Rapping with The Drunkard: The World, Chico

The most interesting drunk guy at the bar... speaks.

By Craig Johnstone Mar 17, 2014, 2:17pm PDT

I have no time to power down, human male.

And so it ends.

Standing atop a mound of desecrated orange corpses, Crown of the Thirty-Two firmly in his grip, Russell Wilson looks out over the shattered plain. Victory was ours that day. Many doubted, their whispers pregnant with jealousy and malice, yet we prevailed.

The Seahawks straddled the Broncos and railed upon their skulls with fists full of scorched earth. It was not enough for us to simply win; we had to decimate Denver's dreams and hopes to such an extent that no team would ever dare to contest our rule again.

No half-measures.

Winning was never in question; victory in this battle was assured the moment we stepped onto the field. Instead our goal was to bring the tools of our trade to bear against the indomitable granite of History, and chisel ourselves an Eternal Throne from which we may sit and judge, from now until the last star bleeds out its failing light.

Look upon your lords, NFL, and prostrate yourself. Beg for leniency, and we may deign to allow you breath.

This is it, brothers and sisters. Through fire and blood we carved ourselves a kingdom. The Seattle flag flies high across our country, and all acknowledge our supremacy. But...I see it in your eyes; you feel it as well. Is this it? Did we trudge through Hell, leaning against the brimstone-kissed winds of The Abyss, just to reach this point? Is this really all there is?

My answer to that echoes the cries of the hated Broncos: neigh (naaaaay).

We have secured a kingdom, now it is time to build an empire.

Thirty-One upstart little shits are jockeying for position, thinking they can wrest some modicum of control from us. Any one of them could be a rival, looking to usurp our power. The fattened Cheese Golems of the North prepare for war, their rotund bodies heaving with lactic anticipation. The verdant swarms of the Eagles of the East are scrambling their formations, preparing to all-out-assault the resurgent Washington Red Tails. And let us never forget that our greatest foe yet remains. We may have wounded them, beaten them back to their cesspool of a city, but our hated brothers from The Bay still yearn for vengeance. Peace? I hate the word, as I hate Hell, all Forty-Niners.

The work of the subjugator is never over.

Are you scared, fellow Drunkies? Are you worried that we may not be up to the task? If that's the case, pour your drink into your neighbor's cup, and leave this table. Our arsenal is fully strapped and ready to unleash a deluge of pain into those thirty-one shart dragons foolish enough to believe they can check the throne.

We have Marshawn Lynch: the type of Beast who sleeps with his limbs dangling off the edge of the bed, just to let the monsters know he is willing.

We have Kam Chancellor: a ten-ton anvil of retribution given both human form and the intrinsic ability to fuck opponents inside out.

We have Earl Thomas: the pinnacle of Pete Carroll's Safety Breeding Program (SBP) is winged-death, combining the aeronautics of an osprey with the murderous intent of Carcharodon carcharias.

We have Russell Wilson: our dead-eyed cherub sits in a darkened room, the ethereal light of reel upon reel of film caresses his still face, delineating the shape of his features, revealing the intense hunger that lurks below his placid visage. Contentment is a crutch.

What? Oh, you are worried that will not be enough? It is true, we have lost people in this season of peace. We have sent some of our old campaigners (The Behemoth and The Rage Demon) on to Jacksonville to form an outpost. More than a few of our young and skilled warriors have chosen to strike out on their own (The Automaton and The Pterodactyl). This is what happens when you succeed; the beggars come mewling for scraps. What is your issue?

You fear we will not have enough savages to keep the bad men at the door?

Fools. We are a gleaming beacon of light cupped within an emerald navel, nestled against a vast marine expanse. Our legacy is glory, vengeance, and victory. Our citadel is well-stocked with the finest meats and cheeses and women and men and whatever else you want to *makes poking motion*. Young, hungry soldiers are begging to enter our ranks. And if they do not beg...we'll conscript them!

That is what you should be thinking about: what new killer will John "The Blue King" Schneider add to our pack of wolves? Who will be the next Seahawk to pull himself out of the masses around him, and claim a title? The Rock-Eater? The Winnebago? The Dreadnought? The Dino Rider? It could be any of them.

So, calm yourselves! Drink your drank! This is an exciting time in our history. We are the reigning BSD's, and it is now time to grind the rest of these peasants under our heels; never letting them forget it is us who allows them to exist.

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Typically one breaks down film after a game, but since it's The Boring Season I figured we should look at both past tape which will serve to assist us in deciphering the faults we may have revealed (none), and future tape because this is an article and I don't have to explain myself to you just continue reading please I love you.

Film!

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The Offseason sucks.