re about two or three years away from it breaking Matthew Stafford. And then what? Then what?

We keep moving forward because that it was human beings do. We’re that motherfucker in The Road, pushing our child in a shopping cart after the world has ended. We’re Rick Grimes hacking away at zombies even though we know that’s what eventually we’ll become. Nothing matters and we’re all already dead, but something keeps us moving forward because there is nothing else. This is a horror story and we’re the only characters in it.

At some point, all of this has to change, right? But how can anyone truly believe that, can honestly think that, given all that I’ve just talked about? This isn’t just sixty years. This is forever. This is the totality of most of our lifetimes. This is all we know and so expecting the future to be any different is an exercise in cruel absurdity.

And yet, here we are. And here I am, writing this preview of the damned because something inside of me moves me to do it. There is something left unsaid, something elusive, that I have never been able to nail down and I suppose a part of me hopes that this something unsaid, this elusive thing that’s perpetually just beyond me, beyond all of us, will be something good. It is absurd and deserving of endless mockery and scorn, but there you have it. I am basically good, despite all my ridiculous bullshit, and so that is how I continue to imagine the world. It gets harder every day. It gets harder with every second, with every new indignity, with every new horror show, with every new rotten season and year. And yet, I tell myself that there’s an answer, somewhere, anywhere. I just have to be strong enough to find it. We all just have to be strong enough to find it. Fuck off, Failure Demons. I’ve had enough.

Armchair Linebacker History Lesson: A Tale of The Great Willie Young

(I usually don't do this - in fact, this is the first time I've ever done this - but we have picked up a lot of new readers recently and I figure not everybody is up to date with some of the antics around here, so . . . yeah. I figured in the wake of the terrible loss to the 49ers that this would be a good time to repost this little gem, about the time that The Great Willie Young tangled with some hippies in San Francisco. I think this was only the second Tale of The Great Willie Young that I wrote and, well, enough rambling. Enjoy. Or . . . don't.)


Today's tale is sketched together using police reports and eyewitness accounts taken over a six week period in 1967. It would seem that The Great Willie Young had migrated to San Francisco (possibly as penance for destroying a whole Vietnamese village all by himself) where he apparently took up with a 19 year old street performer named Starflower. It is unclear what "street performer" actually means as there are conflicting accounts. Some seem to indicate that she was a wannabe actress, while others claim that she was a simple prostitute. Still others reveal that she may have been the Bay Area's foremost Kazoo player. In any event, she was young and idealistic and struggled for money.

Starflower's circle of friends at the time contained a variety of counter culture zealots, young writers and musicians and artists and dreamers. Most would end up drifting off to become bankers or lawyers, but a few were dedicated, hardened by years of struggle against a society that had no use for them. Among these was a young Bolshevik who called himself Mikail, although police records indicate that he was actually named Michael Jones, and originally hailed from Topeka, Kansas.

At 17, Mikail dropped out of school and moved to New York, where he settled in Greenwich Village and became involved in the beatnik culture. An ardent pamphleteer, Mikail was notorious for writing controversial missives that often times led to him getting beaten by figures ranging from a 76 year old veteran of the Spanish-American War to federal officers acting on orders from Senator Joseph McCarthy. Branded a communist, Mikail was blackballed from anything respectable and so he turned to manufacturing poor quality hashish and importing opium.

Mikail never rose above a low level dealer and was often only one step in front of the law. Constantly on the move, he became hardened and bitter, and would often get drunk and then begin ranting about the evils of Capitalism. It was during one of these benders, many years later, that he was found by the young Starflower. By now, Mikail was in his early 30's and had wandered the country, finally ending up in California. He knew deep in his heart that life had passed him by and he was looking for something, anything, to rescue him. When Starflower introduced herself to him, all wide eyed, young and innocent, Mikail, even through his drunken haze, could see his future.

The two became inseparable. Some accounts claim that Mikail served as Starflower's pimp while others maintained that he merely supplied her with the finest grade kazoos thanks to the connections he had made while in the opium trade. Whatever the case, it would seem that the duo were living together in a small apartment in the Haight-Ashbury area of San Francisco when Willie Young appeared on the scene.

