NEIL: WILLIE YOUNG & HALOTI NGATAHi, 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 ABRAHAMI 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
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