Whoa, whoa, whoa… tickets are still available to the Lions-Seahawks game this Sunday because Detroit fans aren’t going to make the trip? But this is the weekend’s premiere matchup between a 1-6 team and a 2-5 team! Hell, the last time these two teams faced off, the final score was 9-6! Barns: burned. WHEEEEEE!!!

Longtime readers of this site know that I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with aging white safety Brian Russell — in that I would love it if he died, because I hate him. But ever since the gritty veteran (read: slow and talentless) got cut by the Seahawks, I no longer wish him death.

Instead, I want him signed on a week-to-week basis by whomever the Seahawks play on Sunday. The animated GIF above shows Russell in his new Jacksonville threads getting blown up by Justin Forsett, Seattle’s 5′8″, 194-pound third-string running back — possibly my favorite highlight in a 41-0 ass-stomping that involved four passing touchdowns, a defensive touchdown, and the self-bloodied visage of psycho hillbilly Owen Schmitt.

Delicious schadenfreude, or deliciousest schadenfreude? Oh, deliciousest for sure. Your failure sustains me, Russell.

[via Field Gulls]

You know, you New York Giants deserve some more respect. That’s why I’m going to do everything I can from to help you guys out today. Well, everything that can be done from 20 yards off the line of scrimmage, anyway.

Why, hello there, Brandon Jacobs. No, don’t mind me. You keep running by, I prefer the challenge of tackling you from behind.

Derrick Ward, is it? Well, we can’t let Brandon get ALL the yards on the ground, can we?

(Eli Manning play-fakes)

Where’d the ball go?!?! It’s a run! It’s a run! I have to get to the line immediately!

(Sinorice Moss catches touchdown)

Wow, that was amazing! Y’know, Eli really is one of the greatest quarterbacks in the league. Heck, he’s completed almost all of the passes he’s overthrown today!

Look at that, another stillborn possession by our offense. All right, c’mon guys! Let’s get out there and ALLOW SOME TOUCHDOWNS!!! WOOOOOOOOOO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Safety Brian Russell took snaps as a quarterback after practice, which was really like an emergency drill. He would be the Seahawks’ emergency quarterback behind backup Charlie Frye. Russell played quarterback until his junior season at San Diego State.

Don’t even THINK about it, fuckface!  The team already sucks hard enough with you flailing around on one side of the ball.  You weren’t good enough as a quarterback in high school to be recruited by ANY of the 119 D-I schools.  The reason you play safety now is because you weren’t qualified to be a quarterback.  At San Diego State.  Ten years ago.

Jesus.  You at quarterback could make you at safety look competent.

The way I see it, if Matt Hasselbeck and Charlie Frye get injured before Seneca Wallace’s calf heals, there are three choices:

1. Wishbone offense!  Starring Julius Jones at quarterback!  Hey, it’s not like the Seahawks have receivers anyway.
2. Ultimate fan experience!  Always dreamed of playing quarterback in the NFL?  Are you nearby?  Does this helmet fit you?
3. Suck-start a Beretta 9mm and shuffle off this mortal coil.  Ahhh, the sweet release of death.  So preferable to watching Brian Russell play for your favorite team.

(Via Sports Northwest)

This is Brian Russell.  He’s the starting free safety for the Seattle Seahawks.  He is fucking terrible.

If you’d like to know why the Seahawks have four Pro Bowl starters on defense but still give up 30+ points to the Bills and 49ers, Brian Russell is your answer.

If you’re wondering how J.T. O’Sullivan can get sacked 8 times, but still throw for 321 yards with a touchdown and no interceptions: Brian Russell.

Did you see that Isaac Bruce, who is something like 47 years old, got 153 yards on only 4 catches?  There’s a secret ingredient to that formula, and his name is Brian Russell.

How does he do it?  How can one weak link in the defense fuck the team over so hard?

I asked John Morgan of the Seahawks blog Field Gulls to explain:

Russell played quarterback in high school, but wasn’t recruited by a single Division 1-A program. There are 119. In true white-man hustle fashion, he convinced San Diego State head coach Ted Tollner to give him a scholarship. Tollner is a typical pass-around coach that never fails to find a job because of a good attitude, little ambition, and rampant cronyism. From the start he and Russell were kindred spirits. Russell was given the starting quarterback job in his second season. His third season, he was converted to safety.

