Wednesday, July 20, 2011

2011 All ACLB Team Defensive Tackles

I like to pretend that the NFL is still old school sometimes. In my mind, this old school mentality does not just cover the basic philosophies of play, but the whole thing. I pretend there's only like 24 teams and the players barely make any money, and some of them have to wrestle professionally in the off-season, and occasionally become so good at that fake fighting world that they leave the NFL to live in Florida and work nine days a week, in order to drive a Cadillac driven by a midget named Little Havana, and have sex with the same 37 women as much as they want. Professional wrestling is just like the NFL in that it's become stupid and glossy and designed for the bright lights of television instead of the real dudes of dark bars. That's just how it is. Once something gets a whiff of money, it forgets its foundation, and abandons it, profits for as long as it can, until either it crumbles from the strain of what it has become, or only closeted gays actually like it. As I write this, there is no labor deal in place, and the NFL might shut down or some shit, and that's a real test for it, because it could be headed to what professional wrestling is - something that only closeted gay actually enjoy. Or retards. Regular dudes will move on if it gets too much bullshittier though.
But in pretending it's an old school game like that, who else would I pick for my DTs than Haloti Ngata and Ndamukong Suh, since one is a behemoth brown-skinned man with remarkable athleticism for a 350 pound man, who has a scary islander name, and the other is a behemoth dark-skinned man with even more remarkable athleticism for a 330-pound man, who has a scary jungle name? They are perfect to not only play football, but ride with me to Texas to put on stereotypical jungle motif bathing suits, walk around barefoot, and beat up on the good ole boy white guys that the wrestling fans all love and adore. We would bludgeon and bloody them in all sorts of nefarious ways, biting their foreheads into a pulp, and I would wear a tuxedo with lots of frilliness to it, and probably carry a stainless steel briefcase as well. We would make thousands and thousands of dollars in the off-season, and have to sneak our way out of arena back doors so the local yokel doofus fans did not try to beat us with tire irons on our way out of town. We would drink two cases of beer between the three of us on long road trips to the next shithole town, where we'd all call our wives, talk about how everything was kinda chill, we missed them, and then we'd go get breakfast at the Huddle House and have our way with the doe-eyed sorta Rican girl working the red eye shift once she got off work at 10 am. That's old school football motherfuckers. That's how you play the game.

