Was it good for you, too?

I've wanted to write something like this ever since mid-February, but I've been a walking catharsis these last six months. Honestly, trying to write anything else about the Saints seemed more like an exercise or chore than something heartfelt. It's the feeling you get after sex: lazy, joyous and doing nothing but basking in the glow of what had just occurred. That's what this off-season has been for me; one long post-coitus sprawl.

Watching Drew Brees on Ellen? Great. Breesus on Letterman? #9 on Leno? Saints winning ESPYs? St. Drew on Oprah? Sure, I can handle all that.

You want me to dissect whether I think Al Woods is going to be an instant starter? Wihll Malcolm Jenkins break through in the secondary this training camp? How will Patrick Ramsey handle being number two on the depth chart behind Brees? Uh, don't kill my buzz, man?

That's not to say it was an uneventful set of months. I bought a house in May. I bring this up not to bore you with anecdotes of me taking advantage of a tax credit, but rather to transition into a story involving my folks that has nothing to do with the phrase "post-coitus sprawl."

Immediately following the NFC Championship Game, my dad said he'd collected several copies of the Times-Picayune for the family so we could frame them. I called him shortly after the Saints won the Super Bowl and told him to make sure he got me a copy to frame as well. It took him having to drive across the lake and wait in line, but the old man followed through and got enough copies for everybody. He'd get the two papers framed for me, but wanted to know if he should ship them to me right away. We agreed he'd bring them in June when he and my mother flew up for a visit. I was not about to trust the US Postal Service or UPS with handling this.

My parents arrived and after getting them settled, I ripped the thick, brown wrapping paper off the framed newspapers. Even though my girlfriend and I had far more pressing things to handle in the house, I grabbed the hammer and looked for a spot to hang them up, eventually settling on a spot in the living room so any visitors would see them right when they came in.

I see those framed newspapers every time I come home from work and it reminds me that the last year was not an illusion.

And as we begin the transition from that magical wondrous illuminating uplifting scrumtrulescent season to the 2010-2011 campaign, I've had time to reflect on what it's like to go from something so grand to, in essence, starting back from scratch. People often talk or joke about a movie being made for the Super Bowl season. And yeah, I'll participate in creating a dream cast, sure, but the reality of it is real life isn't a movie. Sure, we'd all love to still be riding off into the sunset with Indiana Jones and his father after grabbing the holy grail. Sadly, if life were like a movie, we'd be hanging out with some dude named "Mutt" and wondering why the hell are we dealing with aliens instead of some other religious artifacts.

It's not movies, it's television. Think about it: in a movie (in a basic sense), you get two hours and then the credits roll and you get the idea that everything has worked itself out and there will be no more complications on that issue because you just spent two hours seeing that get resolved. In TV, a problem sometimes gets solved in the half-hour or hour-long format, and yeah, things may be wrapped up for that particular week, but the character arcs remain. The cops have more cases to solve, Matlock has more people to put away, Dick Wolf's "Law & Order" noise still has more gongs to make, vampires are still fighting over some psychic bartender in northern Louisiana, some airplane crash victims are still trapped on the island, President Bartlett is still in charge, Baltimore is still a drug-infested shit hole, you get the idea.

Sure, some of these shows go off the air, but you get the idea that things just keep going on for these characters. There is no grand dénouement and suddenly everything just ends. We'll wake up at the start of every NFL season from this moment onward and know the Saints have Super Bowl 44. But there's still more seasons to be played, more adventures to be had, many more moments of exaltation and agony to behold. And we'll go forward, win or lose, like we always have. Only from now on, we've got a Lombardi Trophy.

What a Saints Super Bowl win means to me ("I Can't Explain")

Grandmaster Wang can't be the only Saints blogger getting in on all The Who love here. Oh sure, he gets more attention and comments because he's "got a nicer looking web page," "writes pieces in a timely manner," and "is consistently hilarious." But I digress...

Now that I've turned my Bennett Brauer button off, let's get on with this piece.

What would a win do for me, your humble narrator? Well, there's the obvious fulfillment and validation for following and supporting a team, particularly special because it's your hometown team and the first team you ever really followed. I suppose the sheer euphoria would last me all the way through next season. Lord knows if there's a lock-out, a potential Saints Super Bowl win would have to sustain me for that painful period when there's no NFL to be had. And at the same time, if the Saints won the Super Bowl, the team could go 0-16 the following year and I wouldn't ... well, I can't say I wouldn't care, but it wouldn't be the soul crushing bout of depression it could have been otherwise.