Russell wasn’t invited to the combine and wasn’t drafted, but white-man hustled his way onto the Vikings. Dennis Green wanted to cut him, but defensive coordinator Willie Shaw fought for Russell to make the practice squad.

That player, a former quarterback, not offered a scholarship at division 1-A and not drafted by the pros, turned 30 this February. The kid who never had the skill to play at this level, who made rosters as a Rudy and started strictly for soon-to-be-fired head coaches, has lost speed, quickness, agility, strength and endurance. It shows. In 20 games for Seattle, Brian Russell is either not seen, seen evading a running back, seen in passing as the camera pans towards a deep receiver, or seen delivering a late hit on a tackled opponent. He’s all mouth, no pigment; leadership and no ability. The rah-rah sycophant with tacit tenure that never played his way on the roster so literally can’t play his way off. In 2007, his average tackle against the run was 9.9 yards down field. He missed many more. Despite being a cover safety, Russell participated in only 6% of opponent’s pass plays and recorded only three pass defenses. But when you were signed for your leadership, chatter and hustle, trying harder but sucking more is stepping up your game.

In simpler terms:

1. Stand twenty yards off the line of scrimmage.
2. ???
3. PROFIT.

You know how Reed Doughty is the only white guy on the Redskins’ defense, and how funny it is because he sucks?  Brian Russell is the broke man’s Reed Doughty.  To call him the Tarvaris Jackson of safeties would be a compliment.

In summation: you are fucking terrible, Brian Russell.  Get fucked.  Or at least give the team a couple reps at wide receiver.

Mike Holmgren: As you all know, we’ve had some tough breaks at this position this year. Deion Branch is recovering from knee surgery. Bobby Engram’s got a broken shoulder. Ben Obomanu’s out with a broken collarbone. And now Nate Burleson with an ACL tear. I expect you folks to be able to step it up. Who are you people now?

[Courtney Taylor, Jordan Kent, Samie Parker, and Billy McMullen introduce themselves]

Holmgren: Kent, you’re fired. Pack your bags.

Kent: Seriously? Your top four receivers are injured, and you need four more, and I can’t be on the team?

Holmgren: I’m sorry, son, we’ve only got room for 8th-string receivers here. Beat it.

Now the rest of you hit the practice field. I want you to get some reps with the first team.

[Taylor performs a double move and catches a post pattern in stride.  He then falls to the turf, holding his upper leg. A trainer attends to him.]

Holmgren:  What is it?  Hamstring?

Trainer: No, his hamstring’s fine.

Holmgren: Phew!

Trainer: Looks like a severed femoral artery.  If the paramedics don’t get here in two minutes he’ll die.

Holmgren: Oh.

Trainer: Yeah.

Holmgren: Ummm… Parker!

[Samie Parker does a nice catch-and-run off a slant.  Tackled after twenty yards, he lays on the ground holding his stomach. The trainer, worried, signals for the team doctor.]

Holmgren: What now?

Doctor: I’m sorry… I’m afraid it’s… it’s canker.

Holmgren:  Canker?  You mean cancer?  My receiver has cancer?

Doctor: Oh no, this is much more deadly.  He died three minutes ago.

Holmgren: Daggummit.  McMullen!  Go out there and show me what you got!  And try not to killed, okay?

[McMullen makes a diving catch falling out of bounds.  His upper body lands in an unattended wood chipper.]

Holmgren: Oh jeez.  I knew we shouldn’t have kept that there.  Seneca, looks like you’re starting on Sunday.

Seneca Wallace: Aw hell naw.

Seahawks linebacker Lofa Tatupu was arrested in Kirkland, Washington Saturday and charged with DUI after allegedly blowing a Busey-esque .015 .15 on the ole breathalyser. Tatupu, who signed a $42 million extension in March and has established himself as a Pro Bowl fixture, issued an apology through the team.

