The Bejeweled Demon

It came in the mail.  I didn’t know what it was but it was wrapped in a weathered box and was marked with words in several foreign languages, including some foreboding African ones that had their “t’s” crossed with machetes.  I was reluctant to let the damn thing in my home, especially since it was radiating a weird energy and there were bloody footprints leading away from it.  I could only presume that they came from the mailman, who had limped away after some titanic struggle with whatever was in this terrible box.  But I looked at the return address and saw the familiar and reassuring name of my good friend, Raven Mack.  So despite my misgivings I brought the package inside and opened it, cutting it open with a chainsaw because that’s just how I do.

I’ll never forget what I saw.  It appeared to be some sort of bejeweled demon with the hilt of a mighty blade sticking out of it.  I pulled on the blade but it would not come free.  I cursed and slapped at the thing and my palms immediately felt hot, as if they had been burned by the demon.  Afraid that I had angered it, I threw a towel over its head and retreated to the dark, where I nursed some banana beer and wondered why Raven had sent me such a thing.  And then, I saw it.

In the wreckage of the box lay a shredded note.  I staggered over to it, half-drunk on banana beer and I did my best to reassemble it.  Even then, it wasn’t easy to read, as it appeared that it had been written in blood and the words were smeared by either tears or old semen.  I couldn’t be sure.  But I could make out the following:

“ . . . been too much for my family to bear . . . sixteen deaths . . . mutilated goats . . . I fought for hours but it just kept coming . . . to you in the hopes that you can figure out how to defeat it . . . look to the tipi . . . it is coming, it is coming . . . no!  NO!!!”

Shaken, I nervously eyed the demon with the towel over its head.  The words seemed like nonsense.  Maybe Raven had taken up drinking again.  Maybe he had finally lost it at work and was now driving railroad spikes into the sunken eyes of the decapitated skulls of his coworkers and fortifying his compound with their bones.  Who knows?  But I trusted the man.  We had simply been through too many Spirit Wars together not to and so I decided that I had to learn as much about this bejeweled demon and the blade that it so curiously housed. 

I took to my archives, gathered from years of painstaking research and field work in the darkest corners of both the world and the human heart.  I ran my fingers along my beloved books containing the myths and legends of that great human protector, The Great Willie Young, books that took up two whole walls of my makeshift study.  I pored through them all night, looking for answers, but even The Great Willie Young never seemed to encounter this strangely bejeweled demon.  The hairs on my neck began to stand up as I remembered old legends about aliens come to eviscerate the local cattle.  A man had found his dog walking bowlegged with a ruptured anus one morning and had blamed it on shape-shifting greys.  No, get a hold of yourself damn it, I thought, downing what was left of my stock of banana beer.  You’re too drunk and you cannot figure this out in this state.

That night I couldn’t sleep and I found myself picturing the face of that monstrous demon.  Goddammit, what was it?  Was it really a demon?  No, don’t be preposterous.  The skull of a fallen grey?  No, that would be even more absurd?  A turtle perhaps?  Yes, a giant turtle.  That was it.  That had to be it.  I convinced myself that this was all there was to this fiend and I huddled under my covers and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke with a start.  How long had I been out?  An hour?  Two?  It was still dark but there was an ominous . . . presence I suppose is the only word for it, and I crept out of bed with a monstrous erection.  Don’t ask why.  These things just happen.  I crept out of my room and into the hall where an eerie glow illuminated the walls.  Bloody handprints reached up and up and up, finally dying near the ceiling as if some poor creature had been literally climbing the walls in desperate fear.  My pulse quickened and, in an instinctive crouch, I moved down the hall, naked, eyes wide, my adrenaline keeping my erection firm and at the ready in case of . . . in case of . . . god only knows but as the Boy Scouts say, always be prepared.

The glow increased in intensity with each step and when I emerged from the hallway I discovered the bejeweled demon, glowing with an intensity that I fear may have permanently damaged my retinae.  Whenever I close my eyes, I can still see it, leering at me from within that awful glow.  Terrible, terrible, terrible . . .

The towel I had thrown over it was smoldering in the corner, more ash than towel really, and the corpse of a giant elk was crucified on my wall.  I am not one to panic, but in that moment I am not ashamed to admit that I lost it a bit.  I ran from my home, screaming and was intercepted by a concerned neighbor who said “Neil, you’re naked again.  Why don’t you let me get you back to bed.” 

I cuffed him with a brutal right hand, shattering his ear-drums and screamed something unintelligible at him.  Poor Doug.  An 89 year old man does not deserve such things.  But these were desperate times and I simply could not tolerate his inanity.  There was a goddamn demon on the loose.

I huddled behind a makeshift shed behind Doug’s house.  I could see his wife peering at me from behind the blinds, phone in hand.  The harridan was calling 911, I was sure of it.  I wanted to stop her but I figured the site of a naked man with a beard on both his face and his junk would send her into a panic and I didn’t need a SWAT team chasing me through the night along with that horrible bejeweled demon.  But wait, maybe that was exactly what I needed.  If I could turn their firepower against this vondruke perhaps I could escape this night with my life and my sanity after all.  And so I did the only thing I could do.  I leapt from behind the shed and ran at the old lady.  I feared for a moment that she would suffer a heart attack.  She was 102 years old after all, a lusty cougar who had seduced young Douglas back when he was on the cusp of retirement and she a desperate widow who had pissed away her previous husband’s life insurance and had been . . . indiscreet with her social security money, buying the finest hams and showering a young Filipino gigolo named Manuel with gifts.  She had targeted Doug and his union pension, probably for several years, and I know she wished the man dead so she could collect on his benefits and so I decided that if the shock of seeing me rushing at her home, naked with crazed fear in my eyes caused her to drop dead of a heart attack then so be it, at least Douglas would be free.  I didn’t feel particularly good about it but tough decisions had to be made.

