Lions Odds and Ends. Emphasis on the Odd.

It's been an eventful couple of weeks, hasn't it? I mean, obviously, there was the Draft, which this year produced more weird boners and mock drafts and mock draft boners than any other year I can remember, but there were a few other things that went down in the world of the Detroit Lions that deserve some mention. A couple of these things have been beaten into the dirt already, but what the hell, I might as well add my voice to the cacophony of dumb noise which is the blogosphere or whatever the fuck you want to call it. I mean, I may be talking about some of the same subjects, but chances are pretty good that no one will quite have the same bent take on things as I do, you know? As far as I'm concerned, every subject is a fresh subject until I get done mangling it.

Like I said, the Draft produced a lot of boners - which it always does - but this year more than most, and as the weekend arrived we all got to bear witness to all these Draft boners being furiously assaulted by their owners, their tumescence finally relieved in an ejaculatory storm which qualified as the most horrid disaster this nation has seen since Hurricane Katrina. Seriously, it was awful. Everyone with a mock draft scribbling madly with one hand, crossing off names, their eyes on the television, breathless, with sweat on their brows and lust in their hearts, their other hand pumping piston-like, feverishly working towards the finish line of a race they had begun running almost since the day the last draft ended. All those months spent discussing the hindquarters of Player A and the Tremendous Length of Player B and the Huge Hands of Player C left them cocked(pun intended?) and ready to fire.

Normally, this ocean of wasted semen is something that mainly drowns only the fans and so-called experts. The actual coaches and players and general managers seem to be able to put the damn thing into its proper perspective. But then we get stories like the one that came out after the Lions drafted Jahvid Best.

From an article by Michael Silver at Yahoo:

“Some people watch adult videos on their computer,” Schwartz had told me. “I go to YouTube and watch Jahvid Best highlight clips. That’s what gets me going.”

Well, okay then. Aside from the horrible and unfortunate mental image of Jim Schwartz straining and groaning in front of the soft glow of his laptop, I am oddly fascinated by the details of this. I mean, does the dude have mood music? I had a roommate who would disappear into his room at the same time every night, and then a minute or two later, soft music would flow from his room. Soon enough, the music would end and I would know that he was, uh, finished. It was like some demented game of musical chairs. Quick, before the song gets to it's bridge! Splat.

Okay, that was horrible. I apologize. Anyway, for some strange reason I began to wonder what Jim Schwartz was listening to while he, uh, Bested his Jahvid. We know that Schwartz is a metalhead, listing Metallica, AC/DC and the like among his favorite bands. His number one favorite though, if I recall correctly, is Dream Theater. So, it stands to reason that at least at one point during the run-up to the draft, Jim Schwartz found himself watching Jahvid Best highlights with his hands down his pants and Dream Theater pumping through the speakers. Hey, I'm not saying I like it either, but none of us can afford to be naive in these dark and terrible times.

Aside from that, the dude I really feel bad for in all of this is Kevin Smith. That poor bastard must feel like a jilted lover right now. He's back home or at the training facility, recovering from the hellacious wounds of war and he has to hear all about his coach getting sprung over a younger, faster model. The poor fool probably feels like a JC Penney Catalog. He was good enough to get Schwartz through those lean years, but apparently he's not good enough now that Schwartz has found Youtube. Now he's just all wadded up, parts of him stuck together, ravaged and wrinkly, and tossed into the trash can, buried beneath a mountain of, uh, used tissues. That's no way for a man to go out. Because of this, I am now a Kevin Smith fan, and I am rooting for him to come back and fight for his job, if only to reclaim some semblance of his self respect.

Well. This whole post has been fucking depraved, and I should probably apologize, but you know what you're getting into here. For those of you reading one of my posts for the first time, well . . . *chuckles awkwardly and walks away*.

Ahem. Anyway, aside from demonstrating that I probably have a career waiting for me writing Penthouse letters, I think this should bury any talk about the Lions taking Best simply because he was the last decent running back available. No. Hell no. I think it's obvious that, if anything, the Lions wanted Best a little too much, you know? With that in mind, trading up to get him in exchange for one of their million 7th rounder picks and a swaps of 4th rounders seems like a no-brainer, right?

Okay, moving on from the depraved to the, well, to the depraved, the other big story that has emerged the past couple of days surrounds the one, the only Zack Follett. Now, as soon as he was drafted it became obvious that Follett would become everyone's favorite Detroit Lion. He was a scrappy overachiever who loved to run down the field and hit people in the mouth, the seventh round underdog who would make the team and bound around with endless energy, exciting both his fellow players and fans alike.

