The NFL is full of stubborn assholes. The events of the last couple of months bear this out. But at least there is some sort of human emotion behind all this lockout melodrama. At least that is being driven by the mighty whip that is human greed. I understand that, even if I hate it. It’s not like this is some complex issue in which the various motivations are so Byzantine that they completely flummox the layman. No, this is all about greed and so be it. It is ugly and it is mean and it reminds us all that as fans we don’t mean shit to those ugly greedheads hunched over the extra bidet they just had to have in their state of the art luxury box, shooting water up their horrible old assholes and eating Fried Baby served by a Pygmy butler imported from Madagascar because all the other owners have Pygmy butlers and hey, fuck you.
But that’s not important here. That’s easily deplorable, simple in its way and, like I said, it’s easy to understand. The NFL owners are like some sort of silent movie villain, tying us as fans to the railroad tracks and rubbing their weaselly little hands together, but not before they rummage through our pockets for every last thin dime they can get their hands on in order to buy an extra inch or two for their miniscule dicks. That kind of cheesy evil is easy to boo and hiss. It’s almost absurd that it actually exists, but, well . . . here we are. But again, that’s not really my point. I promise I’ll get to it soon but I am having too much fun pistol whipping the owners for their vile greed. And why wouldn’t I, since it is basically the only recourse I have as a fan? I am impotent. (Jesus, that would be really easy to take out of context, wouldn’t it? I MEAN AS A FAN.) I can’t do anything but bitch and moan and accuse Al Davis of stalking through the night like some sort of leprous Nosferatu or Jerry Jones of beating the shit out of a blind retarded backwoods Arkansas hick child and stealing his fillings to sell for coffee money or Daniel Snyder of being, well, Daniel Snyder. That’s all I have as a fan. They don’t give a fuck about me and that’s obvious.
It all comes back to money and hey, it is what it is. It is what it is. Money is a powerful motivator and it turns men into lizards, slithering around and flicking their horrible tongues in every direction, intent on sucking up everything in their horrible little worlds. Greed begets more greed and pretty soon you are suing your own fans and kicking little Timmy’s one good leg out from under him and laughing about it and even the old school silent film villain steps away from the railroad tracks to see what you’re doing, shakes his head, his eyes wide, utterly shocked, while black and white words pop up on screen registering his disgust and horror at your own despicable villainy. So be it. The NFL owners have made that their reality and there isn’t a damn thing anybody can do about it. They have us over a barrel and they know it. If we want NFL football, we just have to suck it up and beg for more. We have to laugh with them when little Timmy collapses in pain and we have to throw our wallets at them just because they tell us to. They don’t have to be nice guys. They want our money and by God they are going to take it. Fuck you, you’re just a dumb mark who makes their mouth water with anticipation. You’re a fucking addict, willing to suck a dick for a fix of your NFL football and they know it. They are violent pimps and thieves, dealers who will suck your soul dry one goddamn crack rock of a game at a time.
They are what they are and that’s not going to change any time soon. It’s horrible but that’s just the reality of the situation. You and I can’t change it. We’ll be back down on our knees when the time comes and they will smile at us with row after row of teeth made of gold and contempt and tell us to get suckin’ because that’s the price to pay for our fix. But that greed, that simple outrageous villainy doesn’t explain what those shitheads just did.
You see, apparently they all got together in their little conclave, probably in some subterranean cave where Mike Pereira lives and sups upon bats and molemen, and decided to uphold – unchanged, of course - the infamous and stupid so-called Calvin Johnson rule. You all remember that heinous rule, right? Of course you do. None of us will ever forget the sight of Calvin Johnson scoring a game winning touchdown against the Bears in the opening game of the season, landing, getting up, getting a hotdog, taking a shower, maybe screwing couple of groupies in a locker room closet after the game and then handing the ball to the ref only for the refs to then freak the fuck out and decide – apparently just because they felt like it – that the catch violated some obscure and ambiguous rule seemingly designed to exist simply for moments like this, so the refs could just pull it out of their back pockets like a dagger soaked in poison and just stick it wherever the fuck they felt like. I mean, that’s what that rule has to exist for because if it doesn’t then I will drive myself mad trying to come up with valid reasons for its existence. If that wasn’t a catch then neither are half the damn catches in every other game. And that means that . . . that . . . that, well, that no one fucking knows what the hell is even going on.
That rule is so ambiguous that it is meaningless. The refs can choose to invoke it whenever they want and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. It is like a catch-all (no pun intended or fuck, maybe it was) of stupidity. It is so ambiguous that it can be used to overturn or confirm any damn thing the ref wants. It is pointless and absurd and it is just one of those terrible things that you have to come up with conspiracy theories in order to explain because the truth is just too silly and random and dumb and inexplicable to accept without your brain melting. We have to tell ourselves that the whole thing was just some way to cosmically fuck us once again because otherwise the whole damn thing doesn’t make any sense. It will break our fragile brains to try to determine any sort of order or meaning behind the rule’s existence and application.