I haven’t done anything for this for almost two weeks while Raven grows all restless and tears his shirt off Ron Simmons style, and I don’t blame him but this shit isn’t my fault. It’s been a trying time. I am writing this from an underground bunker in an undisclosed location after a daring escape from the fascists who were holding me against my will. I won’t relate the details of my escape because they are horrible, horrible, horrible and they cause violent memories and obscene thoughts and then I have to live with the thought that a man may have died and I remember him twitching and I remember thinking better you than me, friend . . . but that is yesterday’s business, savage and strange as it is, and we are here, today.
Still, that doesn’t explain why I have been so silent, but I had to get my mind right. I had to recover from the heinous atrocities committed against me in the name of mental health and science, possibly on the orders of an advance team sent by the squid people. I don’t know. I’m investigating. What I do know is that it has been a long, arduous process, and my mysterious teacher, the man who took me in, an old man named Kuno, hasn’t let me do anything during this time period other than meditate and practice a strange combination of Krav Maga, Sambo and Drunken Boxing that he invented. It is a nameless art but he assures me that it will leave me prepared for the day the squid people come to take me or at least in case my fascist oppressors find me, in which case Kuno says that he won’t be able to help me because he has warrants and he doesn’t need that shit.
In any case, this forced period of meditation and training has forced me to reevaluate my priorities when it comes to this team. Thankfully, my beliefs are still in line with my old feelings, but now they are sharpened into something definite. There are goals here. This isn’t just about representing a blog. No. This is about the future of the human race. That’s the overriding goal that cannot be forgotten. Therefore, I can only select men who I believe have the right kind of mental and physical makeup to fight to the bitter end against the rampaging horde of squidmen. I have already explained this part, so I won’t dwell on it. But the second factor that has come into focus as a result of my trials and tribulations is more important to me on a personal level. You see, I need to pick players who I know would stick with me when the shit goes down. I need guys who will huddle with me in the terrible places, who will plot and plan, deprived of air and reality in this bunker, face to face with their own madness and who will not only survive but flourish. I need men who will serve as my personal bodyguards when it comes time to rampage through the countryside, beating on the skulls of my enemies and gnawing on the bones of the wicked. I can’t have civilized gentlemen who just want to buy fine art and look at their stock portfolios all day. Fuck no. I need warriors and I think that I have them.
Ndamukong Suh is an obvious pick here. There isn’t that much I can say about this noble warrior that I haven’t said already. He has already stoked the fires of my heart as a member of the Detroit Lions football club and I am one hundred percent sure that he will only get better and better. He is young and he is supernaturally gifted. He has no time for the squidman and he will sack that degenerate motherfucker and rip his ugly tentacles off. But aside from that, I can trust a man like Ndamukong Suh. He is the Lord of the House of Spears, and a man like that understands concepts like honor and loyalty. I can feel safe with him at my side. I may be equipped with the teachings of Master Kuno but as he has taught me, I will know I am successful when I do not have to fight. That’s what I have Lord Ndamukong for. He is a natural born warrior and they are rare beasts in this world. He only knows one thing and that is victory. He would not let the squidmen win. He understands these things. And, perhaps more importantly, he would not let the fascists take me again. His strength is not in the power of his arms, mighty as they are, but in the power of his warrior spirit. After all, a lot of men are strong. Albert Haynesworth is strong. But Albert Haynesworth would offer to suck the dick of the Chief Squidman to get out of fighting and he would sell me to the fascists for a bag of old hamburgers. Fuck him. No, it takes a special kind of man to stand with me in these strange and terrible times, and there is no man more special than Ndamukong Suh. This is a team, and therefore every man is valuable, but in my own heart, no man is more valuable than the Lord of the House of Spears. He is precious to me and I know that when I die many years from now, in some shithole cantina in the Mexican desert, he will still stand above my body and he will fight off the evil dogs who howl for my flesh and he will bear my body to the mountaintop from which it will ascend in a beam of pure light back to the heavens from whence it came. I trust him and him alone in this task and that is why he is on this team.
I was able to communicate with Raven following my escape, which was a welcome relief since my captors had blocked our telepathic communication through the use of an ultra-high frequency sound wave, which corrupted any and all messages that came from behind those terrible walls, which meant that I had to resort to begging for the occasional phone call, which I knew was fruitless because Raven is too smart to reveal anything of any importance through such insecure channels. He said nothing and I don’t blame him. He did the right thing. But after I escaped, I managed to contact him once again, and I have since kept him abreast of the situation. He explained to me that he thought it was odd that I chose Haloti Ngata at defensive end since he is a defensive tackle. I explained myself and we cleared that shit up, but now I’m going to explain it to all of you so there is no confusion.
It’s important to me both to have the premier warriors and to have a sense of versatility if we are to slay the squid people. Therefore, I believe that a man like Haloti Ngata is absolutely necessary and since he is nominally a defensive end in the Ravens 3-4 offense, I decided it would be a perfect opportunity to add him to the team there. That way, I can roll out a giant defensive line if I so choose with Suh, Ngata and Kyle Williams, with The Great Willie Young destroying worlds coming off the edge and a bunch of kamikaze linebackers raising hell behind them. OR . . . or, I can slide Haloti Ngata inside with Suh and Kyle Williams in a three man front or even The Great Willie Young, who can play anywhere he damn well wants, and then throw an extra linebacker on the field. This will make even more sense when I reveal my linebackers. Versatility is key because you never know what those heathen squid motherfuckers are gonna pull out.
So, I guess the only question left to answer is why Kyle Williams? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know that much about Kyle Williams. What I do know is this: he was awesome this past season, maybe the best defensive tackle in the entire league and he did it playing in Buffalo. That tells me a lot. The Bills are a terrible team, just awful, and it takes a special sort of man to excel in that environment. Plus, Buffalo itself is akin to hell. It is cold and gray and evil and depressed and there is nothing to do there but drink antifreeze and wait for your spirit horse to arrive. It would be easy for a man to degenerate into nothingness in a place like that, to perhaps become a witless junky, sucking dicks in back alleys for some rotten crank or turning on your friends and compatriots in order to gather the means to escape and leave them all behind. But not Kyle Williams. Hell no.
Kyle Williams rose like a fire beast from the hell slums of Buffalo and refused to be conquered. Instead, he has flourished. He has fought like a champion despite the odds and he has won himself a place in my heart because of it. He will likely never win in Buffalo but that hasn’t stopped him. He does not fight for glory or for cheap championship trophies and gaudy pimp rings. No, he fights because what else is there? He fights because he must, because it is the only way for him to quench that river of fire which runs through his warrior veins. The only way he can look in the mirror every morning is if he knows he goes out there and takes a blood axe to the skulls of his enemies. He fights for himself and for his pathetic friends. He knows there is no victory and yet he keeps coming forward, forward, forward. His future is dark and miserable and is rank with the stench of grim death but yet he faces it like a man, with eyes wide open and a heart full of thunder. How could I not have him with me in these strange and terrible times? I don’t know a damn thing about him other than those two things - that he is awesome and he is awesome even though he has been exiled to Buffalo - but those are enough for me.

TOMORROW: Linebackers


HillHeeb said...

This is definitely the best thing. Don't comment a lot because I usually read it at work, but you gentlemen should be writing the Third Testament.

Raven Mack said...

Thanks. We actually are, but we have to wait for the downfall of the world economy in 2013 for that, which will be in printed form since wireless/ethernet will be useless (and gone) once that happens.