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Rapping with The Drunkard: The Sandiago Whale Vaginae

The most interesting guy at the bar is here to tell you about The Super Chargers, Phil Rivers, and why we all really wish Mike Riley had cut Jim Harbaugh when he had the chance.

You're my angel, you're my darling, baebeh!
You're my angel, you're my darling, baebeh!
Steve Dykes

And with all the gravitas of a butterfly poop, the first round of battles has come to a close.

We swaggered into this season full of élan and derring-do, boisterously claiming our place atop the highest echelon with a puffed-out chest and a hearty "We in this bitch"! The Golems of Green Bay were grated into subservience with the practiced skill of a Portland-based charcuterie guild, and we were shown nothing from these other busted kingdoms to give us pause, or cause trepidation.

But...let it never be said that The Drunkard lacks humility or patience.

This is a lengthy campaign, and the intelligent warrior keeps an eye on the long game; always assessing the "big picture". Green Bay was just the first step of our warpath, and now that they lay behind us we can turn our gaze to The San Diego Whale Vaginae. Those pompous, powder blue pariahs of SoCal, led by Philip River's Face and also the rest of his overly fecund body.

Now, I don't know how much you guys know about the "Chargers", but they are lame as Hell. Phil Rivers has a dumb looking face and is the sworn leader of a cult, Eric Weddle is a Class II shart puddle whose beard looks like Jack Nicholson's pubes, and Ryan Mathews was tackled for a three yard loss and broke his clavicle as you read this. Ryan Mathews is so bad that he is jealous of Robert Turbin's production.

Have any of you men or women ever been to San Diego? It is the Wal-Mart of California. It is one giant strip-mall nestled safely next to the ocean. It's like Scottsdale, but without any of the personality. San Diego might as well be the birthplace of The Harbaughnic Plague. Jimmy played for The Chargers, and then coached at some joke show of a school. Honestly, his rictus, mad-eyed shtick was incubated in the homeostatic climes of that concrete wasteland.

The only good thing to ever exist in San Diego was Mike Riley. Because Mike Riley is bad ass.

So, what do we do? Shall we let these foolish, blue destriers surge into our keep, and force us to pay fe...Oh, by Great Odin's Ravens, I can't even finish the sentence. I'm sorry, friends, but I am having a hard time working up any fear of these gasconading nincompoops. Of what should we be afraid? Turn down for whom? Do you question the impenetrable walls of our defense, and imagine that The Chargers' potent attacks can crack our bulwarks? Do you worry that the mobile protectors of San Diego (led by Demi Moore at MLB) will be too stout for our multifaceted assaults to overcome? Ha! Stop tripping, kid, 'cause we the bullies like we won't stop tripping kids.

We are terrors. Unyielding warriors the likes of which these kingdoms have never set their looking balls upon.

On Sunday afternoon, Philip of the Seven Rivers will lead his band of azure equestrians towards Seahawk Citadel, and onto the field of battle. There, he will finally behold the almighty host arrayed before him. Clad in blues so dark they seem to absorb the light of day, we await them. Areas around our gear glow with an unholy green light, revealing the infernal demon engines that churn within our chests. Philip's eyes dart to-and-fro, his mind incapable of processing the horrors before him, as frozen images flood his mind. Beast Mode's bared smile, revealing the dull, metallic sheen of his fangs. Kam Chancellor's visage, inscrutable behind his blackened helm. Earl Thomas's twitching fingers, moving with the subtlety of a particle collider. Max Unger's mustache, a hunk of pasta caught in it. Russell Wilson's dead eyes: observing, processing, calculating.

Philip Rivers struggles to swallow, and raises his hand. He roars 'Charge!" and drops his hand. At least, that's what he means to do. Instead a mewl, much like that of an ejaculating kitten, struggles forth from his gaping throat. All sound is drowned as a sonic boom explodes overhead. A streak of light shoots towards the massed Diegans.

Percival has arrived.


To the tape!


That last game was...pretty good.


So good, that bitches now surround that cool cat, Russell Wilson.


It's a bummer Golden Tate didn't get to experience it this time, but that pass catcher...well, he has his own issues.


We'll be playing for victory, and the chance to feast upon San Diegan


Rivers, on the other hand, will be thankful for whatever he gets.


As we speak, The Chargers are working on their intimidation tactics.


Well sorry Rivers, because we are about to spoil your day.


Rivers just won't be able to save anything.


I guess what I'm saying is that The Chargers are shit, and we need to clean them up.


We are going to have to send them home depressed.


Because, sorry Chargers, but not just any chump can handle a Superb Owl. They'll eat you alive.