Immediately, Starflower was said to have been entranced by Big Willie (Once again, it would seem as though Willie had acquired the nickname Big Willie, although this time it was bestowed by Starflower and apparently had nothing to do with his physical size. Although whenever she would tell people that his name was Big Willie, her eyes would grow wide and she would blush whenever she said the word "Big." The meaning remains uncertain.) This, of course, was a problem for Mikail. Despite the cultural climate, in which it was not unusual for a young woman such as Starflower to have multiple lovers (In fact, it would have been unusual had she been monogamous), Mikail was said to be unusually possessive.

One night, Mikail reportedly returned home and found Starflower naked, massaging Big Willie's, uh . . . let's say back or else this thing could get out of hand. Mikail was reportedly drunk and began shouting and cursing Big Willie. Big Willie just sat passively and let the poor fool rant but was forced to spring into action when Mikail grabbed a frying pan and began chasing Starflower around the apartment. With a meaty paw, Big Willie grabbed Mikail and told him simply "You don't wanna do that, partner."

Mikail became enraged and struggled to free himself from Big Willie's grasp. It would seem as if a young rattish fellow named Haywood, who also lived in the apartment, where he slept on a bean bag chair in the living room, leaped into the fray. Multiple accounts state that Haywood was in love with Mikail even though Mikail was a notorious homophobe. It was even suggested that on occasion Mikail would get piss drunk and allow Haywood to give him a handjob, but this cannot be confirmed.

Haywood had somehow produced a steak knife and attacked Big Willie. After suffering over 35 small cuts to his torso, Big Willie backhanded Haywood, who flew across the room and smashed his head against a table, reportedly killing him. It was at this point that Starflower emerged from a bedroom with an antique pistol that the gang used to smoke hash out of, and attempted to fire it at Mikail. The gun, of course, was not loaded and wouldn't have worked anyway, but she was out of her mind on a variety of drugs and couldn't process this. Mikail, adrenaline surging through him, just laughed and went after Starflower with the frying pan again. Big Willie once again intervened, although he was rapidly losing blood and he held Mikail while Starflower beat him to death with the butt of the antique pistol.

Big Willie then collapsed in a heap and Starflower began to cry. Big Willie reportedly told her not to worry, and that he would be alright, but it would seem that she was more concerned with the fate of her pimp/kazoo importer, Mikail. It had just dawned on her what she had done and she knelt over his corpse and began weeping. Big Willie just sighed and struggled to his knees. He then crawled over to Mikail, leaned over him and dripped a few drops of his immortal blood into Mikail's mouth. Starflower looked on, confused, until Mikail suddenly gasped and sprang back to life.

Big Willie sighed again and backed away while Starflower hugged Mikail's neck. Mikail just stared into space, though, a dreamy smile on his face. He remained in a state of bliss for hours and when he awoke the next morning, the only thing he wanted was to return to that state. He had done a lot of drugs but nothing had ever gotten him as high as Big Willie Young's blood.

It would also seem that at some point in the night, Haywood had been revived in the same manner. Big Willie's wounds, meanwhile, miraculously healed and the gang uneasily went back to living as a pseudo-family. However, Mikail and Haywood had both been to paradise thanks to Big Willie's blood and while Haywood was dim and content to just remember the experience, Mikail was desperate, both to get that feeling back and to find a way to capitalize on Big Willie's magical sera.

For several days, Mikail plotted, looking for a way to drain Big Willie dry. It would solve both of his problems. First, it would eliminate his competition for Starflower's affection and second, it would supply him with plenty of the magic blood. The only problem was that once Big Willie was dry, the stockpile of that holy liquid would then slowly dwindle. Mikail was a man who thought ahead, and he knew that while he could be sustained for a while, eventually he would need more. And if he wanted to strike it rich, then he needed a replenishable supply.

Mikail began researching day and night, digging through ancient texts he and Haywood had stolen from a local church, looking for answers. All the while, Big Willie and Starflower had locked themselves in the apartment where he taught her how to, uh, properly play the kazoo.