I know for a fact what I won't be doing and that's casting myself as some sort of bullshit "Ghost Whisperer" for sports fans whose teams haven't won a championship in forever. (I'm looking at you, Bill Simmons.)

And while Saints fans have long understood that the whole "this team is rebuilding the city" story line is mostly bollocks, the Saints are providing enough of a positive vibe for people around town and for fans to go through the daily grind. I may not live in the GNO anymore, but I understand what a positive vibe means for the city. A Super Bowl win would take that positive vibe to new, uncharted heights. And while I obviously have my disagreements and dislikes about the city and what goes on in it, I want this win for the people.

You've read or likely heard before that my father was one of the first people in line to buy season tickets when the franchise came to town in 1967. He stopped going to games after Archie left because he believed the franchise didn't give two shits. Being fan and going to games hurt too damn much, so he cancelled his season tickets. Yeah, he's been to some games here and there--he's even gone on the road to Seattle, Kansas City and Washington D.C. to watch the team over the last few years--but I don't think he would ever entertain the thought of getting season tickets again. I want a Saints win for him.

My older brother -- you heard him in the NFC Championship Game postgame radio show. You could listen to his voice again and understand what this Super Bowl berth means. And at the same time you'd know what a Super Bowl victory would mean. I want the Saints to win for him.

Many fans have had personal tragedy tied in with this team. People have lost family members over the years and have poured themselves into their Saints fandom as some sort of coping mechanism. Maybe it's Katrina-related, maybe it isn't; point is, they've turned to the Saints. My friend Ralph has really leaned on the Saints this year after losing his dad. For him, and all the others like him, I want the Saints to win.

I've done the radio show with Ralph for a few years now, and Dave over at Canal Street Chronicles joined us in the past year and has really helped bring the show to where it should be. Dave's admittedly only been a Saints fan for 10 years, but you don't get involved in a Saints blog--probably the best, most well-run sports blog for the team--if you don't give a damn and aren't passionate about them. Same thing for Grandmaster Wang. And what of the callers to said radio show? You don't just call an internet radio show hosted by three schmucks if you're from El Paso, Lafayette, Birmingham, Charlotte or Las Vegas -- not unless you have passion for the team. I've never met any of these people face to face and with the exception of maybe Dave and Wang I likely will not have an opportunity to met them. And I want the Saints to win for them as well.

It almost goes without saying that I want the Saints to win for themselves. Tom Benson deserves to have this kind of chapter written into his legacy with the fans. I want this so much for Drew Brees and Sean Payton that it hurts. If the Saints were ever smart enough to have a Ring of Honor in the Dome, you'd have to put those two guys in it with a Super Bowl win. Hell, bronze statues would be in order. Jeremy Shockey deserves to have a new chapter in his career where he's not just some drunken, womanizing hooligan. The word "champion" should have to go in front of all that. Darren Sharper may not have too many years left in his career. Hell, I could even see him retiring after this year. But I want him to have another ring. Anthony Hargrove has been through a personal hell and back. Mark Brunell has been around the league almost as long as Brett Favre. Thomas "Puntmaster Flex" Morstead deserves a ring, if only to show that drafting a punter with your fourth and final pick in a draft can be worthwhile. Marques Colston was nearly Mr. Irrelevant in the draft, Pierre Thomas wasn't even drafted, and Robert Meachem was a first round pick who vanished for his rookie season. Reggie Bush, gunning for that big contract and more importantly some respect around the league, deserves a win. I could run down the roster, but they all deserve rings. I want it for them.

And if the Saints do win, knowing what a win would mean for everyone I mentioned (even those I didn't mention) makes it even more special for me.

My Saints fandom -- A legacy of fear and diminished expectation

It’s Super Bowl Eve and I’m terrified, afraid of what could happen to the New Orleans Saints on Sunday night. This improbable season has perhaps made a lot of people forget that Saints fans are a worrisome bunch. We’ve spent the overwhelming majority of the last four decades waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nine winning seasons in 40-plus years will do that to a fanbase.

My father was one of the first people to get season tickets heading into the ’67 inaugural season at Tulane Stadium. He brought my older brother to games at the Superdome beginning in the late 70s. My dad got me to love the Saints from as early as I can remember.

