Wednesday, September 10, 2008


I can only imagine what it must look like when the Chicago brain trust gather to discuss strategy. In one corner, special teams coach Dave Toub toils away at a desk with two note pads and a pen in each hand. The sane left hand coming up with newer and better ways to dominate the special teams phase of the game, as the right hand, driven insane shortly after Super Bowl XLI, draws a picture of Ron Turner being eaten by a lion with the head of snake, surrounded by letters arranged in some sort of elaborate cypher that can only translate to killing.

On the couch in the middle of the room, Lovie Smith has abandoned his glass for taking shots of J├Ągermeister straight from the bottle, lamenting to the aforementioned Turner that his parents never even bothered to make a secret of the fact that they really wanted a girl, but Turner just sits motionless, eyes half-open, filled with too much purple drank to form a response. That is, if he was even hearing what Lovie was saying. Across the room, wide receivers coach Darryl Drake mutters demonic phrases while slamming pins into a little doll with "#23" scrawled on it, and next to him lies an unconscious Pep Hamilton, felled by a blow to the head by PCP-addled fiend Bob Babich. Babich's whereabouts are unknown, but a drunken and surly Lovie Smith comments that they can just turn on the news that night, and he'll show up sooner or later.

In the middle of the room, fueled by his own inner demons, Jerry Angelo screams a litany of obscenities and made-up words, spinning around and flailing his arms wildly, in an attempt to swat at flies that simply are not there. He pauses, as if suddenly struck by a startling revelation, and stops his hands from shaking just long enough to scrawl out a note, which he hands to team chairman Mike McCaskey. McCaskey heads down the hallway and opens the door to the Room We Don't Talk About, where the withered, gruesome corpse of his mother and team owner Virginia rests in a rocking chair in the corner. He reaches out to her and pries a dust-covered checkbook from her cold, rotting hands, and begins to write out a check.

A check to Fred Miller.


L.B. said...

Huh. Several hours after the fact, I re-read this and realized I brain-typoed Darryl Drake's last name as "Drank." I corrected it, but I've decided to call him "Darryl Drank" from now on.

Neil said...

A wise decision my friend.

Little things like that are the only way to get through the horrors of the season.