Frak. Bo. Jackson.
You all know what I'm talking about. It's Lara Croft week, and Bo Jackson can go to Hell. With him, he can bring Howie Long, Mike Haynes, Jack Tatum (this one's for Easely), The Dark Lord, and Rich Gannon. They can all go right into a black hole. Not THE Black Hole; not the one full of Carnies. Not the one that oh-so-conveniently gives trial lawyers, and crosswalk guards an excuse to wear leather and studs. Not the one that sucks in joy and sensibility, rather than mass (and maybe time). I mean a straight up, real-life, bonafide, stretch-your-ass-ad-infinitum singularity.
I. Hate. The. Raiders.
Who doesn't hate the Raiders? It's almost cliche to hate the Raiders. But I hate them for a different reason than many. I hate the Raiders, because as much as they tout their "rebel" image, and pretend to love being the "NFL's bad boys", they bitch and moan every time the NFL/media/fans treat them as such. You can't have it both ways Al. Either your rolling around the streets of Canton on your '57 hardtail, asking "What do ya got?", or you're falling in and doing community service for United Way.
Al. Davis. Is. A. Goblin. From. The. Mines. Of. Moria.
We all know this to be factually undeniable. Sauron sent Al Davis to Oakland, and gave him 50 years to raise an army, and find the One-Ring. Al decided the best way to do that would be by owning a professional football team, attempting to win the Super Bowl every year, thereby amassing as much rings as possible. Hopefully one of them is THE ring.
Well I hate to break it to you Davis, but you're coming to Seattle. The One Ring does reside here, but it is pierced through Paul Allen's scrotum, and there is only one way you're getting a look at that. Between you and your goal stands a regiment of Seahawks; creatures forged from fire, and iron, and Hendrix, and coffee, and the salty tang of the raging seas. Behind these warriors rests Stormbreaker Stadium (or...The Clink), an impregnable bastion, filled to the brim with your true opponents.
We all know the ropes, it's week 4. This is our last week to perfect our Hawku before we go to real battle, where lives are at stake and insults count.
Put the title of your Hawku in the subject line, write a 5-7-5 poem, melt some God damn "Raider Nation" (lame) faces off, Rec the uber-melters to green, cackle, and cackle again.
Yay, Sunday is here!
Time to put on my Gimp clothes.
Here Pete, hold my chain.
Cable, Gallery, Miller
It's Raider Nation!
Or as you are also known,
Seattle's farm team.