Oddly enough, my earliest memory of the Saints’ misfortune came in a playoff game – the team’s first postseason appearance. It was against the Vikings. The Saints were blown out 44-10, and Rueben Mayes was injured and never the same player. My paternal grandparents had a Saints’ schedule poster in their kitchen and had written the scores on the poster all year long. Every time I visited, I had to look up at this poster and see that 44-10 score. I was seven-years-old, but my thirst for football vengeance was blooming.

Of course, the Saints went 12-3 that year, so surely there would be plenty more playoff trips. After all, we had one of the best defenses in the league. The only problem was we played in the same division as Joe Montana and Jerry Rice. Damn it all. The Saints had a three-year run of playoff appearances at the beginning of the 90s, but that was it – playoff drought thereafter.

In 2000, in their 33rd year of existence, the Saints finally won a playoff game, only to be thwarted yet again by the Minnesota Vikings in the Divisional Round. And again, my football vengeance was denied. But again, the thought was that we would see the playoffs again. We had the Coach of the Year in Jim Haslett and a young, mobile, athletic quarterback named Aaron Brooks.

By the bitter end of the Haslett-Brooks era (or “error” as my friends and I called it), culminating with home games played in Baton Rouge, San Antonio and New York City because of Hurricane Katrina, all I wanted was a coach that didn’t have a deer in the headlights look on his face, and a quarterback who actually show frustration over throwing an interception and not grin like a child.

I’m not rehashing the four years of the Payton-Brees era since it’s still fresh in everyone’s memory.

Instead, I’m returning to my initial sentiment: being terrified coming into the Super Bowl. I don’t know if I would say I’m always waiting for something to go wrong with the Saints. (I’d be higher strung, if it were even possible.) I tend to think of all the things that can go wrong. Perhaps I’ve read the Hagakure too much and tricked my mind into always thinking about horrible things. I blame the movie “Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai.”

And while I’m in favor of the bye week between the NFC and AFC Championship Games, I’ve spent the last 13 days with a sense of looming dread. I can see the Colts running up the score early en route to a repeat of the Niners-Chargers Super Bowl; I picture Peyton Manning dispensing the ball with deadly accuracy and embarrassing the Saints’ secondary on his way to a near perfect QB rating and a second Super Bowl MVP trophy. I’ve even pictured injuries to Saints players during the game. I won’t go into greater detail for fear it might happen.

And I’ve become increasingly superstitious as the season wore on. I’ll be watching this Super Bowl not at a friend’s house or at some party with co-workers, but at the bar I’ve frequented this whole year. And I plan to wear the same clothes I’ve had on for the previous playoff games against the Cardinals and Vikings. I even shaved an awkward “playoff beard” for this magical run. I had the intention of going for a Chester A. Arthur look but instead look like the lead singer of a poor man’s Creedence Clearwater Revival cover band.

See, I think if you caught most Saints fans in their private moments when they were weren’t imbibing booze and whatever else to get them in a partying mood, they’d probably be the same way. We’re scared, but not doubters. We want confidence, but not cockiness. This team has instilled a sense of confidence in the fanbase over the course of this year. We believe we belong in the Super Bowl. We know we belong in the game.

But here is the hardest part: we believe we’re capable of winning, but do we possess confidence that the team can? I think so.

Because for all the horrible images that fill my head of the Colts throttling the Saints, or watching Peyton Manning lead a game-winning drive in the waning moments of the fourth quarter, I can also picture Drew Brees lobbing a 40-yard bomb to Devery Henderson for a touchdown, or imagine Pierre Thomas barreling over a defender for a score. I can’t control my fears of watching the team I love lose on Sunday, but I can hopefully temper them with the belief of a Saints victory.

KSK reminds me I am but a petty amateur

Big Daddy Drew at Kissing Suzy Kolber just worked the Saints into his latest fictional opus. And I am floored. (chokes back tears) They...should have...sent a poet.

Origin Story: Thomas Morstead

SUPER BOWL MEDIA DAY.

(Saints players are being interviewed by dozens of members of the media. A small cluster of reporters is gathered around Puntmaster Flex, Thomas Morstead.)


TOMMY: Wow, I didn't really expect to get this much attention from you guys.


STINK: Thomas, you've played an important role in the team's success, and you've done so with very little fanfare. Your kickoffs have often pinned opponents deep in their own territory or you've gotten the touchback uncontested. Your punts allow Coach Payton some safety in saying, "let's put the defense out there and see what it can do."

