Curse these likable Saints!

You know how I know that New Orleans won’t win the Super Bowl this year? Because it would be way too acceptable to the average viewer. Of all the teams that could possibly contend for a title this year, the Saints are the only one (OTHER THAN MAH STILLERS, A-COURSE!) that I would be perfectly content with them getting a championship.

And the likable team never wins titles. NEVER! Sure, on occasion the MORE likable team will win a Super Bowl (viz. SB XLII) but never an entirely likable one.

Look at ‘em, likable little bastards. Breesus leads the league in likability and skipping passes on water. Even with Jeremy Shockey on the roster, I have a hard time hating them (no small feat). Even knowing a Saints title would force more Archie Manning on my television, I can’t say I would be all that troubled by the overall prospect of it happening. I’ve never had a bad experience with a Saints fan. I mean, I’m sure they’re all raging Cajun dickholes when they get in LSU mode, but for whatever reason, when they don the Saints gear they become halfway tolerable, which is the highest compliment I can pay a fan of a franchise other than my own. Most importantly, of course, the Saints have never won dick, so it’s not like their fans could get all that cocky afterward.

And that’s why the Saints are doomed. DOOMED, I SAY!

Movie executive: All right, Sean. I’ve already gotten some details on your movie, but I want to hear it from you. Make me see your movie. Lay it out for me.

Sean Payton: The project’s called “The Xbox Kid.” Main character is a poor kid in the Lower Ninth Ward, lost both of his parents in Katrina. Now he’s living with his aunt. He’s really down and out. Getting into a lot of trouble. So his aunt starts forcing him to go to church, but he’s not really into it. As a gag he prays for the Saints to win the Super Bowl. He gets this dream, this vision that he takes the team there himself. He wakes up, thinks nothing of it. Plays some Madden on XBox. Comes to see that the actual Saints game on Sunday plays out just as his Madden game did. He chalks it up to coincidence, but then it happens the same the next week. That triggers it for him. He gets excited, starts telling people, but no one buys it.

So he writes an e-mail to the Saints coach, laying out everything to him, even how the next game is going to play out based on his Madden game. And it happens. The coach is amazed, meets up with him, almost becomes like a father figure. Teaches him some fundamentals of the game, so the kid gets even better at Madden. Together, they lead the franchise to its first-ever Super Bowl, bringing hope and distraction to the people around him. Who does the team end up playing? Of course, the horrible cheating juggernaut Patriots. Word gets out about this kid being our lucky charm, so Bill Belichick breaks into his house and steals his XBox. Kid can’t find it, can’t get it back. In fact, Belichick smashes it to pieces. It’s a very Angels in the Outfield-like end scenario. The coach is distraught. The team is shaken. But then they discover they had the Breesus within them all along and pull it out in the end.

Executive: Interesting.

I like it. Really, I do. In fact, I was already giving it some thought and I think I have the perfect actor in mind for the part of the kid.

[Into intercom] Hey Tracy, send him in.

(more…)

He casts no reflection! Truly he is something that cannot be grounded! And by that, I mean he can’t gain more than three yards per carry. Those are some fine undead abs, however.

[Photoshop Disasters via Skeets Twitter]

[Castle Failskull]

[A procession of kazoo players enter from a hallway, followed by a regal figure]

Fail Lion: My brothers! Today we mourn a great loss from our Royal Court of Fail. News comes from the field that Sir Buzzsaw has entered into the Nation of the Super Bowl dwellers.

Saint Jester: Impossible!

The Brown Knight: It cannot be so! [Throws empty beer bottle]

Fail Lion: Do not let your emotions sway your thoughts. Today is truly a sad one, but we will muddle on, as we always do.

Saint Jester: But what of his post?

Fail Lion: That is the very matter upon which we must ruminate this day. Sir Buzzsaw served this court admirably for generations as a specialist in matters of irrelevancy and fan apathy.

Jaguar serf: Well I don’t care much for my team. In fact, I only wear this cranial adornment because I found it in the parking lot.

The Brown Knight: Yes! The Jaguar! His people care little of the fortunes of their flag.

