Once again, courtesy of Matt S., the proclamations of the King of the Lions Fans appeared in my inbox, as if by magic, and so I feel duty bound, both to all of you and to my liege, the good king, to spread his message unto the world, so that one day we may know peace and happiness in every corner of our realm. Hark! 'Tis a day of great celebration and wondrous joy. Shit, this stuff is catchy. Anyway, here it is, and once again, thanks to Matt S. for proving that, if nothing else, we Lions fans are creative and strange sons of bitches. Naturally, I mean that in the best way. Anyway, the latest from the King of the Lions Fans:
HAVE A MOUTH-FUL OF WAX, YOU CRAVEN DOGS, SO THAT YOUR SLOBBERING TONGUES MIGHT BUFF MINE ROYAL ORBS TO A MIGHTY GLOW!
FOR TOO LONG, the King’s legions have found naught but defeat beyond the sacred borders of De-Troit. The fort-nights have numbered four-score-and-two since last the King’s armies have tasted victory at a foreign out-post. We fell on our own swords in Newe Jersey. Our dead washed up in a tide most frothy upon the shores of Lake Minne-tonka. And do not even ask the King about the blighted expanses of Chi-ca-go, where we choked down Fortune’s toxic seed in a debacle so foul, it vanquished forever the notion that the heavens could play seat to Gods of honor or worth.
But no longer. For much like the King’s brief dalliance with low-cal skinn’d potatoes, this era of futility has come to an end. A merciful, pork-laden end, slathered in soured-cream and topped with golden-fried glory.
Some time after breakfast, the King’s Armada descended upon the waters of the Bay of Tampa and stained them red with Buccaneer’s blood. Reeking of scurvy and failure, these wretches fancied themselves dread pirates, but were proven to be little more than a glittering cadre of cabin boys before the King’s cannon thunder. Would that they had spent the previous week planning for battle, instead of mincing around below deck, plucking barnacles from each other’s cod-pieces with their gangrenous lizards’ tongues.
For the second time in a fort-night, the King’s finest have waved his flag in victory. One triumph is an occasion for cele’bration. Two is cause for an orgy of violence, sex and ranch dressing and that would make Bacchus himself blush in modesty. But tonight the King finds himself within not a serving wench, but contemplation instead.
For you see, the King has developed a taste for victory, and he would see his royal belly stretched.
I HEREBY DECREE that all territories of the globe tremble now under the greased fist of the King of the Lions Fans!
I HEREBY DECREE that all enemy forces lay down their swords and embrace the King’s shallow-breathed love!
I HEREBY DECREE that from now on, nothing goes down unless the King is involved. No chequers, no indulgences, no nothing. A flagon of mead gets sold in the square, I want in. You knaves got fat while everybody starved on the street. Now it's the King’s turn.
The King’s armies embark now upon a righteous crusade, one that will ensure that their bravery echoes throughout history eternal. For centuries, the people of De-Troit have huddled around flaming garbage cans and hallowed-out chariots to hear the Elder’s talk in whispered tones of the fabled “play-offs”. Long thought to be little more than legend, the mythical Tournament of Champions appears now before us like a dream made real. We shall hold this Tournament by its ankles and use it to fuck-plow the Elysian fields of victory. We shall carve our names into Lombardi’s Silver Chalice, and raise it high above the withered corpses of our enemies. We shall strew it with their entrails, and drink from it the blood of their children. W shall conquer…
…speak up, knave. The King cannot hear you from down there.
The King has been informed by this soon-to-be-quartered messenger that the Tournament of Champions will not be extending an invite to his fearsome armies. This is…most disappointing.
Well, then, maybe next harvest. Until then, let there be milkshakes.
All hail the King.