TOMMY: Okay, so what's your question?

STINK: I didn't really have a question. I just wanted to state something very obvious so I'd come off as knowledgeable about the game.

TOMMY: Oh. Well, does anyone have a question...?

REPORTER: Yes, Thomas! When did you really decide to become a punter?

TOMMY: (rubs 3 o'clock shadow on his chin) Hmmmm....

FADE TO:



Date: September 1997
Place: The rolling plains of Pearland, Texas

EXT. Country House -- Day

(Three kids are tossing a football around down the driveway, about 20 yards away from a ranch-style home. One of the kids catches the pass thrown to him, turns around, and punts the ball high into the air...and it sails into a skylight on the home. The other two kids scatter at the sound of the broken glass. The kid who punted the ball stands still, hanging his head. A man, the boy's father, comes running out the house.)


DAD: You kicked the ball again, didn't you?!? DIDN'T YOU?!?

BOY: Yes, but...

(The dad wallops the boy upside his head.)

DAD: We don't kick balls in this house, unless it's for fighting purposes, you got that?!?

BOY: (meekly) Yes, sir.

DAD: My kids will THROW the goddamn ball! And they'll throw it as hard as I damn well tell them to!! You understand me, Tommy?!?


TOMMY: (nearly sobbing) But I wanna be a PUNTER, dad!!

DAD: Punter?!? I didn't raise no goddamn punter!!! Your mother! She's been coddling you too damn much!! She's entertaining these flights of pussy-dom in my house! I swear, if it were up to me, I'd have torn up that subscription to Cat Fancy when it first came in!! The fuck kinda kid reads a cat magazine anyway?!? A fucking mealy-mouthed punter, that's what!!

TOMMY: But I want to be a punter, dad...

DAD: You'll do no such thing! I'm raising a big, strong free safety! The kinda guy who'll knock mother fuckers on their sorry asses, force fumbles and score all sorts of pussy!! You wanna score all sorts of pussy, dontcha, Tommy?

TOMMY: Dad, I'm 11.

DAD: Fuck difference does THAT make?!? You're a MORSTEAD!!

TOMMY: But dad, I really admire what Ray Guy did in the NFL...

DAD: Ray Guy? You mean Ray GAY!!!! (laughs uncontrollably for 20 seconds.) See what I did there, Tommy? (elbows son in the shoulder repeatedly.) Huh? You see?!? I made fun of his last name and called him "gay" cause he's a fucking punter!!! You want people to make fun of you?!?

TOMMY: No, but I'll be really good. Really, REALLY good at punting. Why, I could prolly get a scholarship to a Big 12 school or something...

DAD: You'll do no such thing!!! You're going to SMU and majoring in theology to become a methodist minister!!! And you're gonna be grateful for it, too!!

TOMMY: But...but...can I have my ball back?

(Dad pulls something from under his shirt.)

DAD: Oh, no, I'm not having you break another skylight. You wanna kick something again? You try kicking THIS....



DAD: You'll forget all about this punting business after your foot breaks a few times....We eat dinner in twenty minutes. Gravy and biscuits.

TOMMY: Yes, sir.

(When his dad walks in the house, Tommy turns and punts the medicine ball clear across the front lawn.)

FADE TO: Present Day


TOMMY: Well, uh, my dad was a very big influence for me....

THE END.

(Ed. note: I wanted to include a link for a story really digging into Morstead's background. His parents both played soccer and he played it too. Nice stuff.)

A big, hearty f*ck you...

In light of the Saints' improbable run to the Super Bowl and victory over the Minnesota Vikings in the NFC Championship Game, the following is a list of people that can go fuck themselves. I will add select commentary behind some entries, because sometimes it's important to know why a guy has to go fuck himself. (Note: This list is made in no particular order)

Joe Buck & Troy Aikman: These Brett Favre apologists were the wrong fuckers to be calling Sunday night's game. You could almost hear tears in their voices. Jesus Christ, Gus Johnson would've blown a fucking gasket over this game, could you PRETEND to be excited for five seconds!?!?

