Saints

Warning: This post is inspired by the greatest motivational speech of all time. * It obviously has everything to do with New Orleans food. This may be the last coherent entry on this domain until at least after Mardi Gras.

On Sunday, as you well know, the Saints will stand for all that is right and just in this world and try to halt the advance of the nefarious Viking clan of the North. For centuries the Normans, Franks, Gauls, and Anglo-Saxons attempted to appease the Viking hordes with offers of dense bread and honeyed mead. They offered to repair their sails or give them thirty virgins. Anything so long as Eric the Red would leave their precious fields and homes alone.

And how did the Vikings respond to such appeasement? Not well. They ransacked and pillaged towns and woman like mutant combination of Gary Busey and OJ Simpson. They burned homes and topped trees with skulls as a reminder that they would not listen to reason. But perhaps the Vikings most horrific and far reaching legacy is they took a boat to America before Columbus and left a Runestone in a Minnesota field. With this Runestone as it's bedrock, the Minnesota Vikings, a most vile and sacrilegious team, sprung forth and ever since have been a scourge and plague.

The Vikings have spewed hatred, despair, and the foul stench of dried monkfish all across this great land. Their mascot reminds one of a person you don't want to sit next to on a plane. Once masters of Northern Europe, the Vikings have been reduced to a traveling credit card collection agency. If it wasn't for the Bengals, their uniforms would be offensive to most mammals.

The Viking leades is a simple country boy whose name defies pronunciation. Ohhh, I am sure you have heard all about him. Why ESPN has become lobbying hard for the legalization of gay marriage so they can marry him. In fact, he is so cool that if you are friends with him, he will invite you to a huge a field to play football, and then throw you a pass so you land in the only puddle of mud on the field. WHAT A GUY!

Twice before the Black and Gold have seen their Super Bowl dreams die at the hands of the Viqueens (not including the horrible Daunte Culpepper 2-point conversion). Well, those who don't learn from history are bound to have it repeated on them. Which is why on Sunday evening, the only canonized team in the NFL will do what generations of pansy footed, lets play nice, tea sipping, cowards couldn't do. We will look the Vikings square in the eye, spit back in their face, and kick em in the junk.

Once again, these interlopers have set sail with designs on robbing our most precious gem: a Saints Super Bowl. Are you just going to stand there and let them waltz in here with their flowing golden locks, Hagar the Horrible humor, thorned helmets, and walk out with a date with Miami? Or are you going to man up, get out there, and do something about it?

Well, are ya, punk?

Sunday's game is for your Paw Paw or your Aunt Judy who isn't really related to you. Sunday is for all the Who Dats with season tickets in the sky. It is for fans that went to games with bags on their heads, but still went to games. Ever notice the dearth of fans at a Detroit or St. Louis game? Those fans don't have faith; we always had faith. And for a long while, that is all we had. We have more than faith though; we have knowledge that one day the Saints will go marching in and when they do we will be in that number. It is not a matter of if, it is a matter of when.

And when just burst in the door.



* If you want this post to make sense, my advice to you is to begin drinking...heavily.