Monday, July 18, 2011

2011 All ACLB Team Center

Well, in keeping with my racial harmony chaos theory for my offensive line, I feel it important to throw a Samoan into the middle, at center. Samoans who grow up in the actual island ghetto are dirt poor and learn football at age four on rocky fields, and are not held back by American laws governing how much you can make kids do something like play football. The mentality is stronger because it is crushed into them early on. On top of this, you have the whole historical factor of Samoa being a world power in rugby. On the line in rugby, you literally lock arms with your teammates and cannot touch the ball. You just push your bodies forward against the other team's line, and one of you through sheer physical dominance will move forward enough for one of your second line players to actually grab the ball.
Of course, Samson Satele grew up in Hawaii, but Samoans in Hawaii are considered second class citizens. It is funny how, to an outsider, everyone looks like a brown-skinned stocky dude with bad tattoos. But within the region, the different subtle flavors of brown-skin recognize in each other inferiorities. They dislike each other, in very ancient tribal ways, and to us on the outside it just looks like a bunch of the same thing fighting at each other.
Still though, Satele comes from Samoan stock, so the fighting spirit of his people pollutes his blood. And he is named Samson, and plays in Oakland, which really begs the question why does this guy not have a ridiculous horse mane ponytail of black locks shooting from the back of his helmet? At least a decent short-and-long haircut would work. But still, he is my chosen Samoan to anchor the inside of my O-line.

We’re almost halfway done with this beast of a team and I’m sure the alien squidmen this team is being assembled to beat the shit out of for control of the galaxy are, uh . . . well whatever the hell the alien squidmen version of shitting themselves is. Who knows how those vile beasts get down? But it doesn’t matter. Fuck them, they will find out how humans shit when our boys are squatting over them on the field after winning control of the galaxy. The last thing those squid motherfuckers will see will be Kyle Orton’s asshole opening up to reveal the brown highway to hell. I’m sorry I had to go there. I understand that is a disgusting image but these are high stakes. The fate of the entire galaxy hangs in the balance and if that means some squidmen have to get shit on at midfield by a hung over Kyle Orton then so be it. After all, I didn’t make the rules. I’m just a humble observer of the human condition.
But if that is going to happen then we need to make sure that we assemble a team worthy of doing that. So far my offense is filled with drunks and thugs (and a dead guy) who won’t take any shit from some filthy alien squidman. LeGarrette Blount will punch one of those motherfuckers in the jaw and then Jake Long will drag their carcass back to his pit and gnaw on their heart. You think Chris Ivory came all this way to get stuffed in the hole by some arrogant squidman? Fuck no. Jeff Backus has spent years eating shit because he’s stuck on an awful team with no help. He’s gonna be pancaking some poor dumb squid motherfucker every chance he gets. Fuck you, squidman, Jeff Backus has had ENOUGH. And while the squidmen are busy trying to collect their severed body parts and begging for mercy, Kyle Orton is gonna be raining down bombs to Roddy White and Braylon Edwards. Braylon may drop a few passes every now and again, but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna let some gelatinous asshole cover him. When the stakes are high, Braylon takes shit over. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. That’s why he’s here.
But our gang of reprobates and shitkickers needs a leader, a calming veteran presence who can get everyone together and draw plays in the dirt in the huddle and figure out a way to confuse those dumb alien assholes, and who better to do that than Matt Birk, Harvard grad?
Birk is nearing the end of his proud career and when a man reaches a certain age he realizes that all that really matters is pride and the defense of one's own species. I know I get that way whenever I see or hear anything about Bigfoot and I’m just an aimless degenerate who will probably be found buried in the desert outside of Tijuana one day and Bigfoot is at least a resident of the planet Earth. But a man like Matt Birk is already a millionaire. There is nothing left for him to chase. Everything in his life has been building to this moment and so when he gets the call, he’ll be ready. Fuck you, squidman.
It’s important to assess a man’s character when compiling a list like this. I can’t have any cowards who would shuffle off to the locker room to cry and jerk off in the shower if things get too heavy. I have to have men who are willing to stand and fight and stab a squidman and then skullfuck that ugly son of a bitch before his squid family. There is no room for mercy in the intergalactic squid wars and I need a man who can understand that.
Now, on the surface it might seem like Matt Birk would shy away from that kind of righteous bloodshed. After all, he’s an educated man, an erudite example of the best of the American educational system. Surely he would feel more comfortable negotiating a complicated peace treaty with the squidmen. But not so fast, friendos. A closer look reveals a Harvard man who pissed on the idea of becoming a doctor or lawyer or a statesman in favor of becoming a professional football player and being beaten into early retardation. And it’s not like he’s a quarterback. He’s a fucking center. He’s a dude who gets the shit beaten out of him on every play. By the time he’s 45 he’ll be wearing a diaper and vomiting on himself whenever he tries to speak. He has thrown his life away for a dumbass game. The dude went to Harvard! He could have been anything. Instead, he chose to pursue a path of insanity and violence and I salute him for it. Perhaps he knew subconsciously that this is what he had to do, that this was his fate. He knew that he had to prepare himself for the day when he had to fight the squidmen. I’m not saying this is definitely how it went down but I’m not saying it’s not either, you know? His heart knew the threat those evil motherfuckers presented and it led him down the path of righteousness and glory even though his brain was trying to tell him to drink champagne with the Czar and play golf with the Kaiser in between business lunches with the Pope. The man sacrificed his life so that we could triumph as a species. How could I not put him on this team?
When the alien squidmen are threatening to overrun us all, Matt Birk can gather his teammates around him and use that Ivy League brain of his to concoct the perfect plan. I love Kyle Orton, but when the shit hits the fan, he’s just gonna say fuck it, chug some Jack, maybe fuck one of the squidman cheerleaders and bomb the fuck out of the ball. This team needs someone who can step in and prove that the human brain is indeed the most lethal weapon of all, and after those degenerate squidmen collapse in a pool of their own feces and our boys are celebrating a game winning touchdown engineered in the huddle by Matt Birk, you’ll all understand why he’s the only man I could have considered for the job. He’s the missing link that will bring this whole damn team together. Some would say that these are just the crazed thoughts of a damaged and dangerous mind, thoughts fueled by a lack of sleep, some strange plants I found in the forest and a half gallon jug of grain alcohol, and some would say that they are just a really fucked up way of rationalizing this selection because really, there isn’t anyone interesting out there to pick, but fuck those people. They are merely laying the groundwork for the squidmen’s invasion with their apathy and lack of vision. I’ll be ready, goddammit, and I’ll be here waiting when the game is over and you are all offering your firstborn children and your wives to me and my hand picked All-Pro team for saving your lives and for proving once and for all that no squidman motherfucker can match up with the mighty power of the properly focused human brain. Matt Birk was born to be on this team and how dare you argue with me? No, I do not want to eat that applesauce! You get your damn hands off of me! Get that needle away from me you Philistine! I will not calm down! Nurse! Nurse! Napoleon, call my family and tell them I’ve been kidnapped by fascist doctors with giant needles! I . . . I’m so . . . I’m so tired. Somebody tell Raven that I tried to warn them but they wouldn’t listen. Oh . . . now that feels lovely. Hello, Mr. Rainbow, how are you today?

TOMORROW: Defensive Ends

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