Fail Lion: But can the Jaguar be trusted? Remember, now, it was his squadron that came close twice in its formative years to fleeing our ranks.

Texan knave: TEXANS! NUMBER ONE!

Saint Jester: Yes, but who among us has not had a brush with near-success? It was just two years ago that I nearly trod onto those Super Bowl grounds.

Texan knave: WE BEAT THE COWBOYS ONCE! TEXANS! NUMBER ONE!

Fail Lion: Yours is a fair point, jester. Let it be so. Approach, serf.

Are you ready to ignore the shifting fortunes of your team? Only to adopt them should be make the promised land?

Jaguar serf: Sure. I guess. Me and Matt Jones are gonna score good drugs no matter what.

Fail Lion: Then I shall decree it. I dub thee, Sir Jaguar. Noble paladin of fan apathy.

Sir Jaguar: [Takes toke] Super.

[Kazoos play]

Actually, you might be able to watch it online here (enjoy the “virtual waiting room;” it’s just like an actual waiting room, only there’s no fat nurse that waddles out and mispronounces your name). But this one’s already underway, and the Bears currently lead thanks to an opening kickoff-return TD from that guy, whom you’ll notice is not Devin Hester. If we could just bring back the Katrina jokes, we’d have ourselves a game.

Marques Colston: Aw, shit. Not again!

Scott Fujita: Another season in turmoil!

Reggie Bush: So many displaced citizens!

Jeremy Shockey: So when does the raping start?

Devery Henderson: Yo, that’s some fucked up shit.

Jeremy Shockey: That’s what I thought happens when hurricanes come through the bayou. People have a bunch of king cake and rape the shit out of each other. That’s the only reason I agreed to this trade.

[Shockey smashes storefront window]

I’m finding, not looting!

Mark Brunell: And when does the blaming the destruction on the city on the sins of the Big Easy start? There was just a big homofestival of homosexuals right before Gustav came rolling into town. That makes for good evangelizin’!

A lesbian comedian caused this!

Hurricane Gustav: ‘ow dare vous eee-vacuatre zis city before I kin commence with wreaking zee havoc! Geet back from your sheethole in Indianapol-ees. Geaux and show some balls, les Saints, vous bunch of filth-zy Mohammedians! I’ll tear vous Supairedome leem from leem!

Levees: /reinforced

Gustav: Aaaaiieeee! I sur-ren-daire!

I’m sorry, Tom Dempsey, that the 36th anniversary of your historic achievement yesterday received little to no mention in the intricate, obese web that is sports news. For it was you, good sir, that set the longest field goal in NFL history with a 63-yard money shot, o so long ago.

I’m also sorry, Tom Dempsey, that you booted yourself into the record books with only half of a kicking foot and no right hand. That’s pretty cool, at least if you’re cool with not being able to do the Pee Wee Herman dance. And limited options for masturbating. And forget about email. It reminds me of that one time I tried to eat a sandwich while I was wiping my ass on the shitter. Your whole life must have been like that. And even now, too; sorry, I forgot you were still alive.

And you probably took a lot of grief from people that couldn’t handle the fact that you were different. I mean, look at Lance Armstrong now, he’s missing parts and now he’s dating half of that girl that was on Full House. I hope that you at least got to nail one of those twins on The Patty Duke Show.

I’m sorry that you are now forced to share this record with Jason Elam, a small, unpleasant person who has nothing better to do than hang out with Scrabble players and fantasize about Al-Qaeda. Never mind the fact that his kick came about on a lark at the end of the first half, through the thinnest of air on top of a mountain, while your drive for glory was a game-winner, below sea level, in the sweltering airborne filthiness that is southern Louisiana. Plus you did it against that guy on Webster.

I’m sorry, Tom Dempsey, that you took grief from people that said you did it with a loaded shoe, putting a stain on everything you accomplished. Just the attitudes of the day, I guess. I mean, people would never say that kind of thing about Lance Armstrong. If you did that today, you’d have your own color and people would be running 5Ks in your honor. Plus, you’d probably get to meet Hulk Hogan, like those kids that get cancer always do. I wish I had cancer.

I guess that’s it. Tell Jim Abbott I said hi. I think he’s pretty neat.