I meant to write something yesterday, but then I got caught up in a project that Raven Mack and I are doing for the site and, well, shit got out of hand – which you might expect given that it involves the two of us - and I decided fuck it, I’d just wait until today, so . . . here I am. Of course, I am faced with the same dilemma that everyone else is faced with this time of year – what the fuck am I supposed to write about? Indeed. There is not one damn thing that is remotely interesting going on in Lions land right now. In retrospect, maybe I should have just done an installment in the Adventures of Willie Young, and hell, I’m sure that’s what I’ll have to do in the coming weeks. So . . . yeah. But I didn’t really feel like doing one this week. I don’t know why. It’s been a while, but I suppose I feel like I’m somehow cheating you if that’s all I start doing and since I’m only really writing anything here one day a week, that’s what it would quickly degenerate into. I want to use these weekly posts to check in with what’s going on so that we can all stay tethered to the world of the Lions. That will be tougher to do if all I’m doing is flying off on ridiculous flights of fancy involving a backup rookie defensive end fighting Chinamen and berserk Nazis. Sure, that shit is fun and some would say necessary to the advancement of the human spirit in these dark and terrible times, but I fear I would quickly lose the narrative thread that so tenuously holds everything that I do here together. I don’t want to look up 2 or 3 months from now and realize I have no fucking idea what I’m even talking about anymore. (Too late?)
Anyway, this is all so much rambling horseshit and I don’t blame you if you’re tempted to just shake your head and then hit the back button on your browser. I’m tempted too and I’m writing this damn thing. But this is what happens in February. I mean, really, what is there to talk about? Let’s see here . . . oh right, the Lions had a “major” announcement, the rumor of which had the Lions universe buzzing for about 1.8 seconds until everyone realized that it was just the announcement that the Lions were moving their preseason games to another local television network. As announcements go, sure that’s probably fractionally bigger than Roosevelt’s address explaining that we were at war with Germany and Japan but major? What’s next? Are they going to hold a press conference to announce that they installed new urinal cakes in the men’s room? I can see Tom Lewand with charts and graphs and mockups of fake plastic computer people pissing into new state of the art troughs. Jesus. I guess, in a way, it’s the perfect “major” announcement for this time of year. It just sums the whole damn thing up. Speaking of Tom Lewand, maybe he could do me a favor and get busted for shitfaced driving again. I need material, Tom! Damn it, just wander into the local bar and let nature take its course.
So . . . uh, what else? Shaun Rogers just got cut by the Browns which means he’s back on the market and predictably this has led people to wonder whether the Lions should bring him back into the fold. I say no for a couple of different reasons. Number one, the Lions are already stocked at defensive tackle and while, yeah, you want depth, you need to have the right kind of players with the right kind of personality to provide that depth. It’s the same problem I had with the idea of going after Albert Haynesworth. Yeah, on paper, that shit might work out, but in reality Albert or Big Baby would just be a pain in the ass. Those are dudes who are legendary for being lazy shitheads. They constantly take plays off – hell, sometimes whole games off – and that’s not the sort of shit we need right now. I mean, do you honestly think that either one of those dudes would just gladly accept a role as a backup defensive tackle who rotates in and out of games like some blue collar cog? Fuck that. Those guys would behave like 3 year olds. They are horrible assholes when they are the number one guy. How in the fuck do you think they are going to handle being number three or four? Shit. Jim Schwartz would call for Albert Haynesworth to get into the game only to find that he’d wandered off to get a hotdog or pooped his pants or emptied out his toybox and then sat down in the middle of all the mess with his arms folded and a petulant scowl on his face. Sure, there’s this fantasy that Jim Schwartz is somehow “The Albert Whisperer” and would soothe the savage beast, but that is not really a chance I want to take, you know?
It’s the same with Shaun Rogers. This is a man who can’t focus when he standing on the field, ready to hit or be hit by an opposing guard or center. Do your really think he’ll be able to bring any sort of intensity when he’s standing on the sideline scanning the crowd for the next stripper he’s going to assault? Hell, Jim Schwartz would call for Shaun to go into the game, and it’d probably look a little something like this:
Schwartz: Shaun? SHAUN! I’ve been calling your name for the last 15 seconds. What the hell is wrong with you? Get in the game, you lazy shit!
Shaun Rogers: Titties. Ham. Baby Got Back. Back bacon.
Schwartz: What the . . .?
Gunther Cunningham: Oh God, he’s trying to make me give him a lapdance! What do I do Jim? Jiiiiimmmmmmmmmmm!!!
[Gunther’s withered old balls dance on Big Baby’s massive chest while Gun cries out in horror and confusion. End scene.]
That Oscar worthy dialogue is not even a ridiculous fantasy. That shit would happen. Don’t even try to tell me otherwise.
Even if you assume that Schwartz and Gun would get Big Baby to behave himself – and man, if you believe that shit, it’s probably time for your friends and loved ones to start the ol’ intervention – it still doesn’t erase the fact that Shaun Rogers is covered with the terrible stink of Lions Disease. He is tainted by it and he always will be. I don’t want him back simply because I don’t want anyone back from the terrible, terrible past. Sure, it really wasn’t his fault, but it’s the same reason why two parents almost always split up after their kid dies. You just don’t want anything around that reminds you of that horrible shit. (And by “horrible shit”, I mean the situation, not the dead child himself. I may be an asshole, but I want you to know that I’m not trying to call your dead child a horrible little shit. I’m glad I could clear this up.)
The stink is on him and it smells like shit. No thanks. And do you want Shaun fucking Rogers hanging around with Ndamukong Suh? I just shuddered a little bit just thinking of that. And even if you believe that Suh is impervious to Shaun’s wicked ways, what about someone like Corey Williams? Can’t you just see him being found passed out in the dumpster behind the nearest strip joint, covered in what could either be smeared lipstick or smeared blood, stripper smell and bruises from the fists of angry bouncers, only weeks after being “mentored” by Big Baby? Horrible, just horrible.
Other than that, nothing is going on that I can even stretch into being semi-interesting without being ashamed of myself. I mean, yeah, I could talk about Eric King being released, but I don’t even want to think about the weird and wild shit I would have to concoct in order to make that story interesting. I would end up horrifying myself and no one wants that, do they? It would probably start off with Nazis and then end with me gibbering to myself in an all-white padded room, tied down with a straightjacket so I wouldn’t hurt myself. I mean, I’m willing to explore the darker regions of my mind and my soul for you, but have some goddamn compassion. There’s no way I could make a story about Eric King interesting without hurting myself.
So . . . anything else? I suppose I could talk about the looming labor issues that seem to be dominating the NFL news and I’ll be honest, I considered throwing my voice into the mournful howl of a billion voices crying out in pain and confusion over the issue, but really, what’s the point? Losing football would suck and we would all be depressed, and shit, someone should prevent that from happening. If I tried to say any more than that, I would probably just end up calling Roger Goodell a cocksucker and then ranting and raving about Mike Pereira slithering around like a Nazi lizard man for ten paragraphs and that wouldn’t do anyone any good, now would it? Shit, I think I’m getting an idea for a new Willie Young installment.
Well, hell. On that note, let’s just get the hell out of here. Hopefully next week Tom Lewand will get caught pissing in the closet of a 90 year old lady or something and I will have something I can really dig my teeth into. But probably not. Instead, I’ll probably end up writing about Jason Hanson’s goiter or why Nate Burleson’s piss smells like asparagus or about Dominic Raiola’s collection of antique dildos. Oh, the horror, the horror . . .