Living down the taint of lawless behavior is difficult but can be achieved after intense character rehabilitation and extensive public relations work. However, there is no erasing the stigma of getting popped while driving a Hyundai Accent. Tragically, Lofa will wear the shame of his choice of automobiles like the Mark of Cain for as many days as he remains on this mortal coil.

ON SET with Adult film star Admiral Pavel Becker, the Naval Pecker, with additional cast and crew, for the filming of the last scene in his Christmas special, Chestnuts Roasting On Your Open Mouth, Part 6.

————

Fred: Thank God, we’re finally gonna shoot the last scene of this movie and then we can wrap this bitch.

Andy: You know, Fred, I was thinking. “Pavel” and “Naval” don’t even rhyme. That sort of kills the whole thing for me.

Fred: Fuck you, smart guy. It looks great on the box, especially with the anchors and that Donald Duck uniform. That’s all we give a shit about in this business; it’s all about presentation. You can take your lacy frills and Mother Goose bullshit down the block.

Andy: Hey, Freddy, don’t mind me. I’m just impressed you got Gina Gershon in this movie.

Jeanie: (walks in) Uh, sweetie, it’s Jeanie Gershonn. With two Ns (puffs on a cigarette and blows the smoke in Andy’s face)

Director: Bitch, who said you could smoke on my set? (walks up behind Jeannie) Is Dick Van Dyke gonna chimney sweep the fucking tar out of my lungs? Get your ass on that sleigh, you rusty old cunt. (to the crew) Alright everybody! Chop chop, you little fucksticks! Okay, Jeanie. It’s time to save Christmas. And by “Save Christmas,” I mean “videotape you getting fucked raw.” (puts on headphones)

Jeanie: (licks palm of her hand and extinguishes the cigarette in it) Sure thing, sweetie. (gets on the sleigh with Becker, who is wearing nothing but a fake white beard and boots)

Director: Now, Becker, just go through your lines like we did in rehearsal, okay?

Becker: Ready!

Director: Okay, places, everyone! Quiet on the set motherfuckers! I am more important than all of you! Lights are good!…Camera rolling!…Cue the snow!…Aaaand cue the reindeer!…And ACTION!

Jeanie: So, can you tell me, are you…are you really Santa Claus?

Becker: Yes, Virginia…I am…Santa Claus.

Jeanine: Well, then…maybe I could meet…Santa’s Little Helper?

Becker: Cut!

(bell rings)

Director: (takes off headphones) Goddamn it Bruno, I’M the one that says cut! I’m the goddamn director!

Becker: Sorry, boss, but…it’s….it’s….

Director: Just spit it out, princess–

Becker: We don’t have my, uh, full attention.

Director: Jesus Fucking Christ, Becker, you and your rubber torpedo are gonna be the death of me.

Becker: That’s RUGGED Torpedo!

Director: Whatever, lady. (turns around) Fred, can you get Michelle out here? Time to fluff up another flat pecker.

Fred: Sorry, boss. Michelle’s taking an early lunch at Panera, but the agency can send someone over right away.

Director: Agency? Since when did we hire a fucking agency?

(from the back) Not a fucking agency, sir! A fluffing agency!

Director: (looking around) Who the fuck was that?

Maurice: (enthusiastically) It’s me! (hands resume to director)

Director: Wha–what the fuck is this? Most fluffers don’t hand in resumes…(looks at resume)…uh, Morris?

Maurice: That’s Maurice! Not Morris.

Director: Well, okay, Maurice not Morris (hands resume to Fred), get over there and get your hands dirty.

Maurice: Hands?! Well, what if I just take this and give a good (baritoned gagging sound)

Becker: Holy–wha…woowwwwww.

Andy: Wait, did he just–

Fred: Excuse me, is this a valid address? 800 Occidental Ave South, Seattle? Box 20?

Director: You’re a goddamn professional, Becks, just go with it. Carl, are you getting this?

Carl: (operating camera) Oh, I’m getting it. This is like taping Rodney King, but reversed. And gay.

Director: Yeah, that boom cam’s looking like a pretty good investment now, isn’t it?