When she saw me coming, she dropped the phone.  But I knew that eventually she would gather what was left of her dusty wits and place that call and so I kept on running, and I ran and I ran and I ran until I could run no more, until finally the panic had passed and I could think clearly, rationally.  I remembered the note.  What had Raven said?  Something about a tipi?  I imagined him sitting inside his own tipi, hard at work on his zine and then I imagined that bejeweled beast attacking him, perhaps ruffling his papers around, messing them up so they were out of order, just to be a dick, and I became angry.  That foul fiend.  And so I made the decision to creep back to my home.  I had to hide in the bushes while a patrol car crept by, shining a flashlight down my drive.  One car.  One goddamned car.  That was all they could send?  I cursed under my breath and knew that I was on my own.  I felt bad for involving Doug and his old (old as dirt) lady in this affair but it couldn’t be helped.  Besides, they had both seen worse.  He was a Korean War veteran and even worse they had been my neighbors for six long terrifying years.  The things they had seen, the depravities and crimes against humanity . . . awful, awful.  Once, Doug told me that he sometimes wished he was back in Korea, fighting the Slopes.  I admonished him for his appalling racial insensitivity but he told me “Goddammit, Neil, at least them mongrels have a shred of decency.  They’ll just bayonet you in the balls.  You on the other hand . . . goddammit, son, don’t think me and the wife haven’t heard the screams coming from your place.”  He then shuddered and we never spoke of it again.  Yes, they probably thought this was just another Tuesday.  At least I wasn’t asking to borrow a shovel and a bag of lime again.

I waited out the patrol car and then I slipped down my drive.  It was freezing out but my adrenaline kept me safe, kept me moving.  The soles of my feet were raw, bleeding, and I knew that I would be in pain the next day but goddammit, I had work to do just to see the next day.  There were no guarantees, not with this demon running around, and so I resolved to do anything, destroy anything, myself included, if it meant preserving the world for just one more day.  After all, if nothing else, I am a hero.

My entire home was aglow at this point.  In restrospect, the sight was hauntingly beautiful, eerie like the Northern Lights shining over the fresh kill of a polar bear and when I think of it I am sometimes brought to tears.  But on that night it was just terrifying.  There was no beauty to the moment and I closed my eyes and barreled right through my front door.  Almost immediately I was set upon by tiny little demons, each with that terrible bejeweled head.  They clawed at me and bit my legs.  I howled in pain and squashed several of them but each time I did more sprung up to take their place.  I grabbed the giant horns of the crucified elk and I swung like Tarzan into my kitchen where I tossed a handful of the horrible miniature demons in the microwave and hit START.  The damn thing sparked and then blew up and yet they did not die.  Desperate, I lunged for the bejeweled statue, knocking it to the floor.  It was then that I saw that the hilt of the blade seemed loose.  I reached for it and I pulled.  It still wouldn’t give.  Damn it, I thought, how am I supposed to beat this thing?  I pressed myself against a wall and as I held the swarming miniature demons at bay with desperate kicks and wild punches, I said a silent prayer to The Great Willie Young.  And in that moment, a strange calm came about me and I knew that if I tried again the blade would come free.  I reached out, I pulled and sure enough, the blade slid free.  The air rushed with a sort of hissing noise and I could hear an awful scream, as if some terrible fell beast had been wounded in another dimension. 

The blade itself appeared to be fairly ordinary, a little rusted, dull around the edge, but it glowed red with the hot fire of The Great Willie Young himself and so I felt confident as I began to hack at the terrible little demons assaulting me in my own home.  And one by one, they died at the edge of this holy relic, this blade that was infused with the immortal power of The Great Willie Young himself.  And yet, there were too many of them.  I am but a simple man, and it wasn’t long before my arms tired and the swinging of the blade came slower and slower.  And still they came, in the thousands, the millions.  The floor of my home was an ocean of their dark blood and I swam through it – don’t ask me to recount the memory of that experience for it is too horrible to even imagine – the holy blade clutched in my teeth, the demon statue under one arm.  I do not know why I grabbed it.  I suppose that I knew that if I didn’t find a way to defeat it that no one would and I would not be responsible for the world ending.  And so I grabbed it and I swam and I swam and I swam through that viscous muck until I spilled out of my front door. 

It was then that I heard the barking of the police dogs, and saw the helicopters with their giant lights shining down on me.  I saw Doug and his extremely old lady huddled on their front lawn, a blanket wrapped around them while paramedics saw to their various maladies and I cursed the old woman.  But it was half-hearted.  I couldn’t blame her.  And besides, I had bigger issues to deal with.  And so, naked, covered in the blood and viscera of countless slain miniature demons, I ran through the woods behind my home, glowing statue in hand and blood-soaked blade in my mouth.  It tasted of . . . death, and with each demon drop that slid down my throat on that terrible night I could hear the savage wails of billions of tormented souls.  But still, with tears in my eyes and madness in my heart, I ran on.   I could hear the dogs yapping and snarling as they chased after me, and I could hear the terrible whir of the helicopters above as they searched and every once in a while I would hear the crack of a gun and would almost feel the bullet whiz past me but still I eluded them.

