Rapping with the Drunkard: The NativeAmericanapolis Colts

Kneel at the feet of greatness, savage. - Matthew Emmons-USA TODAY Sports

The most fascinating drunk guy at this bar is here to tell you all about The Colts, and their Neanderthal.

Our shredding path of wanton destruction continues unabated. Torrential pain flows through the AFC South in a deluge of melted guts, shattered dreams, and pissed pants. We blistered the poor felines of the Jaxon Jungle. We bled dry the hopeless Minotaurs of Houston. J.J. Watt still awakes at night, bedding twisted and damp, images of a tea-bagging Russell Wilson careening through his mind.

Russell Wilson...our dead-eyed angel.

In his mouth dwells the flames of righteousness. In his fist rests the scourge of shadows. Between his athletic thighs hangs the Satchel of Heaven. A five-tooled warrior, Wilson's name is becoming synonymous with the steady tread of Seattle's unconquerable swarm. His glowing gaze has turned to the Azure Mares of the Plains, and walking with him is our secret weapon. A force so terrible that he has yet to be revealed in this campaign. Our hidden caballero shall attempt to mount and break our beryl foes inside their silent catacomb of a castle.

The Bruce is loose, and the ferocity of his velocity shall prove too much for these slack-jawed Hoosiers and their heavy-hoofed protectors.

Now, I don't know 'bout you boys, but i'm frothing at the zipper for the unmitigated destruction that our boys in blue will rain down upon this hopeless bunch o' sucks. When it rains, it pours, and I expect Andrew Luck's busted-ass mangle-mouth to be snaggletooth deep in hawk shit by halftime.

If you didn't want to lose by 30, you should not have made Hodor your Quarterback.

If one could listen in on the Colts' huddle, all they would hear is "Andwew! AndwewandwewANDWEW!" like some form of Pete-forsaken Pokemon. Besides the idiot-savant of a Quarterback, we are also facing their star defensive player! You know the guy, his name is...uh...y'know, like...John? John Coltman? Alright, so I don't know a defender on their team. Do you? Praying Mathis? Wait, Greg Toler is on their team? GREG TOLER? I am not wetting my panties, and neither should you! A "Colt" is a baby male horse. They expect us to fight baby dude horses?

This is going to be like that one time I got lost deep in the bowels of a magnum of Evan Williams, rolled over there to that local elementary school, and showed those kids playing tetherball how to dunk.

The Seahawks shall sweep through the plains of Indiana City, rend through the defenses of Lucas Oil and Nothing Else Cool Keep, and return to us...here in our marine-caressed citadel. Here, in our own environs, we await the failure-laden footsteps of the lumbering Titans.

1. This is going to be an exciting time for Colts fans. They'll get to see what a real defense looks like!

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2. Although, as their team walks onto the field of battle, I expect them to realize the enormity of the mistake they have made...

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3. Granted, it's hard to look at our champions of slaughter, and not be a little bit in awe.

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4. I mean, this is the team that is going to find Seattle's first Superb Owl!

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5. And people might be all "Hey! Andrew Luck is going to light your team up!" To that I say: What has Andrew Luck won? Not a National Championship. Not a Superb Owl. His beard isn't the best...

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6. Shit, he's not even the ugliest QB we'll face all year!

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7. I mean, I don't know about you boys, but This Drunkard expects our Leos to carve their way through Indy's shitty NoLine...

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8. And Mebane to dance on Luck's shattered body.

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9. I mean, what? Is Luck going to beat the Legion?

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10. We have Richard Sherman, the most fabulous Superhero known to man!

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11. Also, Marshawn Lynch. And...

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12. So in conclusion: we're going to steamroll those over-hyped dinglebricks, and bury them in their noiseless, catacomb-like, churchmouse-havin', boring-ass stadium. Our defense is impregnable, our offense is ferocious, we're going to eat your heart, we're going to eat your children, praise be to Allah.

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