The Drunkard's Player Profiles: Russell Wilson

USA TODAY Sports

An analysis of the Seahawks' players, as told by the most fascinating drunk guy in the bar.

You have come with a friend this time.

No one has believed you. You have told every person you know about the odd character at the bar. People just stare, nod, and walk away. But not this time! You both walk into the bar, and there, sitting in the exact same seat, is the mysterious drunk guy.

The air around him is permeated with the smells of ale and sausage. His fingers trace odd, elegant symbols in the spilled beer on the counter. As you and your friend approach, a soft sound reaches your ears. The man is humming to himself.

You stand beside him, waiting to be noticed. Your friend fidgets nervously, licking his dry lips. Suddenly, unable to bear the anticipation any longer, your friend whispers quietly...

"Tell me about Russell Wilson."

What? Who? Russell Wilson? I don't know who tha...oooh, you mean Captain Scorched Earth? The Human Minigun? You mean that five foot tall murder machine, with a dadgum howitzer for a right arm? Listen, I've never actually heard his name. Every time that god-king steps on the field, the only sound pounding in my ears is "Ride the Lightning" by Metallica.

I hear you kids say things like "Boy howdy! Russell Wilson is the man!"

Can it, shit-for-brains. Russell Wilson is not a man.

Hustle Wilson is a celestial construct, bestowed upon us by a divine entity. Over a decade ago, Mr. Paul Allen was sailing over Mariana Trench, when he saw a bright light plummet from the open sky. He spent the next year, and countless American lives, dredging the item up from the depths. Finally, his men pulled the net out of the roiling waters, and spilled it across the deck. There, nestled amidst a wriggling mass o' crazy-ass alien fish, was a white metal orb. It emanated a pale glow, as sky rocks are wont to do, and angelic symbols pulsated to a living rhythm along its surface. Mr. Allen lovingly lifted the orb from the deck, and carried it into his cabin.

There, he began to work.

I don't know exactly how he did it, but I do know that the Ethereal Orb was lashed into a molten cage of black metal. The grinding of iron, the pounding of steel, and a heavenly chant were the sounds Russell was born into. The only person allowed to see his creation was Peter Carroll, pulling behind him a cart filled with texts. For many moons the two worked, willing this alliance of otherworldly grace and man-made brutality. Finally, fully prepared and ready to separate himself from his earthly bonds, The Archang3l Russell strode forth.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "This story makes total sense! Russell Wilson is a really nice guy, so of course he came from an angel rock." Well, let me tell you what...you've got it all wrong.

Behind that gorgeous, cherubic face. Behind those kind, doe eyes. Behind that affable grin lies Russell Wilson's true reality. A coldly calculating psyche, weighing and judging all that he sees. Many look at his angelic demeanor, and just know in their heart of hearts that he is here to save us from our imperfection. Well, listen you fools: Russell Wilson wasn't sent to save the earth.

Russell Wilson was sent to scourge humanity.

Our Archang3l is not a kindly entity. He is an executioner. He rides into Seattle on a pale horse, compelled to face our enemies, and judge them against his own lofty standards.

Sam Bradford? You have been found wanting.

Carson Palmer? Thou art a broken husk, fit only for the refuse.

Colin Kaepernick? Kneel before your betters, dog. Bow your head!

Century Link Field is Russell Wilson's gallows. He strings his enemies up, examines their essence, and then picks them apart: bone and sinew. When our opponents have become too terrified to visit our Ghost Machine in his own temple, Russell crusades to their houses of worship. There, he lays waste to the paltry land of The Giants. He burns down the jungle of The Panthers. He sows salt into the...airport of the Jets.

After scoring a touchdown, and laying bare the flesh of our foes, Russell Wilson points to the sky; he acknowledges his place of birth. Then, he urinates on the opposing team so that they may have a taste of what excellence feels like. The Government never shows that part, though. Seriously, he R. Kellys every single one of them.

What will become of Russell, after all the pee-soaked masses have been cast down? What will become of The Archang3l, once every opposing field has been torn asunder? Some say that he shall ascend, and take his place among the stars. And from there, he shall shower us with his own perfection, always.

I don't think that's true. My belief? Russell Wilson will never stop--he will never shut down. He is the perfect humunculi, and he will continue his march until all has been adorned in green and blue. Repent, you knaves, for The Archang3l cometh! Go 'Hawks...

The man stares into your eyes, holding your gaze fast. You look back at him, not knowing what to say. He stares at you. You stare at him. Your friend orders a beer.

The drunkard turns back to the bar, muttering to himself as he looks at the drying patterns. He lets out an exasperated sigh, takes a large swig of his pint glass, and rests his head on his arms.

You both walk away, not knowing exactly what to do with yourselves. The silence stretches on, until your friend breaks it.

"So...Russell Wilson is pretty fucking rad."

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