But as I ran, I got the sickening feeling that I wasn’t alone.  I had yet to look back, such was my desperation to flee that terrible place, but I decided that I had to, if only to achieve a sense of closure, and when I did I saw the horrifying sight of countless miniature demons chasing after me.  But they were keeping their distance and when I stopped to look back at them, they stopped too, and they leered at me with terrible, toothy grins, devilish grins and I screamed at them “Back, you fell beasts!  You unholy monsters!  You have plagued me long enough!  Long enough!”  But the demons just laughed at me.  Angry, and not knowing what else to do, I held the bejeweled statue in front of me.  And one by one, the demons knelt.  I cried with sudden relief and held the statue before me.  I could hear the dogs getting closer and I wondered if perhaps I could somehow turn this to my advantage.  It was clear that these demons worshipped the statue.  They seemed to revere it as some sort of great mother from which they had all sprung.  I had no desire to make deals with such evil but these were desperate times and hey, fuck the police.

And so I began to scream at the demons, ordering them to set up a defensive perimeter.  But again, they just laughed at me and it soon became clear that their “fealty” was little more than a disgusting attempt to mock me.  After all, why would demons revere anything but themselves?  And even then, is not a demon merely the ultimate manifestation of self-loathing?  No, if anything, they hated themselves and their “mother.”  Realizing this, I tossed the bejeweled demon statue to the ground.  The little hellions all screeched with anger and began to chase me again.  Oops.

Realizing my error, I turned and ran, blade in hand, and yet no matter how close they came, the demons never seemed to catch me.  I was nearing the river and I realized with sickening dread that they were penning me in, playing with me, waiting for me to reach the river where they would no doubt consume both me and my soul. 

But still I ran.  After all, what more was there left for me to do?  In the absence of Hope man must still find something to cling to, and the rawest and most basic thing that any of us has left is the animal instinct to simply survive, even if it is but for an extended moment, one more moment to think, to feel, to know, to experience the feel of a blade of grass on the feet, the gentle breath of a cool breeze, the laughter of a river as it rushes by.  I ran and I lived, without Hope, but with the desire to simply exist for one more moment compelling me forward, forward, forward . . .

And it was then that I was saved, as a host of River People sprang from the mud and the reeds surrounding the river and threw themselves at the tiny demons.  I saw the haunting death in one of their faces, the face of a man who knows he is giving the ultimate sacrifice for something greater than himself – for life itself and the possibility that lies at its fragile little heart.  I looked at him and he looked at me and just before he was swarmed by an army of those tiny monsters he said to me “Go!  Live!  And never forget that we River People saved you and saved you for a mighty cause, the cause of Truth!  Spread this Truth to the world and remember us, not as vagrants or mongrels but as men, the last free men there are!”  And then, the last free man died, swarmed by hundreds, thousands, of the hellions, who ate his flesh and left him nothing more than a quivering mass of red bones.  I will never forget the sight of it as long as I live.

But thanks to him and his people I did get to live, as I dove beneath the frigid waters of the river and swam to the safety of a small wooded isle.  Weeping for the heroic sacrifice of those brave men and women of the River, I crawled, blade in hand to a clearing, where I lay sobbing, naked and terrified.  Up above, the police helicopters still tried to track me but the island repelled their efforts and hid me in its embrace.  And yet, after a time, I could hear the sounds of something – millions of things – swimming.  Horrified, I peered out across the waters of the river only to see in the moonlight those horrible hellions swimming slowly toward me.  A mass of them in the middle carried on their backs that horrible bejeweled statue, glowing with its hellish light, and I collapsed on the ground and screamed at the sky, asking what I had done to deserve such a monstrous fate.  I thought back to my friend Raven and I wondered how he had escaped, how he had found a way to rid himself of these demons.  Perhaps he hadn’t.  Perhaps he had just bought himself much needed time, or maybe he had found a way after all.  Yes.  What did he say?  Look to the tipi?  Yes, that was it.  Perhaps . . . yes!  Yes, it made sense.  After all, he had often spoken with me of the sacred nature of his tipi, ranted and raved to me about it being a sanctuary from the evils of the world.  I always thought he was just being hyperbolic or metaphorical and then we would do another line of crank and forget about the whole thing while we fought crime using advanced forms of karate until the sun came up and we shook hands and went back to our homes.  But what if he wasn’t being metaphorical?  What if it were all true?

I breathlessly asked myself this as I watched them slowly doggy-paddle across the river.  Either they weren’t very good swimmers or they were toying with me, the bastards.  On the other hand, it was possible that the sanctifying power of the river itself was slowing them down.  Who knows?  Whatever the case, their slow approach gave me time.  And with this time I used the holy blade, wrested from the prison of the demon, to fashion for myself a crude tipi.  It wasn’t much, but it was enough.  Or so I hoped anyway.

When I was finished, I stood naked, still covered in demon blood, in the middle of the tipi.  The blood sizzled and seemed to scream and although it burned and left me permanently scarred, a hideous mangled man who will be forever wrecked and wasted physically, a blight in the eyes of “normal” men, destined to be little more than a local legend, a folk tale told around campfires to scare children, I love each and every scar, for it is a reminder that I fought the good fight and so long as I am alive, the world shall know peace.

