Well well well, if it ain't you punks again.
I'm your friendly neighborhood Drunkard, though I prefer the term "Wiseman" or "Soothsayer". Danny Kelly asked me to come by and rap at you cool cats about this game we got coming up tonight, and that is just what I will do. Danny is like 50-years-old, and I'm a man who believes in opening my listen-holes to the AARP.
Now, you may look at me and assume that I have a fondness for Green Bay, Wisconsin.
That would make you a dumbass.
Sure, I'm drunk. And yes, if you must know, I enjoy a heap o' cured meats piled atop a sausage plate, covered to the goiter in layers of salty cheese curds. My fingers look like sweaty snowmen, and my face is so porcine you might think I can talk to spiders.
That is a load of shit (pardon my German).
Green Bay fans are a lackluster bunch of sucks that waddle their way into that Spam can of a stadium, and pass enough flatus to puncture the ozone layer. These Midwest Mouthbreathers bump-and-grind their mayonnaise slathered asses together for a few hours, and think that makes them better fans than us.
I got news for you, Yoder, and you can take it all the way to Lake Wobegon: The Seahawks have landed in your asspimple of a city, and we aren't leaving until we have razed Lambeau to the very warm, and not-at-all-frozen ground.*
Green Bay managed to make it to the Playoffs last season, and were subsequently bottomed by The Hated Ones. The same people we annihilated for the World to see. They let Xerxes of Persia embarrass them for nine hours, and tapped out halfway through the first quarter.
Make no mistake, friends; this is not a preseason game. Green Bay has something to prove. They want to punish us for daring to impinge upon their greatness. They desire retribution for our impudent ways. How could we not kneel, and kiss the rings that grace their edematous knuckles?
Listen, Packers: the only shits we give are the hot, steaming ones we drop upon the stairs of your hallowed and ancient Field.
We plan on kicking in your front door, and storming your fortress. Spencer Ware is an Iron Golem with shoulder-mounted gravity hammers, and he has been aimed directly at your front gates. Golden Tate is a cackling Automaton, leaping through your secondary with maniacal laughter, and scoring glamorous touchdowns in front of your tear-streaked faces. Kam Chancellor is The Deathbacker, and steam rises from the empty space behind his horned helmet, as he gazes upon your manicured Captain.
Aaron Rodgers once complained to his fan club that Darryl Tapp bit him on a sack. That is obviously a lie concocted out of fear and cowardice. What is true, is that when Bruce Irvin's lupine form collides with Rodgers' frail frame, his many-toothed maw will be desperately seeking the thready pulse of Aaron's jugular veins.
Take heart, Green Bay! We shan't even unleash The Beast upon you. He would never deign to take the field of battle, and pit his greatness against such embarrassing prey as yourselves. No, instead you shall be gifted with our newest creation. Centuries ago, The Beast became aroused and pursued congress with a female Rock Biter. Springing forth from her mountainous v...cave, came Christine Michael. The time for hesitation is through, and tonight, his full rage shall be bestowed upon the Cheese-People of Wisconsin.
And lest we forget, our hero leads us. You let him go. You did not want him. Your prince was driven from your lager-soaked land, and chased into exile. Where he found us. And now your once golden champion returns a vengeful conqueror...
And it shall be known that THIS is where it began. THIS is where our march gained momentum. For after we leave your empire in ashes, we march on the other thirty kingdoms, and we bring with us subjugation. And once we have laid waste to all who stood before us, we shall hold aloft the Lombardi Trophy...
And then change its name to The Carroll Trophy.
Go Hawks, Go!
*Is there anything more annoying than "Frozen Tundra"? Take it from a man who has lived in the real frozen tundra; there isn't.