Rapping With The Drunkard: The Nawlins Drew Breeses

"We want Seattle! We want Seattle!"

You know not what you seek, New Orleans.

Shh...do you hear that?

That is the sound of inevitability walking up your stoop, clearing its throat, and politely kicking your door in. Next Tuesday, when the blood has crusted upon the crushed blades of the turf and ravens undulate through the sky like an aerial stream, globules of flesh hanging from their chipped beaks, you will see him on the field kneeling amidst his dismantled brethren. His body is covered in a layer of hoarfrost, yet steamed breath still hisses from his lungs like the scales of a snake over desicated leaves. He holds his cracked and broken hands to his face, and tries to dig the ice away from his empty sockets, just to allow himself the simple freedom of tears.

Drew Brees is a broken thing; a husk, a shell, a shuck. He grasped the hands of fate, and attempted to dance upon the daggers edge. Down in the south, in that fattened belly of excess and comfort, he called to the sky for vengeance. A smile on his face, he pleaded with the heavens, begging for the chance to face the Terrors of Seattle in the field of battle. Even the most skilled of Captains can be a fool. You should have stayed in The Big Easy, Drew...

Welcome to The Frozen Struggle, bitches.

This vision is still so vivid in my mind's eye. Percy Harvin flying across the field like lightning on ice, his graceful steps belying his inhuman mass. The Archangel, placing pinpoint passes with the deftness of a surgeon and the eye of an assassin. And finally, when the Saints' defensive forces were reeling back onto their haunches, The Beast snapped free of his chains.

The shrieks of the dying, rent apart by Marshawn's gashing movements, echoed long into the night,

And still that was not the blow that broke their back. The Saints' vaunted engine of offense creaked to a halt in the midst of besieging our Citadel. The cold, the snow, the darkness. Yes, those factors played a role in the demise of our foes, but it was Seattle's relentless and vicious defensive forces that truly led us to victory. The cracking of helmets and the snapping of sternums. The screams of prey and the roars of predators. A beautiful cacophony rose to the rafters of our refuge. The only fear seen on the field is that filling the pants of Jimmy Graham, and with delight our forces dove into their obviously bountiful harvest.

Take our warriors. Watch, brothers and sisters, as The Government attempts to lay us low through drugging and insidious accusations. A poisoner's work; the meekest of Man, only fit for scorn and derision.

Is this all you have? Bring us your best! Here we stand, ankle deep in the blood of our challengers, weapons held high. Manning! Brady! Hector! We are done with these paltry wastrels, show us your faces so we can immortalize your features into the dirt.

I'll show you exactly how this game is going to go!

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1. The best way to get to Brees, is to explode off your blocks.

I'm not even worried about him throwing it, what with Earl being a superhuman SCUD missile.

(The other is Earl, obviously)

Our terrifying Defense will come out of its shell early.

Our Secondary is a squadron of ballhawks. They see the ball, and pursue it with ferocity and instinct.

Sherman is a master at showing the QB exactly what he wants to see, and then surprising him with an attack.

Sean "Anus-Mouth" will feel small and lost, wringing his hands in disappointment.

The Beast takes the field, and after some shenanigans and some running around...Marshawn brings the boom.

And after that, The Seahawks will crack the 'glass ceiling", and scores will come pouring in.

The Saint's Defense won't be able to stop us. Their linebackers will try to run our wideouts down, but won't be able to take the shot.

And finally, after all that, the Saints will do what they are best at...

At the end of the game, Russell will march out to center field, and greet his idol. There, he will tell him something he has always wanted to...