Rapping With The Drunkard: The Tennessee Zombie-Oilers

Perfection is a fickle bitch.

You get that scent in your nostrils, the acrid musk of her, and soon find yourself pantless and sweating, racing through the Indianapolis streets with a white-knuckle gripped sledgehammer and a brain full of bad intentions.

We lost.

You happy, you bougie-ass cake-eaters? We finally succumbed to the wild horsemen of the plains, and their horde of plumpers. Our stamina was taxed, and we failed. With nothing more ferocious than a whimper, our Vanguard crumpled. We were close, victory was within our blood-soaked grip. But our dead-eyed hero could only do so much by himself, and in the end it was not enough. The only response to such a close defeat is to slink back to Seattle and lick our wounds. We are injured; hurt and damaged. Our confidence is crushed, and now we must look to our defenses, lest we fall to these Nashville colossi. We are beaten, are we not?

Stow that shit, buttface. The only response we need have is righteous fury. The Colts? THE COLTS?! They were a worthy foe, and I pray every night to the shrine I built in the back of my Econoline that they continue to win, and win big. I want them to bury every opponent they face, until at last they make it to the Final Battle. And there, at the pinnacle of their glory, as praise is showered upon their golden Captain, I want the Seahawks to lay them low. I want the Seahawks to open Luck's chest, and allow him to see how golden is heart truly is not, before he fades into oblivion.

This is Trouble Season mother fuckers, and you just woke up a thunderclap. The only thing stopping your cries for mercy will be the heels of our boots. Blitz krieg 'til the death of me.

But first thing is first: we must destroy these Titans of Nashville so bad they rename the town Gnashville, due to the excessive amounts of grief coursing out of their scratched and bleeding throats.

We see your titans Tennessee, and we raise you a Behemoth. Red Bryant cares nothing for your music, your history, or musculoskeletal structure. Every one of them will be ground to dust, and used to salt your own fields. It is your mistake that you choose to attack our verdant city on the week following a loss in the field. Your assault can only end one way: total and utter annihilation of your forces, followed by total and utterly sweet coitus with your skull holes.

Ask your replacement Captain, Fitzpatrick, how we choose to roll. Ask Chris Johnson how he feels about advancing through the field at approximately 0.8 yards per attempt. Ask your defensive backs (names?) how they feel about artillery being rained down upon them.

While I am on the subject, you dirty south balls o' suck, why is your mascot a raccoon? You were named after primeval deities of heaven and earth who bore the very gods from their engorged loins, and ruled over all of creation...yet you decide to make your mascot a thieving rodent?

Your symbol is a thumbtack.

We are done with losses. The purse strings have been loosed, the chains have been broken, and that great, black Seattle wagon rolls on.

Don't get caught under our tread.

Now, to break down the films with these .JIFF things, as Monsieur Fancypants Daniel Brawley Kelly is wont to do...

This week we go up against the might Titans. I think you guys know all about their checkered past...

But after last week's blooball-esque finish, it will be awesome to get our silk worm on!

These fools from Tennessee can't touch us. They ain't on our level. We are not even the same species. They speak Southern English, we speak Swaghili.

Whoa whoa whoa! Did I just hear you say the Titans were going to win?

Us losing to the Titans would be like Danny Kelly not Retweeting his favorite Twitter account every single day.

The Seahawks are more than prepared to annihilate all who come against us. Have you seen our game-faces?!

I mean, I realize the Titans are coming up to Seattle Citadel all like...

But we have something they do NOT have!

No, man! Not that! Well, yes that. But also...we have a squad that ain't nothing but freaks: The Legion of Boom.

This ain't no romantic comedy in Seattle. Tim Hanks and Zac Nephron don't live here!

Let me juxtapose the Seahawks and the Titans. We are assembled and ready for war...

The Titans are a load of...

The Seahawks are a wrecking ball...

The Titans are a ball of shit.

In Conclusion! If the Seahawks lose...we ALL lose.