Usually, this all adds up to a player I can't stand. I hate that Eckstein, Scrappy-Doo bullshit. Usually, it's some Napoleonic little dick who acts like he has something to prove to everybody, and all the fans love him even though his teammates probably think he's an ass. But Follett is different - very different. If anything, his personality seems to be pretty chill. When he's off the field, he seems more like the type of dude you would find on the beach, huddled underneath a blanket next to a fire with his girlfriend, too wasted to drive home but sober enough to . . . well, basically, I am turning Zack Follett into a character from Point Break. I do not apologize for this, and if anything, this is the ultimate compliment from me. I mean, my love for that Oscar winning epic is well known. Let's not forget that Kathryn Bigelow, before she won the Oscar for directing The Hurt Locker, helmed this bad boy. If anything, it just proves that she was ahead of her time and anyone who disagrees can kindly paddle their asses to New Zealand.

But I am getting carried away here. The point is, is that Follett is the real deal. He's deserving of all the fan love. He's not just some dweeb from a local college like David Kircus, and he's not beloved just because his name can be drunkenly bellowed like Greg Blue, and he's certainly not a fan favorite just because he is a midget named Buster like Buster Davis. No, Zack Follett is loved because he is kinda awesome. Aside from that chill demeanor, there was that video from a couple of months ago of Follett playing with actual lions.

And now there is this. Zack Follett in a Lions helmet and a pair of shorts that make him look like he just woke up on a park bench somewhere, shopping for tampons that he can give to his opponents this year because there will be blood. That's some quality shit right there. David Kircus never did anything like that. If anything, David Kircus is probably holed up somewhere trying to figure out to properly apply one of those tampons to his vagina. Okay, I apologize. David Kircus doesn't have a vagina. Vaginas are awesome, women are awesome and don't deserve to be disrespected like that.

Where was I? Oh, right. David Kircus sucks. Zack Follett doesn't. I also liked the little touch at the end there where he picked up some Barbie band-aids for his fallen enemies. He is a noble man, this Zack Follett. He will gnaw on the bones of his wicked enemies, but he'll also provide them with some first-aid. Now that's a man.

Finally, I wanted to talk a bit more about my man Ernie Sims. Now, as you all know, the Lizard King was exiled to Philadelphia, where he will set up a new kingdom. Of course, it can never match the glory of his original kingdom, but you can't fault the man for trying. I mean, he is a born king and that is all he knows. Ernie will be fine. The poor little guy that I'm worried about is his monkey. This is the only home he has known(I have no idea if this true. I mean, probably not, right? I doubt he was birthed in the Sims household. Then again, maybe he was. Who knows? Who cares? Just go with me on this, okay?)and it will probably be disorienting for the little guy to move on like this.

What this means, unfortunately, is that Ernie Sims' monkey is likely to turn violent. I feel for the poor bastards tasked with transporting Sims' menagerie to their new home. I mean, after all, Monkey Sims is Cinnabon's chief counselor and general, and so if he becomes agitated and subsequently violent, he will no doubt lead the other animals, the lizards and birds and spiders and who knows what the hell else, in an insurrection against their captors, those poor unsuspecting movers.

I shudder when I imagine Monkey Sims with violence in his eyes and hatred in his heart viciously assaulting some day laborer. That little motherfucker will get raw on any fool that tries to take him from his home. Because, by God, he is an American Monkey, a real American Monkey, and when it comes crashing down and it hurts inside, he will fight for what's right.

But like I said, it's not just Monkey Sims that the movers need to worry about. No way. While they are busy trying to fend off that wild tiny ape, what the fuck are they gonna do when a tarantula decides to wild out and crawl up their pants? Or how are they gonna respond when a monitor lizard loses his shit? What if Ernie has a fucking Komodo Dragon? Those things fucking eat people. You may think this is all just a bad joke, but this is serious business, man. Some poor unsuspecting mover is going to be found staggering out of the Sims Castle, bloodied and beaten, his face blank, his brain liquefied by fear, and the only thing they will find of his partner is a pair of bloody shoes, the rest of him somewhere inside of that Komodo Dragon and if things really get out of hand, Monkey Sims. He may only be a monkey, but so was King Kong and that motherfucker didn't mind snacking on some random dipshit. Let's not forget that Monkey Sims is also distantly related to that degenerate Bigfoot, and if there is one thing I know, it's that Bigfoot is an immoral son of a bitch.

Okay, well, not a lot of football talk I suppose. For that, I suppose I should apologize, but these were things that needed to be said and I am glad that I said them. Somebody needs to be a voice of truth and a warrior of light in this dark and confusing world. And if that person must be me then so be it. I did not ask for this gift/curse, but I am a gentleman and as the Emperor Xerxes once said "With great power comes great responsibility." I am no coward, and if this is my fate, then so be it. So be it.