Adrian Peterson: Fuck you for having gloves covered in KY Jelly, you fumbling fuck! "I feel they didn't win the game but we lost it." You said that. Right after the game. Fuck you in the helmet, you purple-headed asshole. That Under Armor-wannabe shit you're wearing must be cutting off the circulation to your brain. As I remember it, the only fumble that the Saints didn't cause was when you and the Favre-meister couldn't get a goddamn handoff right in the backfield....WHEN YOU WERE DEEP IN SAINTS TERRITORY, you shit-eating fuck!

Marcellus Wiley: Fuck off for picking the Vikings! And a double fuck off for saying the Cardinals were in a better spot going into their game against the Saints!

Bill Simmons: Cause fuck him, that's why.

Brett Favre: For whining to the officials early on, like they owe you favors... And for getting one of them to help your jersey back over your pads after you got rocked AGAIN by the Saints' defense... And for stirring up the "will he or won't he retire?" crap already when all you should've said was "no comment," you hick fuck!

Vikings fans who believe the game was "gifted" to the Saints: fuck you, retards. the officials fucked things up on BOTH sides of the ball, so don't act like this was some set up. if anything, the officials gave your team MORE calls early on in the game. and you STILL couldn't beat the Saints!!!

Peter King: Fuck you for mourning the Vikings' loss (read: Brett Favre's loss) first and not giving the Saints their proper due, you bias mother fucker.

Sports media: Here's the thing about the media in general (and ESPECIALLY the sports media): they have a narrative in mind for how they'd like to cover a story or see things unfold AT ALL TIMES. That's everybody. Now, sadly, there are fewer professionals in both businesses who can taper down their thoughts and feelings on something and let the facts and details dictate what should be covered and talked about. Instead, you get assholes who start rooting for Favre, cause it's a "better story to see an old guy get one more run at a title." Bullshit. The truth is, these sports writers wanted to see a guy closer to their age make a run in a young man's game and it would've made them feel a little bit better about themselves.

And finally...My former boss: Yeah, you thought I'd forget, didn't you? Right? See, NOW you can go ahead with that "Black & Gold Super Bowl" ad campaign shit. Go on, dick head, you have my permission. Fuck you, you overweight prick.

Select photos from the game...

I'm still too blubbery to write something down, so I thought I'd go with hilarious pictures that have gone through the "i can haz cheezburger" wringer. (Note: The guys at KSK do a fantastic job on their site when they do this stuff.)

Cormac McCarthy likes the NFC action this weekend, thank you very much!

Think they'll give Vilma a cattle gun to take down Favre?



I know what you're thinking: "But Kevin, why'd you misspell Brett Favre's last name? Were you trying to be funny?" Well, yes and no.

I say "no," because I realized about 20 minutes into building this thing (during breaks at work, mind you) that I spelled the fucker's name wrong. And since I'm too lazy to fix this shit, I decided, fuck it, I'll make it like "Something About Mary." So there you go.

Of course, looking at it now...I probably SHOULD have either gone back and fixed it, or at least tried to match the misspelling on Favre's jersey. And then I probably could have maybe put another couple players on the poster to cover up the dead space...

Fuck, I need to sleep...

Payton and Whisenhunt in a battle of the minds!!!

('24'-style voice over: The following takes place between 7 p.m. and 7:10 p.m. on Friday, January 15.)

INT. GAME SHOW SET

(Coaches Sean Payton and Ken Whisenhunt are standing behind podiums, facing one another on a dimly lit stage. Pat Kiernan stands between them, wearing a dapper suit.)


PAT: And welcome back to the World Series of Pop Culture, folks! We are here for the final round of this epic contest between coaches Sean Payton and Ken Whisenhunt, to determine who truly has the right mojo leading their team into their upcoming Divisional Round playoff game!

(Crowd applauds.)

PAT: Now, here are the rules for this final round, in which all points are quadrupled, effectively rendering the previous six rounds meaningless...Okay, we're going to have a duel of pop culture awesomeness!!! Each coach will take turns saying something that he thinks has pop culture awesomeness. The other coach will then try to top him with something HE thinks is more awesome. Sounds easy, but it's quite difficult. First one to five points wins. Are you ready, Coach Whisenhunt?


KEN: Uh, yeah, sure.

PAT: What say you, then?

KEN: Um...Courtney Cox's dance moves in the "Dancing in the Dark" video?



PAT: Coach Payton, your rebuttal?


SEAN: Let's see...I'll go with Bruce Springsteen's crotch slide during the Super Bowl 43 half time show.



PAT: Point for Coach Sean Payton!!!!

