Get On With The Season Already

Dearest Baggue:

First things first. Un-break the template on the blog. You broke it, now go fix it. The sidebar is way the shit down there, (he said, pointing toward the flaming molten core of the Earth) so how'n'the'shit're people supposed to catch up on our witticisms past? Mine for them?

Now. The issue with Drew Bed Sores. I did not see the game. But I remember the words of one Matthew "Il Duce di Baggi" Lange who compared him with a carton of milk; viz, he'll go bad eventually. And yes, if you hadn't had a real game for the past six months and had been doing nothing but throwing rockets through a tire swing, you'd be a hotshot too. However, recall how the Hawks' D made juice of him last year (see photo above - observe how his life essence sprays from his cranium as the Hawks' Charles "Chuck D" Darby squeezes him like an unhappy citrus fruit), and then he got all scared and started throwing crazy. Just wait 'til some davenport-sized defensive end sets him on his can. Then we'll see how good he is.

Tony Romo (A Great Place for Ribs!) - that guy... Well he scares me because I really don't know what he's capable of. He looks pretty damn good about now. And the way the Hawks were on defense on Sunday (i.e. not so good against the passing game), that can be cause for concern.

I would spend some time talking about the Hawks' preseason game against the Colts about now, but I'd just rather that the season got underway already. I'll be gone for the next two weeks, but returning just in time for the beginning of the official season. And I'll be breaking speed limits between here and Wallace, Idaho to make sure I am firmly ensconced in my 70% stain-covered puke blue Ikea hide-a-bed drinking in every bit of the action.

Excelsior!

-Deus

Hi, My Name's Koren, And I'm An Alcoholic

Koren Robinson as he appeared in his previous incarnation
as an absinthe maniac in eighteenth century New Orleans.

Dear Bag:

Allow me to touch upon the points you mentioned in your recent post.

Maurice Clarett: Now that's just plumb stupid and a waste of goods. If he wants to go around wearing body armor and carrying shooting irons, let him go to some place where they'll get some good use. Like Afrighanistan, Iranque, The Hoosegow, or even White Center.

Koren Robinson: Not suprised in the least. Holmgren gave him a mile of rope and he has continued to hang himself with it, even long after leaving the Seahawks. Say it loud, say it plowed: He am a akka-hollik. Death, recovery or institutions. End of story. (The NFL does not count as an institution. -Ed.) Perhaps he should leave the glaring spotlight of sports and embrace his real vocation by writing for this magazine right here. I never understood the connection between alcoholism and football. Seems to me an addiction like meth or crank might be more performance-enhancing. Hell, you could even do amyl nitrate poppers (although it might make your locker smell like a gay bar from the 80s). But booze? That's just spudtarded.

Your Couch: A fine enough pedestal whereupon to perch and chide, if you ask me. 'T'were it not for Monday-morning-quarterbacking, beer-swilling thrilletantes like yourself, fellows like Koren and Maurice would never get money for booze and ammunition. They owe you one way or the other, as far as I can see. Also, I have heard that your couch has a stain that bears an uncanny resemblance to JP Losman. Either it's a miracle, or it's just the spot where you have passed out face-down in a beer sweat time and time again.

Joe Jurevicius: Speak not ill of Joe Michael "Joe Joe" Jurevicius in my presence! He's a family guy, and he wants to play on his home team in Cleveland. (That's Vacation Spot USA if you're Lithuanian! -Ed.) He's fulfilling a boyhood fantasy by doing so. The fact that the Browns have consistently sucked since 1946 is neither here nor there. He did a stand-up job for the Seahawks, signed with the Browns for less dough than we offered him, and so there you are. The only downside to this is that now I have to buy a new 'Hawks jersey (ouch) and watch Browns games (OUCH!).

Seneca Wallace: Look, you never answered me. Are you going to go to the meet 'n' greet on September 5th and get Seneca to sign my football, or should I just put you on the "Dead To Me" list right now? Put that hookah down and answer me, damn you!

See ya at Hempfest, ya goddamn beatnik.

-Deus

I Have Needs

It was a quasi-religious experience. So skillfully didst he snatch
the ball from the air, that likewise didst he snatch the air from the
lungs of Ken Lucas. In thy face, former Seahawk!

Dear Bag:

Tragedy has already struck and the regular season has scarcely begun. I'm not talking about the fact that every single member of the Seahawks is injured (including but not limited to the guy who spreads Cramergesic on groin pulls and the guy who makes the hot dogs). No, it's not we lost a who-gives-a-rat's-ass exposition game, making the word "sloppy" the most-googled term in the pacific northwest. No, it's none of that.

Seneca Wallace is going to be at a meet 'n' greet at the Seahawks Pro Shop on September 5th and I WILL NOT BE THERE TO MEET AND/OR GREET HIM! [Insert wailing.]

So I must beseech you, Dear Douchebag, to go to the Pro Shop on September 5th in my stead. I will give you a brand-spankin'-new football to have him sign. You must tell him how I have been watching his jaw-droppingly magnificent catch (NFC Championship game, 1st quarter, 5:52 remaining, 20 yard line) each Monday, Wednesday and Friday since January 22nd, 2005. You must tell him that I have worn a hole in my TiVo doing this. And you must remain and observe as he shakes his head in disbelief, mutters "that muffucker mus' be jus' stone cold crazy straight up out of his muffuckin' mind", and instructs his attorney to draw up a standard no-contact order.

YOU MUST DO THIS! State your assent and compliance or be DEAD TO ME!

Love forever,

-Deus

Training Camps Opened Last Weekend - Are You All Ghey For The Football?

Deus:

Day 6 since correspondence has been attempted. I have received no reply and am beginning to fear the worst. In the time since my last attempt, crucial news has slipped out. Headlines include but are not limited to: Chad Pennington wins job as Jets starter, Seahawks sell out every game, and woman dies from home lipo - couple charged with illegally performing cosmetic surgery. I put my faith in so much that already lets me down (Bills, Sabres, Democracy). Do I really need to add Thaddeus to the list?

Bag:

Boo fuckin' hoo. Let me take up TOPIC: Seahawks sell out every game.

So I go out into the toolies last weekend, looking for a piece of dirt to hug (permanently, as in purchase), and get disappointed twice. The first place I looked at was a vertical stump farm and the second place could only be accessed by driving through a fabulous hillbilly shithole. To heap salt into the wound - no, let me rephrase - to let the Little Morton Salt Girl tromp through the gash in my soul, I get home, dial up Seahawks.com (brand-spankin' new Chase platinum card in hand), raging-full-on-ready to purchase ticket after ticket, only to be greeted by the headline 2006 SEASON COMPLETELY SOLD OUT! Thank you fans!

Fawk and double fawk. Double fawk with turds on top.

All was not lost, however. I went on Razorgator, and to make a long story short, am now thisclose to having tickets to all of the NFC West games at Qwest. (Season opener with the Cardinals still not @#$! confirmed.) Plus, I got tickets to the Christmas Eve edition of "Baby Jesus And The Seattle Seahawks Shock The Pants Off The San Diego Chargers".

You're a Hawks season ticket holder. At least you'll never be let down on the ticket front. Lucky bastage.