Gigantic cerulean corpses aside, this past week has been a real pain in the tail feathers, y'all.
The Beast kicked his kill-meter up to five hunna, and annihilated Eli the Lesser's horde of paper-mache humonganoids. It was an absolute bloodbath, that should have left us dancing in the rain-kissed streets. But instead we sit here, huddled in these tents on the frigid plains of The Show Me State, nursing our drinks, and staring into the low-burning fire.
Our forces can't catch a break. Many of our heroes finally regenerate their health to an acceptable degree, only to watch some of the greatest of us be cut down. We had to strap numerous barges together in order to haul Mebane's giant carcass out into the ocean, where it was set aflame. Russell Wilson shot the first few fire arrows, but he kept missing high.
And now we wait. Biding our time until we besiege Paris of the Plains, and attempt to smash open it's bejeweled shell and feast upon the finely roasted flesh inside. It will not be easy; these painted warriors are led by an extremely rotund anthropomorphic walrus. What's more, they seem to display a flat structure of government. I have never seen this many people call themselves "Chief". Chief of what? Of whom? Nobody knows, but the results are displayed in their formidable offensive attacks.
How are we to defeat them? We limp towards their army; fully aware of our vulnerable state, the hoarfrost which creeps down our raspy throats, and the omnipresent cold. This battle seems far out of our reach, and yet, somehow, we must find a way to be victorious. But how?
*Turn on Boneshaker's "Never Scared"*
We keep marching.
We grind those before us into chalk. This won't even be hard. We are the greatest. We are the Alaska of football teams: cut us in half and we are the first AND second best teams in the Thirty-Two Kingdoms. We so hood, every damn play we run is a trap play.
The time for fancy machinations of conflict is behind us. Our mentality is genocide. Our play style is warhead. Our strategy will now be to send The Beast crashing into the gates, rending and tearing his way through their thatch-roofed defenses.
Sure, the red and gold painted plainsman of Kansas are greater than the sum of their parts. Well, the sum of our parts is Devastator: the mightiest of the Decepticons. We shall stride to victory by treading upon the flint arrow adorned skulls of the putrid sucks that dare to defy our holy right to rule.
I swear by the mighty forked tongue of Poseidon, we shall not lose today. The only thing Travis Kelce will be catching are these hands. Alex Smith is still haunted by the pervasive spirit of Rocky Bernard, and cannot know a moment's rest. Jamaal Charles is pretty good. We're still going to burying him ass up, so we have a place to park our bikes.
You may be Chiefs, but we're Champions. Come see 'bout us.