(Crowd applauds.)

PAT: Coach Payton, you're move?

SEAN: Okay. I'll go with Rex Ryan's bombastic locker room tirades.

PAT: Coach Whisenhunt, what say you?

KEN: Hmmm...I'll say Trying to prove that Mark Sanchez is a competent quarterback!

PAT: Point for Sean Payton! Sorry, Ken, but nobody's buying that Sanchez bullshit anytime soon. But hey, you're leading off Round 3, so here's your chance to play catch up!

KEN: I'll go with the big thing on the internet at the moment and say that old dude on American Idol singing "Pants On The Ground."



SEAN: Pat, this one's easy. I'll take Jimmy Fallon's nonsensical cover of "Pants On The Ground" as Neil Young.



PAT: Folks, that is a winner-winner chicken dinner for Coach Sean Payton!!! 3-0, Coach Payton! Come on, Coach Whisenhunt, you've gotta put up a better fight than this!

KEN: Um, look, I'm not sure this is such a good idea.

SEAN: Quit being a puss, Ken, it's a fun little diversion before the game. I mean, it's not the Saints are gonna smoke the Cards this bad. I mean, ALL THE ANALYSTS AND TALKING HEADS say you guys have the momentum coming into the SuperDome. Nevermind the fact that Kurt Warner's 0-2 here. You guys are gonna be near impossible to beat, according to the former players who now have fashionistas picking out their suits for television. Come on, let's keep playing.

KEN: Alright fine.

PAT: Coach Payton...you lead us off in Round 4.

SEAN: Simple. Jimmy Kimmel doing his entire late night show as Jay Leno, only to appear on Leno's prime time show the next night and absolutely crush him again....

PAT: Coach Whisenhunt, your response...?

KEN: Uh...Hmmm...let me think...Gimme a minute...

(Buzzer sounds.)

PAT: Oh, I'm sorry, Coach Ken, time's up. Coach Payton gets the point. You need to win this one to avoid the sweep. You need a good pop culture reference here to keep it competitive.

KEN: Okay, I'm busting out the big guns for this one: Kurt Warner drawing Jesus.

PAT: Coach Payton?

SEAN: Four words, Pat: WHERE. THE. LEPRECHAUN. AT.



PAT: CLEAN SWEEP for Sean Payton!!! 5-0 for the Saints' coach!

KEN: What?!? That clip is like three years old!!! I demand Coach Payton come up with something more recent!

SEAN: Okay, Ken, you asked for it. Three words: CAT. RAPING. PUNTER.

KEN: The fuck's a "cat raping punter?" Who's a cat raping punter? There's a punter in the league that rapes cats?!? The fuck is that, Sean?

SEAN: Pat?

PAT: Coach Ken, it's a perfectly acceptable pop culture reference. In fact, had Coach Payton gone with that one from the get go, the judges probably would have awarded him the contest then and there. I'm sorry, but you lost.

KEN: Dang it!

"There's no killing what can't be killed"

INT. SAINTS HEADQUARTERS, WAR ROOM - DAY

(Sean Payton is flipping through binders, looking at player profiles and consulting medical charts, and visiting WebMD on his computer.)


PAYTON: Blast it! I can't figure out why all our guys are getting and staying injured! Hip pointers, sports hernias, pulled groins, hamstring issues, knee trouble, foot trouble, finger sprains, if never freaking ends! There has GOT to be a reason for all of this!

(Drew Brees walks up and knocks on Payton's door frame.)

BREES: Mind if I come in, coach?

PAYTON: Damn right, I called you in here because I need to know if you've seen or heard anything from the guys about their injuries.

BREES: What do you mean, coach?

PAYTON: You know, if the guys are talking about any off field incidents involving horseplay or something. Those douchey media types are saying guys, well Jeremy in particular, are getting injured by playing grab-ass all the damn time. I want answers!

BREES: You sure you wanna know, coach? I don't know if you're ready for this...

PAYTON: (slams fist on desk) Dammit, I demand to know why my guys are falling by the wayside here! We've got ONE week to get healthy and I can't be fretting over more injuries!


BREES: Okay, coach. Follow me...

(Brees leads Coach Payton downstairs, into the hallways outside the Saints locker room.)

BREES: (Points.) There.

PAYTON: What?

BREES: There. Straight ahead...



PAYTON: What? It's behind the drink machine?

