Rapping with The Drunkard: The Media

The long, dark trek towards The Siege of New York begins now.

Grab a drink lads and ladies. How long have we been at this publican house? It doesn't matter, soon it will all be resolved. Grab a drink and grab a seat. Pop a squat and let me rap at you. Who let this guy order a cranberry? Listen...

Sherman's March to the Sea began with a bang, and will end with a Manning whimper.

Our campaign is nearing its end, and at its culmination will we find its zenith. The Crown of the Thirty-Two is within our grasp, and only one enemy remains. Only one enemy stands between us, and being chiseled into the eternal tablet of History. The Horsemen of the Western Mountains await, and it is through their herds we must cleave, if victory we wish to claim. Our goal is perspicuous.

But this journey is not without perils of its own. The simple logistics of moving a force such as ours across kingdoms is pockmarked by potential pitfalls. Through mountains, and plains, and storms, and darkness, and shadows...we come. Horned helms bowed against the icy wind of the Northeast. Breath hissing from clenched teeth, filling the winter air with gaseous hoarfrost. We come.

But wait...what is this? We are attacked!

Hordes of gore-beaked vultures will descend upon us. Carrion crows whose only craving is to peck the life from our still twitching corpses. Choke vines burst from the cracked and blistered bedrock, their finger-length thorns piercing our armored hides as tenacious tendrils twist around our struggling necks. To the south, the baying of horses can be heard, indicating our foes face the same trials

We have stumbled into the lair of The Media. A gauntlet unrivaled in its insidiousness.

The poison from the briers invades the blood stream of our Seahawks, its toxins forcing their jaws open, dragging out of them words and phrases best left unsaid.

We are finished. How can we make it through?

A piercing shriek. A low rumble. A blinding light.

Erupting forth from his lungs in a palpable shockwave, Sherman's voice rips through the night. Blasting birds into tufts of feathers, and vines into grains of dust, The Banshee rips himself free from the traps. Through sheer will, he begins pulling his less adroit teammates out with him. Together, they struggle through to the other side.

Most thorns snap off against his neck, and the ones that do break through find their venom has nowhere to go. The Beast's heart stopped long ago, and the only thing remaining in his veins is glacier water. With a silent heave, Marshawn rips the vines from him. He reaches up, grabs a diving vulture, and snaps its neck. Not out of anger, but out of purpose. He is not meant to lay here; the battlefield awaits. Lumbering away, he finds The Vanguard buried underneath a cloud of crows. Without sound, he sets his hands to murder.

Lights flares from every pore, righteousness pouring off of him in waves. The Archangel stands, vines leaping away from him. Where his aura touches, the cellulose-encrusted tentacles transform into flowering olive branches, and flocks of murderous carrion birds morph into calm clouds of turtle doves. Turning his steely gaze towards the horizon, Russell begins to march, leaving a scar of life in his wake. His opponent awaits his justice. The Scourging cannot be halted by The Media.

What were we afraid of? That The Media would drown one of ours into obsequiousness? Nay, friends and fellows, our force is too well commanded. They are too well trained to be caught slippin'. A Seahawk doesn't concern itself with the opinions of doves.

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Enough of all this fear-mongering. Let's break down the game film!

Last week's game was quite the "Thriller".

The backlash afterwards required the most elegant of responses.

And the cat who threw popcorn at Bowman deserves something special.

But at least we have Media Day coming up. The perfect opportunity for jumping to conclusions!

Which will be a far cry from the lofty conversations we have been having with readers of Mile High Report.

Sometimes, it's all you can do to just stoically stand; a rock amidst an ocean of emotion.

Or, we just let Sherman blow this thing wide open.

I mean, The Media barely registers as human on our scale. Like tiny automatons that mimic our movements.

So why not just send Russell up there, so he can burst their controversy-bubble?

Which would be much better than if we sent Danny Kelly up there...

I guess we'll just have to let The Media do what they want, and handle what we read some type of way.