Finally, Mikail stumbled upon an answer. He found a text that indicated that Big Willie's blood, combined with that of an albino cheetah would create a new living being. Mikail's mind began to kick into overdrive as he imagined a whole farm of Willie Young like beings he could harvest. An avowed Communist, Mikail planned to use his fortune to buy an island and retire there with a gang of strung out whores, where he would establish a Socialist paradise. The exact details are a little muddy and seem to contradict the very principles of both Socialism and Communism, but let's face it, Mikail wasn't exactly one of the preeminent thinkers of his time.

Mikail then explained the details of his sordid plot to Haywood, who just nodded dumbly and then agreed to help. It was with this in mind that Mikail suggested the group take a day trip to the San Francisco Zoo. Big Willie was wary. Since when had Mikail ever shown an interest in animals? But Starflower was overjoyed and began rhapsodizing about riding goats and communing with llamas and petting orangutans and Big Willie just sighed and agreed to the trip.

What Big Willie didn't know was that Haywood was equipped with a working pistol bought off of a strung out Chinese junky in exchange for five dollars and some random kazoo parts. However, what Mikail and Haywood didn't know was that Big Willie had anticipated Mikail eventually making a move and had spiked his own blood with one drop of venom from a rare form of rattlesnake found only in the Congo. Big Willie had once killed one of the deadly beasts in an epic struggle memorialized in several African tribal legends that we won't get into here, and had drained it of its venom, which he kept in a small vial that he kept on his person at all times. Since Big Willie often found himself naked, this has created a bit of a mystery, one which some have claimed to solve by theorizing that Big Willie would store the vial in his own anus, but that is scandalous hearsay and we won't put much faith in such outrageous claims.

It is unknown how Big Willie knew what would happen if he laced his blood with that rattlesnake venom, but Big Willie has been around since before time and so we must assume that he had acquired the knowledge during one of his many adventures. Perhaps we will uncover it later, but for now, let's get back to today's story.

The group went to the zoo and spent a surprisingly relaxing day enjoying the various animals. Starflower even got to pet a goat, which then vomited on Mikail who had to be restrained by Haywood from punching the goat. Big Willie and Starflower just laughed and Mikail forced himself to calm down. As far as he was concerned, he would soon get his revenge.

Night began to fall and the zoo began to close its doors. Mikail, a mischievous smile on his face, suggested to the group that they hide in the lizard house and then have the run of the place after everyone else had left. By now Big Willie was sure that something was about to go down. Mikail seemed far too anxious to hang out at the zoo and Haywood suddenly seemed nervous and jumpy. But Starflower would have spent a whole month just wandering around the zoo if she could and besides, he had promised her that he would get her Zippy's autograph. Zippy was the zoo's star attraction, a gorilla who reportedly knew sign language and who was known to be friendly to visitors. Big Willie planned on forging the autograph himself - Starflower, for all her beauty, was an extremely dumb girl - but he felt like he had to at least make the effort of going through the motions of getting Zippy to sign the sheet of paper he had brought with him. He would make Starflower hang back after making up some bullshit story about safety and bananas and hidden gorilla rage and then walk up to Zippy's cage and pretend to slip the paper through. With some luck, by morning, Starflower would have her "autograph".

Finally, the lights in the lizard house went dark and the gang slowly rose to their feet. Mikail immediately suggested that the group go visit the cheetahs. It was then that Big Willie knew what Mikail had planned, but he agreed to go along with it. Starflower whined about seeing Zippy but everyone just ignored her. After all, shit was about to get out of hand.

As the gang approached the cheetahs, Haywood began to shiver and shake like a junky. Which wasn't unusual because, hell, Haywood was a junky. This made Mikail nervous, though, and he began to lightly jog towards the cheetahs, exhorting his so-called friends to keep up with him.

When they reached the cage, Mikail scanned the enclosure until he finally laid his eyes upon what he had come to find: the rare albino cheetah. Big Willie just smiled and telepathically greeted the cheetahs, who returned his greetings. Let's not forget that Big Willie's father was a cheetah god. He then told them telepathically what was up and they all began to whine and growl at Mikail who's face turned ashen and waxy with fear. It was then that Haywood pissed his pants.

Mikail turned to Haywood, who was utterly useless now, and began rummaging through the poor fool's pockets. Big Willie just stood and watched, well prepared for what was about to happen, while Starchild did a silly dance for the amusement of some monkeys who hooted and jacked off with pleasure. One threw a handful of poop at Starflower but it missed her and sailed over a fence into the lion cage. The lions began to roar indignantly but Starflower ignored it all and kept dancing.