And it will know peace because on that night those hellions stormed the isle, like terrible little soldiers storming Normandy and for a while I simply watched as they threw themselves against my tipi and were repelled by its holy powers.  But yet they still kept coming and kept coming and kept coming and it wasn’t long before I realized that they would never stop, no matter how hopeless their attempts.  I knew that as a mortal man this would eventually drive me insane and I feared what I would do in that insane state.  Would I give in to these monsters?  The thought was too horrible to contemplate and so I did what I had to do and I leapt out, blade in hand and I slew scores of them, hundreds of them, thousands, so that the isle’s ground was dyed with their black blood.  It is horrible and where they died I fear no new trees will ever grow.  But it had to be done.  The island and the river that feeds it and the river people that are its guardians understand.  I fought for what had to be hours with the little demons.  The sun rose in the sky and it fell again.  Occasionally, I would still hear the distant barking of a dog or the whir of a copter’s blades but they could not find me and so I ignored them as I fought.  Seven times the sun rose and seven times it fell before finally I wrested the bejeweled demon statue from the clutches of those monsters and dragged it with me, fighting my way back to my tipi, an effort which itself took another several days.  Finally, exhausted, I collapsed inside of my tipi and as I did the statue finally ceased to glow and with a terrible shriek I will never forget all the little demons shriveled and died, crumbled to dust and were blown away by a cold and merciless wind.

And so now here I sit, inside of my tipi on this deserted island in the middle of the river, naked and cold.  But I am sustained by the solemnity of my office, by my duty, for I am the guardian of the bejeweled demon statue, like that old ass knight who guards the Holy Grail, and it has fallen to me to protect it, to keep it safe and imprisoned in this holy sanctuary.  I am just thankful that the island has Wi-Fi.

I didn’t ask for this duty, nor do I take any special pride in it, and on some nights I weep for my lost humanity, for all the people I might have known, the things I might have done, the places I might have seen, but still, I do it because no one else can.  Perhaps this makes me a hero, or perhaps this just makes me a man.  Who is to say?  All I know is that it’s been a hell of a month and at least now I don’t have to watch the Lions play.

Redskins Metasciences

Didn't see much of the game at all. Been having panic attacks since Friday due to a hostile work situation, that's got me in a flutter. Planned to do some light fencing work this morning, clean out the chicken coop, and watch the game. But stupid fucking digital tv signal wasn't picking up, so I busted out the ladder and tried to jiggle and fix every part, and we were almost there when our new pigs got out. So me and the ol' lady wrangled them not once but three times. Second time, I actually caught one in the fence line, grabbed his hind legs and dragged him to the pen. The other one followed willingly, either because they roll together or he saw what was up and I wasn't playing. Last time, the pink one was close enough so I grabbed it's ears, yelled at my wife to get it's leg. The pig is squealing, trying to drag me backwards, but I'm also holding it's ears so it doesn't bite me, wife is screaming because the whole thing freaks her out, we're doing the whole thing along the open posts of a tipi (no shit) where the canvas has been shredded by weather, finally the wife gets a leg, I let go of one ear to get the leg and then drag the fucker back again, his ear all red from the iron grip of Raven.
So I take an anxiety medicine and go back in to see the game is 24-17 Cowboys but Redskins are driving end of game. I'm like wow. But TV signal is still flickering in and out. Then there's more pig issues again apparently. (Oddly enough I was cooking a ham from our previous pigs the whole day long. Maybe that got to them in the wind.) I went out, proceeded to black out in some mud, wife told me to go lay down on the couch, she's got it, so I do where I get to fade in and out see a Graham Gano missed field goal, DeAngelo Hall slip on coverage to allow the Cowboys to get down field long enough, and then the Cowboys win. Game over. We ate ham, the pigs never went back in the last time but they were out there just now in their pen so I was already in my jammies and I went to take a shit and my wife went out excited to patch the hole in the fence, except I heard a weird animal scream then some metal clanging then heard my wife and dog running back to the house. "What's up?" Apparently some weird cat creature snarled and then she shined a light in that way and it came at her so they took off. Me and the dog went back out to that area, I sent the dog first, no animals but a little broom from my kid's playhouse was tore up in Blair Witch Fashion and there was a strange air to the night. And somehow this all makes perfect sense to the Redskins.
We just checked the sound online and it was a red fox scream. A motherfucking fox all flaunting up into my yard, male fox apparently, marking his territory around my ol' lady. Just like all those Cowboys fans in FedEx Field today. Fuckin bullshit man. This whole world is fucking bullshit.

