Gonzo

Rapping with the Drunkard: The 49ers, Part I

The most fascinating drunk guy at this bar is here to tell you all about The Forty-Niners (There are actually 53 of them). Probably also his medication. And the Government.

By Craig Johnstone Sep 12, 2013, 8:00pm PDT

Huh, Wha? Oh, you guys...

It is that time again. The time of year when we leap to war, testing our giant body muscles against the slimy, biofilm covered limbs of the GOVERNMENT'S handmaiden. The time of year when the only thing hotter than the furious orb beating upon us with its fiery lashes is the bubbling blood that pumps through our vasodilated infrastructure, and spurts forth from the gashed open husks of our archenemies.

The Forty-Niners; those crimson-swathed ass-knuckles.

Make no mistake, my brothers and sisters, the Niners are an empire teeming with talent, and reaching its talon-tipped hand up from The Bay, attempting to squeeze the life from us, and wrest away our freedom. We are the final bastion of sanity. We are the last defense of humanity. We are all that stands between Jim Harbaugh's schizoaffective leer, and the tear-streaked masses clutching at our backs. Will you allow those old-timey prospectors the chance to continue their inexorable march towards utter domination? Will you abandon the innocent who rely upon us?

Then join with me. Stand up in the CLink, and watch as the Niners gather for their huddle. Raise your voice in anger and rage against their cruelty. As one we shall turn the sound waves that echo forth from our vibrating vocal chords into the sonic emodiment of a Pacific Blue fist. It shall reach down onto the field and force its way into the gaping mouth of Colon Kaepernick.

We will break him from the inside. We will not stop until he chokes on his own red and gold blood.

I cannot stress this enough to you, my brethren. Destroy them with our voices. Get loud DURING the huddle.

But wait, I detect that a few of you may be mistaken. Do I hear whispers amongst you, pleased at the purity and goodness of our hearts? Fools.We shelter the weak, but only because they are useful bait for luring our adversary to us.

Richard Sherman, The Banshee, has no goodness within him. He is an iron murdervulture, awaiting the opportunity to peck away points. Kam is The Deathbacker, he chases down our foes, and tresses them up like the prizes they are. The only sound pleasing to him is the song of their rib cages cracking, like a snake's scales sliding through dead leaves.

The Beast. The Warlord. The Will Breaker. The Vanguard. The Automaton. They are hellbent on the destruction of our foes, and on the conquest of thirty other teams. They are bankrupt of both scruples and fucks with which to give. We are not The White Knight. We are not the hero of this story. We are the villains. We are the ones who knock.

Our one shining light is Russell, The Archangel. He is all that is good in this world. He is the embodiment of our righteous intent. Yet not even he is here to save the weak, or the helpless.

He is our scourge. He is the punisher of the wicked, and he has set his flat affect on the treacherous Forty-Niners, and their decorated god-king. Our scarlet rivals began their journey with conquest on their minds, but their future only contains judgement, and retribution.

Good night, sweet prince.

Danny has commanded that I break down some game film, because it is in my contract that I never signed but did throw up on. So, let's take a look at the matchups...

1. Fine, we didn't look awesome last week. But that's all going to change!