BREES: No, coach. It IS THE DRINK MACHINE.

PAYTON: What? Dammit, Drew! You got me all worked up here!! I'm thinking Shockey screwed some mobster's wife or the wiring in Lynell Hamilton's head changed and he's set to "maim" or something. The fucking vending machine's the problem?

BREES: Coach, this is no ordinary vending machine...

PAYTON: Oh, come off it!

BREES: Coach, that vending machine has a mean streak a mile wide! It can leap about (stretches arms out) ... It can swallow five men's souls and cake them in corn syrup inside of ten minutes!

PAYTON: Fuck's sake, Drew, quit screwing around!

BREES: I'm not, coach! The guys are absolutely terrified of this thing! Look, they even hired a shaman to kill it...


KING WILLIE: "You can't see the eyes of the demon, until him come callin'."

PAYTON: What? Make sense, crazy black guy.

KING WILLIE: Dis ting be evil man. Dis is dread, Coach Payton. Truly DREAD!

PAYTON: Whatever...

(Coach Payton turns around and is surprised to see The Shockmeister standing by with torches and a chainsaw.)


SHOCKMEISTER: Oh, I hope this guy works out...Fucking vending machine broke my foot!

PAYTON: I knew it! You DID break your damn foot kicking this fucking thing!

SHOCKMEISTER: Damn right I kicked it, coach! Fucking thing tried to eat me! It spit out some rancid cola at me and it hit Fujita. Gave him staph infection.

PAYTON: That's bullshit, Jeremy.

BREES: No, it's true, coach. The thing fired a can at Jabari Greer's junk and gave him that groin pain. It lunged at him and gave Greer that sports hernia, too.

SHOCKMEISTER: Marvin Mitchell's hammy, Carl Nicks' back problems, Pierre Thomas' hip issues, Ellis' knee, McCray's back, Stinchcomb's knee...ALL OF IT connected to this fucking machine.

PAYTON: So unplug it, dickheads.

SHOCKMEISTER: Ain't you seen "Big," Coach Payton?!? These demonic things don't need to be plugged in!!!

PAYTON: Well then, who brought this ghastly fucking thing in here to begin with?!?

BREES: Remember this commercial, coach...?



PAYTON: Yeah. You're telling me that's the same machine?

BREES: No, it's his cousin. Reggie ran that other machine ragged and it dropped dead of a heart attack. This thing came here for revenge.

PAYTON: So have Reggie run this one ragged, too.

SHOCKMEISTER: We tried that, coach!! Remember last year when Reggie sucked ass?!?

PAYTON: ... Uh, okay...so what time frame again?

SHOCKMEISTER: Reggie couldn't tire this one out. This one is determined to destroy us! Reggie had to go into hiding in Kim Kardashian's massive cleavage.

BREES: Oh fuck!!

(Payton turns around to see KING WILLIE get his head cut off by the angry Pepsi machine.)

PAYTON: Holy fuck! Throw the torch, Jeremy! Throw the goddamn torch at it!

SHOCKMEISTER: Coach, fire doesn't do a goddamn thing to it! It only pisses it off more!

BREES: What are we gonna do? This thing has been bad luck ever since it came here! McCray said it got him drunk last week and wouldn't get him a designated driver. And now Brunell is saying the machine stole his talent.

PAYTON: Stole his talent?

SHOCKMEISTER: Yeah, like in "Space Jam." Jesus, don't you watch any fucking movies, coach?!?

PAYTON: Enough of this bullshit. Lemme make a phone call. I know a guy...

(CUT TO: One hour later...)

PAYTON: I'm glad you could come out and help us today.


THE DANE: Gid jer fik alarmeret mig i tidligere tider Coach. (I wish you had called me earlier, Coach.)

PAYTON: Sorry about that. I just learned of this problem today.

SHOCKMEISTER: He gonna fucking handle this?!? He's fucking 50!!

PAYTON: For the record he turned 49 last August...SO THERE!!

BREES: Whatever, Coach. But how's he going to kill this thing? He can't kick hard enough to dent the hull of this beast.

THE DANE: Lave ikke bekymre , Hævede mig bekendt. Jeg har den endelig våben. (Do not worry, Drew my friend. I have the ultimate weapon.)

(The Dane pulls a large hammer from his knapsack. He holds it in front of him and chants. Lightning flashes and everyone is temporarily blinded.)