NFL ACLB PREVIEWS - #8: NEW ORLEANS SAINTS

PERTINENT DATA: 11-5, earning an NFC wild card berth, lost at shitty Seahawks in wild card round of the playoffs; 16 to 1 odds to win Super Bowl XLVI.
BEST CASE SCENARIO (Raven): What's not to like about the New Orleans Saints? I mean, seriously. Drew Brees is just a dude who was run out of San Diego by petulant management because of a busted shoulder, and he goes to New Orleans and brings them a Super Bowl. This is a team that was notoriously inept in the past, barely able to make the playoffs in their highest moments, and going 1-15 in one extra dreary year back in the '80s. Actually, being I know a lot of you are Lions fans who regularly come to this blog, the Saints are really a tale of hope for yourself, because the Saints were the exact same thing as the Lions for the longest time, and they rose up from the flood waters of Katrina and turned the mangled Superdome into a wonderful football arena again instead of the mausoleum for lost souls that tragedy had reshaped it as. New Orleans is a strange town, full of oddball characters and the most loveable but sketchy people you could ever meet. Anyone can enjoy themselves in New Orleans, from a convention-attending interventional radiologist nerd types to a heroin junkie looking for a chill place to try and make the methadone work this time. New Orleans just has that vibe of acceptance, regardless of what or how you are. This team carries that personality. There is a seemingly endless list of quality skill position players on offense, and just as soon as they rid themselves of their one overhyped failure in Reggie Bush, they bring in a hungry young dude in Mark Ingram who seems will be the opposite, even with the exact same Heisman shine. The offense is unquestionable, and will be as long as Sean Payton assembles his Billy Beane-esque hodgepodge of WRs, RBs, and TEs, and has Drew Brees to distribute the ball between them. But on defense, crazy old Gregg Williams has given this team some fangs to their bite, that they're really rarely had over the years of their existence whenever Rickey Jackson wasn't on the roster. It's a fun team to watch and no one really gets my oft-ruffled feathers ruffled. Shit man, basically the Saints are like that stupid "Greatest Show on Turf" Rams team, except they have nicer uniforms, are in a much better city, have a chill ass QB instead of some dumbass born again egotist, and are coached up by coaches who deflect praise to their players, not doing the a double thumbs point at themselves as an offensive genius. If there were four more teams as fucking good and likeable as the Saints, the NFL's wouldn't have to worry about this player image problem Sheriff Goodell seems to obsess over.
WORST CASE SCENARIO (Neil): True story: I am descended from Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne, the dude who is known as the Father of New Orleans. This means that, as far as I can tell, the city of New Orleans belongs to me. It is mine by hereditary rights. You could argue this point with me, but you’d just look like an unlearned asshole, and this world is already far, far too full of unlearned assholes. So, just do the right thing and accept this. Now, naturally, this means that I have always had a bit of a soft spot for New Orleans. It is one of my many ancestral homes and my blood flows through its debauched veins. How could I not feel at least a tiny connection to the city? Think about me and think about New Orleans and tell me that in retrospect this connection isn’t obvious. I mean, come on, we are both debauched, we both are a bit of a disaster and we both don’t mind dressing up in drag and parading down the streets while people toss beads at us and strangers drunkenly flash their tits from countless balconies. Part of New Orleans will probably always be with me because that’s just the way genetics work, goddammit. Don’t argue with me, I’m a man of science. So . . . I mean, what’s the point here? What does this have to do with the Saints? I don’t know. If you came here expecting a point, well . . . I’m guessing you haven’t been following Armchair Linebacker for too long. Still, I suppose I should say something since, technically this is about the Saints and not about me leading up to the claim that I am the reincarnated soul of Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne and that snippets of his life – well, my life but this stuff can get confusing – have been revealed to me through the miracle of hypnosis and through copious amounts of both Ayahuasca and Peyote. Perhaps it would be more interesting for me to reveal that during my life as Le Moyne I spent almost a full decade fighting beside The Great Willie Young against Creole pirates who had snakes for hair and who attacked us with the bones of our own dead and sent zombies after us in the dead of night. Terrible, terrible memories . . . but you’re right, this is supposed to be about the New Orleans Saints and not me. I apologize for being so self-centered. Anyway, the worst case scenario for the Saints isn’t all that bad considering they are among the most solid teams in the league. I guess their biggest concern is Drew Brees getting hurt, which is also a concern for me because in Raven’s fantasy football league I ended up with Brees as my quarterback, but there I go again making this all about me. I apologize. Anyway, if Brees gets hurt – and that shit better not happen or I’m coming for revenge with my tamed army or Creole zombies and The Great Willie Young by my side – the Saints could be looking at a shitty season, but even then they could probably squeak out an 8-8 season. Fuck it, I don’t know. I’m having flashbacks and I think one of my servants was just eaten by the Vampire Lestat. Oh, New Orleans . . . I just can’t escape you.
PLAYER TO PULL FOR (Raven): Honestly, there are too many wacky characters that go to New Orleans for the camaraderie to even pick just one out. Overweight quote machine who stops up the middle Shaun Rogers? He's here. Crazy viking warrior spirit center of doom Olin Kreutz? Yeah, he's here. Little San Diego speed midget Darren Sproles is here. Not to mention awesomely international sounding offensive role players like Marques Colston and Pierre Thomas. But most of all, this was the home to Deuce McAllister, who is such a great and wonderful dude, that even though he doesn't play for the Saints anymore, you should still pull for him, because he's cool. I know he's cool because I met him in prison.
PLAYER TO HATE MOST (Neil): Well, I kinda want to say the Vampire Lestat for eating one of my servants but I don’t think he made the cut after he fumbled in the Saints last preseason game, so . . . who’s it going to be? I could say Shaun Rogers since he is basically a fat, lazy degenerate much despised by many Lions fans but I always had a soft spot for Big Baby. So the dude got handsy with a stripper or two? It happens. Besides, Rod Marinelli hated Shaun Rogers and I can’t in good conscience ally myself with that war criminal. What I’m saying, I guess, is that you should hate Rod Marinelli. Now, I know he has nothing to do with the New Orleans Saints but his miserable stench cannot be contained by one city or one team and honestly, is it ever really wrong to find hatred in your heart for the villain who engineered 0-16? If that’s wrong than fuck you, I don’t want to be right.
BEST NAME ON TEAM: I could've easily gone with Isa Abdul-Quddus, and made Al-Qaeda jokes, but honestly, as a spirit-filled man of all Gods, the mystical yet precise morality of Islam is the finest of all the major world religions. Unfortunately it drifts into militantism easily along the fringes, but the beauty of the teachings of the Quran cannot be denied. So let's say the best name on the team instead is Jo-Lonn Dunbar, because that sounds like a wacky character from a Donald Goines novel. If you have not read Donald Goines novels before, you should; they are far superior to whatever stupid fucking fantasy world bullshit you pretend is reading. (Oh wait, Turk McBride plays for them too, but the Donald Goines thing applies to him as well.)
IN A PERFECT WORLD (Neil): In a perfect world, I wouldn’t wake up from a deep sleep and find myself naked along the shores of the Mississippi River running naked from an army of zombies whose only goal in life is to eat my beautiful brain. But what the hell, this isn’t a perfect world now is it? And that means, just like everybody else, I must accept my lot in life and move on. For the Saints, their perfect world involves Drew Brees staying healthy and throwing for, like, 6,000 yards and carrying them to another Super Bowl, after which the people of New Orleans can melt down the Lombardi Trophy now that they have a spare and sell it so they can buy a new levee system. Too soon? Fuck it, I think I have made a variation of that same joke in everything I’ve ever written about the Saints or the city of New Orleans since Katrina. I was even paid money to make jokes like that in an NFL Draft diary I did a year and a half ago or so for a company which later told me that I had been made expendable by the presence of midgets recreating scenes from Entourage, which is apparently hilarious to . . . someone, I guess. Then they stiffed me on my last check. Then again, maybe that’s what I deserved for profiteering off of the misery of my ancestral city. I’m so ashamed. Forgive me, New Orleans, I need your help in defeating the Creole Pirates. Together, we can build a better tomorrow, even if we are all a bunch of French degenerates, effete and debauched. After all, we have The Great Willie Young on our side.
PROGNOSIS (Raven): The Saints are in a tough division, even if the Panthers are there. They'll get another solid 10-6 year, wild card berth to the playoffs, win the wild card game they should've won last year except for the overpowering dominance for 14 seconds of Beast Mode punked them out of it, and then lose.