It was then that Mikhail whirled around, the pistol in his hand and fired twice into Big Willie's abdomen. Big Willie just groaned theatrically and then rolled his eyes, annoyed, and forced himself to collapse to the ground. Mikail immediately swooped in and wiped his hand in Big Willie's spilled blood. He would have to find a way to get to the albino cheetah, but for now, he had accomplished the main part of his goal and he decided to celebrate. He began to lick the blood off of his fingers, trembling with excitement when he remembered how good it had felt the last time. Haywood also scrambled over and began to lick the blood off of Big Willie, who just lay there, annoyed and disgusted.

Starflower continued to dance and the lions continued to roar while the monkeys jacked off and hooted. The cheetahs just watched, amused by the whole charade and waited for chaos to reign.

Mikail finished licking his fingers and closed his eyes and waited. He began to feel a tingle and then . . . something strange. A madness took him, suddenly and with great fury and he began to gibber and scream in wild tongues. He clawed at his own skin and ran, faster than he had ever run before, until he was safely hidden away back in the lizard house.

Meanwhile, Haywood had also succumbed to Big Willie's spiked blood and began to scream. He stripped himself naked and began to climb the fence to the monkey house. He dropped over the other side and was promptly hit in the face by a handful of feces. The monkeys all began hooting and screaming while Haywood ignored the blast and charged ahead.

It was then that Starflower stopped dancing and stared, wide eyed, as Haywood began attempting to fornicate with one of the monkeys who grabbed Haywood by his exposed penis and began tugging and pulling. Suddenly there was a loud ripping noise and then a scream of great pain and Haywood bolted from the cage, ripping the door off of his hinges in his madness, and streaked through the zoo, dickless. The monkeys began chasing him in a horrible scene, and they were soon joined by the agitated lions who had managed to jump their fence after having been riled up by the errant monkey shit.

The last anyone saw of Haywood was him climbing a tree while a young monkey climbed up after him. It was reported that zookeeper's later recovered only a foot and the half eaten remains of Haywood's penis.

Meanwhile, Starflower had noticed Big Willie lying on the ground, bleeding out. With a gasp she went to check on him and finding him apparently dead she began to sob. It was then that Big Willie opened his eyes. He took Starflower gently by the hand and whispered to her "It ain't no thing, baby doll. It ain't no thing." He smiled and she wiped her tears away and smiled back. She had finally realized that she was in love with all of Big Willie and not just with his kazoo.

Meanwhile, back in the lizard house, Mikail had gone completely insane. He stumbled around in the dark, naked and muttering to himself about albino cheetahs and a whore named Candy he had left behind in New York. Suddenly the lights came on, and before him was standing a muscular young man.

Mikail didn't notice him at first since he was out of his head, but it slowly dawned on him that he was not alone. "Who . . . who are you?" he managed to ask and the man just smiled grimly and stepped forward.

"Some call me Ernie Sims. But most know me as . . . The Lizard King." The Lizard King then snapped his regal fingers and suddenly Mikail was set upon by a throng of angry lizards. It is believed that they devoured him whole, but zookeepers denied the story and claimed that the keeper of the lizard house was an old man named Ezekiel Wilson and he had been asleep during the whole ordeal. However, authorities did find a 2005 ACC Championship ring lying on the floor of the lizard house. Since it was 1967, this naturally caused quite a stir, but it was later buried when nameless government officials, all clad in black, marched into the station of the San Francisco Police Department and demanded that the ring be turned over to them. They took the ring and then left without a word. The ring was never seen again, but witnesses claim that it was indeed there and was inscribed with the words FLORIDA STATE 2005 ACC CHAMPIONS LB ERNIE SIMS.

As for Big Willie, he and Starflower returned to their apartment, where they spent the better part of two weeks making love until one day Big Willie rose with the morning sun, looked at Starflower, smiled and said "Baby, Big Willie's gotta be movin' on." Starflower began to cry, but she said that she understood. Big Willie pulled her to him and kissed her deeply, looked into her eyes and then vanished in a cloud of smoke. And with that, another tale of The Great Willie Young came to its conclusion.