SHOCKMEISTER: What. The. Fuck?

BREES: Damn. Is that...?


THE DANE: Holde sig tilbage samtidigt med at JEG drabsmand indeværende dyr. (Stand back whilst I slay this beast.)

THE DANE: JEG landsforvise thee af Midgard igen hen til den netherworld verily! (I banish thee from Midgard back to the netherworld, verily!)

(The Dane smashes his hammer against the Pepsi machine, which promptly explodes into a thousand pieces.)

SHOCKMEISTER: Dude, can I borrow that hammer? I wanna impress this chick at a bar...

NFL Power Rankings (Week 17)

I obviously don't have a formula for this, but it's some kind off half-assed "strength of schedule" meets "who would win on a neutral field?" discussion.



32. St. Louis Rams (1-15)
31. Detroit Lions (2-14): I kinda wish Detroit would have beaten the Rams this season. I mean, how fucking sad are the Detroit Lions that the Rams' only win of the year came against the team that went 0-16 last year? Fucking Detroit...
30. Washington Redskins (4-12): Mike Shanahan is fucked.
29. Kansas City Chiefs (4-12)
28. Tampa Bay Buccaneers (3-13)
27. Seattle Seahawks (5-11)
26. Oakland Raiders (5-11)
25. Buffalo Bills (6-10)
24. Jacksonville Jaguars (7-9)
23. Cleveland Browns (5-11): Holmgren will get these guys back in the playoffs within the next three years.
22. Chicago Bears (7-9)
21. New York Giants (8-8): Sorry, but you get outscored 85-16 in the last two games, you're falling this far. And for the record: the Giants went 3-7 AFTER getting their asses handed to them by the Saints.



20. Denver Broncos (8-8)
19. Miami Dolphins (7-9)
18. San Francisco 49ers (8-8)
17. Carolina Panthers (8-8)
16. Atlanta Falcons (9-7)
15. Tennessee Titans (8-8)
14. Houston Texans (9-7)
13. Pittsburgh Steelers (9-7)
12. New York Jets (9-7)
11. Baltimore Ravens (9-7)



10. New England Patriots (10-6): I would like to taste Bill Simmons' tears right now.
9. Cincinnati Bengals (10-6)
8. Philadelphia Eagles (11-5)
7. Arizona Cardinals (10-6)
6. Green Bay Packers (11-5)
5. New Orleans Saints (13-3): Yeah, they fall despite playing Mark "Metamucil" Brunell for the whole game. I don't like it, either. And I fucking hate having the Cowboys ahead of us.
4. Dallas Cowboys (11-5)
3. Minnesota Vikings (12-4): The Vikings righted the ship heading into the playoffs. FUCK.
2. Indianapolis Colts (14-2)
1. San Diego Chargers (12-4): They have more momentum heading into the postseason then any other team.

NFL Power Rankings (Week 16)

I obviously don't have a formula for this, but it's some kind off half-assed "strength of schedule" meets "who would win on a neutral field?" discussion.



32. St. Louis Rams (1-14)
31. Kansas City Chiefs (3-12)
30. Detroit Lions (2-13)
29. Washington Redskins (4-11)
28. Tampa Bay Buccaneers (3-12)
27. Seattle Seahawks (5-10)
26. Buffalo Bills (5-10)
25. Cleveland Browns (4-11)
24. Oakland Raiders (6-9)
23. Jacksonville Jaguars (7-8)
22. Chicago Bears (6-9)
21. San Francisco 49ers (7-8)



20. Miami Dolphins (7-8)
19. New York Giants (8-7)
18. Tennessee Titans (7-8)
17. Carolina Panthers (7-8)
16. Atlanta Falcons (8-7)
15. New York Jets (8-7)
14. Denver Broncos (8-7)
13. Houston Texans (8-7)
12. Pittsburgh Steelers (8-7): The referees would like to thank the Steelers management for the wonderful gift baskets.
11. Baltimore Ravens (8-7)



10. Cincinnati Bengals (10-5)
9. New England Patriots (10-5)
8. Dallas Cowboys (10-5)
7. Arizona Cardinals (10-5)
6. Green Bay Packers (10-5)
5. Minnesota Vikings (11-4)
4. New Orleans Saints (13-2)
3. Philadelphia Eagles (11-4)
2. Indianapolis Colts (14-1)
1. San Diego Chargers (12-3)