Tomorrow We Start Previewing Teams (as if anybody cares)

Over the coming weeks leading up to FOOTBALL 2011 NEVAR FORGET 9/11 & THOSE WHO DIED IN MANUFACTURED EVENTS TO MAKE YOU RESPECT FOOTBALL AND THE FLAG AND RICH DUDES WHO MAKE LAWS BUT TALK ABOUT GOD & MONEY EVEN MORE THAN EVER BEFORE, which is about to crank up to dazzle our daily focus to keep us from seeing the downward spiral we're all floating along in. Neil and myself (me being Raven Mack aka Mr. Rojonekku aka the Man of 1000 Aliases aka 1000 Feathers aka Dr. Lounge aka one of the cartel of e-dudes who conjured this website up over shared peyote visions on a Kentucky mountain a few years back) have decided that the All-ACLB team was such a raging success in our own enjoyment factor, even though not much comment was made, that we will do a similar thing as preview for all the teams of the upcoming season. It's sort of based on what I did for my NFL previews wherever I did them last year (rojonekku.com? heavy.com? who the fuck remembers... internet writing is here today gone tomorrow, which is probably proof enough that Neil and I are wasting our lives here, and really everywhere) but with Neil's input, as I'm a grand old man of 38 years on this Earth hunk, meaning I have come to that age in my life where if I want to think of NFL players older than me, it's fucking punters and 3rd string QBs, and like that one weird bulbous headed black dude still playing left guard who looks like Ken Griffey Jr. from that episode of The Simpsons with encephalopitis or whatever the fuck. I'm not gonna be Internet Dork #32 and make a list of players I am still younger than, partially because of that being such an aforementioned internet dork stereotype thing to do, but also because fuck NFL players. None of them can twist a word like I can, so fuck them, and I will fight them on twitter if any of them disagree (@rojonekku, or @armchairlb). But I am calling in Neil to help flesh these previews out, altered from previous years' style (no funny names, no Samoan worship) but it'll be solid, don't you worry your little jaded cubicled heart, bro.
I had contemplated doing two a day, and that fucking "two a days" rung in my head, and then I was flipping through radio stations on the way to work and Mike & Mike on ESPN radio was doing that thing, and I can tell you this much... if ever I style anything in my life after those two dudes, or really anybody in sports talk radio, shoot me. Better yet, give me a lobotomy with a rusty trepination device from the Civil War era. Those dudes are terrible. Here are additional sports-media related people who are terrible: Jim Rome, Bill Simmons, Rick Reilly, anybody who writes columns in Sports Illustrated, wacky Sportscenter hosts, sideline chick reporters who are not wearing tank tops with no bra, punch drunk former football player black guys who are supposed to be smiley and loveable but are wearing a suit, serious bloggers, etc. I think you get the point. It has been pretty much common mantra amongst the originators of this site that you should not have complicated formulas to explain yourself, you should be open to drug abuses, alcohol abuses, sexual experimentation (but not through simple subjugation of women emotionally like stereotypically found in jocks, you should be into tantric bullshit, bi-curious, pretty much open to the darkest corners of Craigslist's No Strings Attached folders), and ridiculously homeristic fandom of your favorite team. The only time on this site this homerism will be set aside is when Neil and I do something like these team previews, because this is not a place about having serious opinions about the overall state of the NFL. It is about the delusional hallucinations that being a degenerate fan of a team, not to mention a degenerate in real life to various extents, and the joys and terrors that those hallucinations bring in us. So fuck calling this two a days.
That being said, tomorrow we'll start putting up two teams a day (I'm saying that, fully knowing neither Neil nor myself is good at keeping a schedule, so you are just likely to get a splattering of teams the next two weeks, then the final fourteen in one day, if at all), and I wanted to just lay out how it's going to read, you know, prep you on this shit.
We'll be starting with the lowest team to highest on my NFL ratings thing, which always starts the season out straight up just ranked according to Vegas odds to win the Super Bowl. Straight up. Each team will have Pertinent Data displayed, which will last year's record, playoff run if applicable, and odds to win the Super Bowl this year. Then for each team, we'll have a Best Case Scenario, Worst Case Scenario, Player to Pull For, and Player to Root Against. Either Neil or myself will go positive or negative for each team, meaning whoever goes positive will do the Best Case and Player to Pull For, and whoever goes negative will do Worst Case and Player to Root Against. Additionally, Neil will conjure up all his personal demons internally and give you an In A Perfect World analysis of what the future season holds for each team. As an addition additionally, I did a lot mushrooms this past weekend camping alongside train tracks in central Virginia and used little scraps of driftwood like I Ching sticks to metaphysically deduce each and every game of the upcoming season, so I'll be giving you a Prognosis for the year, with record, how they'll finish in their division, as well as whatever else the driftwood sticks told me would happen. It got a little sketchy because I got sidetracked for about 9 hours catfishing under the Perseid meteor shower because I thought the meteors were reflecting the water paths of monster catfish, and I've always wanted to catch a catfish over 50 pounds. But I was tripping, and riverbank fishing wasn't doing it for me, because I couldn't feel what was going on like I wanted to, so I went grabbling under rocks for catfish for a long ass time, until the sun started coming up, and I realized I was still needing to do from week 11 of the season through the playoffs with my driftwood I Ching sticks, and I had timed myself to come down at sunrise. Luckily I had more mushrooms on reserve, being my buddy Dave didn't show up to assist me, so I made a day of it, which is why it ended up going all weekend for the most part.
So we'll be starting tomorrow at some point with the Buffalo Bills and then the Carolina Panthers and then all the way up to the preseason number one team in the NFL. I hope you will join us on this expedition, through the teams and through the season, and really through our collective minds here at Armchair Linebacker. This is a special special place for special special people.