Human beings like things to be neat and orderly. We pride ourselves on being rational beings and in our minds everything in the universe must conform to us. Everything must be rational and explainable, especially those concepts – like football rules – that spring from the human mind. And maybe that’s our biggest mistake. We assume that the minds that thought up this idiot rule are human minds and not the minds of some breed of greedy lizard people. They don’t think like us. We don’t understand each other and we never will. Sure, we understand one another’s basic motivations – they are greedy assholes who won’t stop until they own the whole world and we are desperate junkies willing to completely debase ourselves for a fix – but we don’t understand each other on any sort of deeper level than that.
To us, the rule is obviously flawed and should be changed. Actually, to us, it never should have been conceived of, but hey, mistakes were made. We can understand that but now is the time to fix those mistakes. After all, that’s how the human brain approaches the situation. And like I said, therein lies the problem. The only human brains the cretins in charge of the NFL’s rulebook have in their possession are the ones that they snack on in between sucking the marrow from the bones of orphans. Their own strange lizard brains see nothing wrong with the rule. It is inexplicable and utterly maddening but there it is.
We can understand the basic motivation of greed. It’s obvious and easily condemnable. But we can’t understand what drives them to zealously and maliciously protect a rule that simply doesn’t make any damn sense. They have been bred to fuck us over. It’s at the core of their being. The little double helixes that make up their DNA are actually composed of tiny little demons laughing at us with tiny little extended middle fingers. We understand that. It’s why we’re in the situation we’re in. It’s why 100 gajillion dollars isn’t enough for everybody to be happy. But still, that doesn’t explain why that infernal rule is still allowed to exist.
I mean, come on . . . yeah, I get that they live just to fuck us and rob us blind, but that rule hurts them too! Honestly, how does it help them? It just makes their league look confusing and stupid and it actively detracts from the quality of the smack they are trying to push on us. If you’re going to make us suck your dick, at least offer us something worth sucking for, you know? You would think that they would understand this, but again, we find ourselves making the same damn mistake we always do: assuming that these beasts are capable of thinking with human brains.
And so all that’s left is to try to think like they do. It’s a horrible experience and only the professionally deranged should try it. Thankfully, for all of you, I belong to that strange and terrible tribe of professional lunatics and so I will try, right now, for all of you, to figure this shit out. You’re welcome. Okay, deep breath and here goes nothing . . .
Alright, so I’m an NFL owner. What do I do? Well, first I’m going to eat this adorable little puppy and then I’m going to grind up and snort the bones of a newborn kitten. And . . . done. Okay, now that that’s out of the way, maybe I can start to understand these freaks. Goddamn, I feel like that dude in Avatar, only my tail is longer and I can’t get any Pterodactyls to let me ride them. Alright, alright, come on, focus. Focus. Beat up that orphan and shave his head so you can sell the hair for fifty cents to a wig maker. Yeah, yeah, okay, now you’re getting there. Money. Power. Hey, where’s my dick??? Don’t panic, Neil. Remember, you’re one of them right now. You don’t have a dick. Okay, okay, okay, breathe.
What’s next? Money. You want it. You’ll do anything to get it. Yeah, fuck you, peasants, get on your knees. What’s that? You want me to what? Change a rule? Why? It doesn’t make sense? Who cares? What does that have to do with me? Oh, you’re refusing to gnaw on my nonexistent dick until I change the rule? Well, fuck you, peasant. I make the rules, not you. I won’t have you dictating to me. God, just shut up already. Fine, I’ll look at the damn rule just so you’ll quit using that mouth for yapping and start using it for sucking.
Whoa. The peasants are right. This rule doesn’t make any damn sense. Still, I’m not going to change it. Fuck them. I can’t go letting them think that they have any sort of control here. Fuck no. That would be madness. Who knows what they would demand next? Sorry, peasants, the rule stands. Now get busy sucking or get busy dying. (In my head, I wrote that last sentence using Morgan Freeman’s voice in Shawshank Redemption. I . . . I apologize.)
And there you have it. The mind of an NFL owner. I have to go now because I feel filthy and exhausted, like I just got mind raped by a lizard from hell. I will be having nightmares about this experience for months. But I did it all for you because I am a warrior of light and am willing to tread in the dark places so that all of us can one day find salvation and hope in these strange and terrible times. I wish there was a happier explanation and I wish that I could tell you that these pigfuckers would get what was coming to them, but being naïve doesn’t help anyone. None of us can afford to be simple, otherwise we will be eaten alive and left as gibbering messes, confused and stupid. All we can do is snarl at the vile bastards who have us in their thrall. But don’t get depressed. I know it’s hard since, well shit, this is depressing but there are more of us than there are of them and this is still our game. They need us to survive. We don’t need them. We may think we do, but really, we’re just addicted to what they’ve been shoving into every orifice of our bodies for half a century now. They are not the product. They are just scared old men. Fuck them. Can we do anything about that? No, not really. But still, fuck them. I love football and because of that, I am destined to lose this battle. I have to make my peace with that. But then again, none of that really matters because when the games are played again, I will watch and I will smile and I will high five my friends and I won’t give a shit about the Calvin Johnson Rule or how many bidets Daniel Snyder has because that is just so much petty bullshit and my enjoyment of the game is so much more than that. And in the end that petty bullshit is all those old lizard men have to hold over any of us. So fuck them. We’ve got football.