Fred: (watches while slowly shaking his head) Wow, he’s really getting after it.

Director: I always enjoy watching someone so masterful at his craft. Just amazing.

Sean Astin: He’s telling his own story; you can truly feel the pathos.

Carl: Somebody needs to feed that guy. He’s like a starving orphan over there.

Andy: Where have I heard that expression before?

Director: Hang on, I think he’s finally coming up for air…

Maurice: (out of breath) Let’s…try something else…I call this (drops to his knees)…the “Trey Wingo.”

Director: Why’s he standing behind him?

Carl: And why’s he holding up those three fingers and coating them with Astroglide?

Fred: You know, I think he’s gonna jam them right up his–

EVERYONE: AWWWWWWWWWWW!!!

Fred: Jesus Shit! I think he got some elbow on that!

Andy: That’s an uppercut for the ages.

Director: I hope Maurice not Morris remembered to take off his watch.

Carl: Don’t you need a guardian present to jump into the deep end like that?

Maurice: (pumping feverishly) This will give that grumpy little prostate something to think about!

Fred: Uppercut! Uppercut!

Director: Now, does he call it the “Trey Wingo” because he’s using three fingers? Like Trey as in Three?

Carl: Or because when you set your hand like that, it looks like a W? You know, W for Wingo.

Andy: Or is it because this whole ordeal is associated with sports somehow?

Maurice: (retrieving his arm)…There. I just went two yards right up the middle. That ought to do it.

Becker: (looks down with delight) All right! All hands, attention on deck!

Director: God bless you, Maurice.

Fred: And God bless these fifty United States.

Director: Alright, places everyone! Let’s get set here! (puts on headphones) Cue the snow!…aaaand Go for reindeer! Aaaand ACTION!

Jeanie: So, can you tell me, are you…are you really Santa Claus?

Becker: Yes, Virginia…I am…sorry, sorry, guys. I just…

Director: CUT! (Bell rings) Goddamn it, now what?

Becker: Just remind me…what’s my motivation?

Director: (throws headphones to the ground) Fuck this shit, I quit.

This bottle is from the maker’s mark NFL collectable series that was out in limited numbers per each team a few years back. Most of these bottles or in Seahawks fan collections & will not resurface in the collector market. Therefore, this is your chance to get one of these great looking Seahawk bottles. The dip is perfect & the runs look great.

In my limited experience, the runs never look great.

Other selling points here are the old-school Seahawk colors of royal blue and gray, rather than the monochromatic blue and neon green that’s all the rage with precisely no one.

Also, take note that the bidding for a rare Seahawks edition of Maker’s Mark is only $35. That’s a pretty good deal, considering that you can fetch several hundred dollars if you use a Sharpie to change a tallboy of Steel Reserve into “Steeler Reserve.” Ah, Pittsburgh: the Ohio State of the NFL.

God, I’d been praying and praying for you to heal this foot of mine. And, Lord, you brought succor to my wounds. For that, I am eternally grateful. You’ve let me continue to live this incredibly privileged life so long as I commit myself to your sacred service.

May I then offer one quibble, God? I came back to play 10 games – yeah – the better part of last season, sure. But 896 yards? Less than four yards a carry? Is mine a benevolent God? We’re talking career worst stats here. I’m finding my faith rocked. Doubts are starting to creep in. Big, quitting-at-the-end-of-the-season doubts.

I touted the restorative powers of prayer, did I not? Didn’t I donate that really big fucking cross to that baptist church in Alabama. You remember? That one Alabama baptist church? You told me there were those to smote and they have been smoten!

Why hast thou forsaken me in favor of the one who is called Frank Gore? He of the land of the Sodomites. No, not Dallas. The other one, the one with the bay. What is his record of good works? I’ve carried out your earthly missions, averaging clearly more than four blessings per mission carried out. Clearly, the same should apply to my football carries.

But now, I’m left with no sign that my efforts are appreciated. And thou has provided no linemen to replace Steve Hutchinson. Fuck you, Yahweh, I do it myself!

[Alexander rises to his feet, immediately feels a sharp pang in his left foot]

Ah, haystacks.