2011 All ACLB Team Defensive Tackles

RAVEN: HALOTI NGATA & NDAMUKONG SUH
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.



NEIL: NDAMUKONG SUH & KYLE WILLIAMS
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

2011 All ACLB Team Defensive Ends

NEIL: WILLIE YOUNG & HALOTI NGATA
Hi, how’s everyone doing? I’ve been instructed to tell everyone that Neil is fine and is enjoying picking this All-Pro team as an exercise for the mind and not for some bizarre made up reason involving so-called “squidmen” and intergalactic warfare. With that said, he asked me to relay the following picks, which are his selection for the defensive ends.
First, he claims that he had to pick The Great Willie Young. “How could I not?” he said. He smiled bitterly and scooped some applesauce into his mouth. “If I have to explain why then I have failed in everything I have tried to do here.” He then grew despondent and threw the applesauce at a midget who claims he is Napoleon. He was then restrained and “given a nap”.
It is now several hours later and Neil has asked me to tell you that Haloti Ngata is his other choice at defensive end. He told me tell also tell you that he is quite fond of Ngata because “he is a big mean, nasty Samoan mother*beep*” After fifteen minutes spent arguing about the appropriateness of profanity, Neil shook his head, sighed and stared out the window at an old oak tree. “I would very much like to climb that one day,” he said and then we had what I felt to be a constructive conversation about striving to achieve appropriate goals. Neil then threw a handful of mashed potatoes at me and shouted “You will not be saved when the squidmen come! But I will be safe because Haloti Ngata will stand before me and slay those evil motherfuckers! He is a giant Samoan and he’ll know what to do when the shit goes down!”
With the help of several orderlies, I managed to wrestle Neil to the ground. He is currently napping, but I’m sure he would like me to express his confidence in Haloti Ngata’s ability and also to express his admiration of the man’s accomplishments in what Neil calls “the rich, white man’s world.” Neil also feels that there were several other deserving candidates at this position, but in the end, Neil felt most comfortable putting what he termed “the future of the human race” in the hands of Mr. Young and Mr. Ngata. I asked him why and after an hour and a half of ranting and raving about squidmen and what he called “replicants” – a new development that I am quite uncomfortable with – he explained that he needed someone more human than human, like Mr. Young, and then he used very inappropriate language to describe Mr. Ngata’s attributes, but the gist of his rant involved Samoans fighting even after being stabbed by bikers in a gang war. In a rare moment of lucidity, Neil looked me in the eye and said “A Samoan will never stop coming.” His eyes then glazed over and he spent several hours wandering around in his bathrobe and talking to “Napoleon” about the coming “squid wars”. An orderly tells me that Neil asked “Napoleon” to serve as his general in the coming “conflict” and that “Napoleon” demanded full authority in choosing the “team”, at which point Neil began screaming, called “Napoleon” an ingrate and then broke down in tears.
He asked me to call a certain Raven Mack so he could explain the situation but when I contacted this man, I was threatened with bodily harm and I could hear the cocking of a shotgun. I tried to reason with the man, but he refused to speak to me. He did perk up momentarily when he found out that I had access to medicinal opiates but when I explained that I was not a doctor but merely a volunteer, he grew agitated and asked to speak to Neil. Despite my better judgment, I handed Neil the phone. I do not know of what the two men spoke, but when Neil hung up the phone, he just smiled at me and told me that “Soon, I will be walking in the path of righteousness.” I later phoned Raven Mack in order to try to make sense of this statement but the phone had apparently been disconnected and an operator told me that there was no one by this name living in the area. I tried to protest but I heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked in the background and I quickly hung up. By this time, Neil was asleep on a couch and he had a serene smile on his face. I imagine this has much to do with the selections of Mr. Young and Mr. Ngata, both of whom seemed to instill much confidence in Neil and I can only assume that they are both men of unlimited potential and great worth and that the Armchair Linebacker community will appreciate their selections. Thank you, and Vaya con Dios.



RAVEN: JULIUS PEPPERS & JOHN ABRAHAM
I honestly don't know what's going on with Neil, but I did hear a clicking on my phone when I was talking to some lady at some "Hospice for the Life" or some shit like that, and my time growing up learning survivalist techniques and being really paranoid about shit with my dad when I was younger learned me that the clicking on your phone is a wiretap. Usually you can just talk about whatever, and make mention of the fact, "My wife thinks our phone is tapped, isn't that crazy? I mean I've said some stupid nonsense for that Onion-wannabe website I write for, but who would ever take it seriously? So today I was at the Food Lion..." and you go on like this for a while, then insert seven numbers, in cross the 5 fashion like on The Wire, and the person knows a solid phone to call you back on. Pre-paids man, I can't encourage you all to use pre-paids enough. I know most of you are brainwashed into thinking phones are smart and it's great to have the goddamned entire internet at your fingertips while taking a shit at Wendy's, but it's not.
Anyways, at first I was like, "Why did Neil pick Haloti Ngata? I was gonna pick him for DT... he's not an end?" But then I got to thinking about how I wrote something recently about how the Redskins should abandon the 3-4 defense since everybody is doing that, and fuck a 4-3, and go 2-5, with two giant DTs eating up the outside tackles and guards of the line, leave the C wondering where to go, and have your normal MLB and two outside LBs plus two roving beasts that are kinda LB but kinda DEs but kinda neither roaming the field rabidly. I'm thinking Neil was probably on some next level shit like that, especially considering the way the phone lady was talking about his predicament. So I just got the address, sent some money for art supplies (hopefully he'll get an electric pencil... you should really google search "electric pencil" "mental health" and see what that's all about), and decided that yes, Haloti Ngata was a solid pick.
So I figured I might as well jump into my 2-5 idea as well, and pick DEs that could be hybrid beasts roaming the field. The first choice to come to mind was Julius Peppers (aka Uberklaw) because he basically is a monster, just kinda cute and cuddly. And if you're going to survive the fines and suspensions this new pussy NFL is going to levee on a guy beheading QBs from five different angles, you want him to be cute and cuddly. If James Harrison was a little more photogenic when he smiled, you think he'd be on the NFL's shit list? Of course not. Julius Peppers has a smile that could charm the panties off a 43-year-old grandma, and he has the talent on the field to fuck motherfuckers up. That's all I ask.
But then I got afraid I was going to far, picking weird crazed roaming DEs who would just stalk their prey like wolves trained by that old white dude who beat up that black guy on the BART bus. I figured I should play it safe with my second pick and go with an old ass dude who tears shit up on the regular, for over a decade now, and probably knows all the best ways into the VIP room of the nastiest strip clubs in Atlanta. That would be John Abraham. He seemed like the good choice. So good that I won't even talk about him, because the bigger problem was the internal conflict I felt concerning Jared Allen. Jared Allen puts on this image of being a crazy redneck weirdo dude, and you would think he'd be the obvious choice for a team like this. But I don't know, something doesn't jibe with that dude. It all seems very contrived, like he's a cast member on MTV's Real World Minneapolis or something, not a for-real crazy ass redneck type who would tattoo a giant catfish eating a naked woman on his forearm saying BOTTOM FEEDER in old English letters. He does purposely choose the number 69, which is a sign that maybe he's for-real, but I don't know. I just don't trust those beady eyes of his. They're not beady in a "let's push the couch in front of the door because we've been up for four days and I'm pretty sure I hear the cops outside because those motherfuckers know about that girl in Henderson City last month" type beady eyes that make sense because you've been there; it's that shifty beady eyes of a guy who buys canning jars at Target to have a "moonshine party" where you really are just drinking vodka or gin, the beady little eyes of a used car dealer, not a meth dealer. Meth dealers do not lie to you - in fact, they are brutally honest. Used car dealers are fucking scum, even the good ones you went to high school with. So that's why I chose John Abraham, because we don't need a guy like Jared Allen around.

TOMORROW: Defensively-minded Tacklers

2011 All ACLB Team Center

RAVEN: SAMSON SATELE
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.



NEIL: MATT BIRK
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