Des: Welcome to another
edition of the Chicago Bears football pre-game show. The Bears face off against
the Kansas City Chiefs in Game 2 of the Race to Deprive Themselves of a Good
Draft Pick. With the eternal uncertainty of the quarterback position befuddling
both teammates and opponents alike, one question remains: Will the Bears find
the magic touch needed to play more than one solid quarter of football? Or
should Bears fans have a slate of binge TV programs at the ready once the
Chiefs figure out the two or three plays the Bears offense can execute?
To answer these and similar questions is our panel of
experts: Concord Wainwright Peabody, Captain Silas Charles “Love Volcano” Red-beard,
Modre- the trans-Western guru, the Prissy Minion, Doctor Sally McChesty, Ellie
Mae MacGillicutty, and the man whose every syllable is drenched in Jim Bean and
uncontrollable shaking, Drunky McDumbAss.
Redbeard: ARRRH, mateys! Des,
given that your largest overseas audience is in Russia, no doubt due to a
misdirected “Google” search of the word “bear”, ‘tis time to give our Eastern
European audience what it most likely wants: Lavish, unthinking praise to Supreme
Comrade Vladimir Ilyich Putin, exalted leader and unifier of the Trans-Slavic
Nation, and role model to one Donald Sutherland Trump. What lessons can the
Chicago Bears learn from the unbridled success story of the Great Father Bear
of All the Russians, from White to Black to Bela? First, base your entire
economy on a single volatile resource whose value fluctuates without warning,
and in the long run, may turn out to be completely useless. Then, instead of
building up a strong defense, squander your treasure on offensive gambits that
only result in protracted failure in which you barely gain any meaningful
yardage and display your glaring weaknesses for all the world to see. Finally…
Des: Captain, if I wanted an
extended clumsy metaphor randomly connecting Putin to the Chicago Bears, I
would have turned to Modre. Speaking of whom…
Modre: “This virus of today’s
wishbone suspension of disbelief cannot be disinfected with the Purell of naked
unreason masquerading as its polar oppositional trans-conventional feldspar
self-loath making projected as the Techno-color yawn of hate speech that not even
the biggest, most beautiful fence will keep us inside the box of pleasure
fearing futile feudalism where even the forges of ye aster-lands canst not be
spread by cough spread-lings of splatter modules of tomorrow’s nether world
made manifest upon the flattest screen of the Stanley-est world.”
Des: The funniest part of
this is that we went through two loops of “Bear Down, Chicago Bears” in the
background while you were stringing those syllables together, Modre. Let’s turn
now to one whose randomness is much, much shorter thanks to the merciful onset
of alcohol poisoning: Drunky McDumbAss.
Drunky: Des, at the-- this
time last season, I passed out in Charlotte, North Carolina while watching the
Bears-Panthers game at some closed-down Wal-Mart—or maybe it was a Waffle House
or an Elk’s Club, or all three in some drunken mélange of failed efforts at bar
hopping that turned into a quest for begging for spare change. Uhh, anywho---
yeah--- I passed out in early September and then woke up three months later at
a Greyhound station in Waukegan in the lap of some terrified hipster who was
trying to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas
on his I-phone, which leads me to think, Hey, I’m the Snoopy character in this
blog.
Des: No, at best you’re maybe
Pig-Pen, if he were in his late 40s with both feet in the grave. “Maybe he’s
covered in alcohol that was spilled on Tom Waites. Or King Nebuchadnezzar.”
Drunky: Sort of makes you
want to treat me with a little more respect.
Des: No.
Drunky: On the contrary, I
didn’t know I looked that good.
Des: Uh, oh. Concord Peabody.
Do you have anything for us?
Drunky: Do you think you have
pantaphobia?
Concord: Has Matt Forte been
traded to another team yet? Because that’s the only thing that might keep Draft
Kings from repossessing my 1975 International Scout Bears-mobile and giving it
to some Saber-metrics supercomputer.
Drunky: And let this be a
sign unto you…
Des: Prissy Minion. Take this
far away from where this conversation has gone.
Prissy Minion: Des, your
high-octane comedy allows us to tenderly reflect on the past while we kiss it
goodbye—or endlessly obsess over its stubborn refusal to surrender any lessons
that have useful applications to the present.
Des: Ellie Mae McGillicutty.
What southern fried wisdom do you have for us today?
Ellie Mae: Des, do you know
that the road to the US presidency ironically trudges through the Confederacy?
Or at least control of the Gerrymandered House of Representative? That’s what
Bernie Sanders and anyone who wants to be Speaker of the House is gonna learn
the hard way.
Des: Okay. Captain, for some
reason, your one good hand is raised for me to call on you. What’s up with this
sudden need to wait your turn?
Redbeard: I’m just waiting to
see what Drunky McDumbAss manages to belch out before succumbing to the demon
rum that afflicts us both. Oh, the sweet, sweet affliction.
Drunky: My own dog has gone
commercial! All I want is what’s coming to me. All I want is my fair share.
Redbeard: And ye shall have
it… of abuse! Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, arrrrhhhhh!
Sally: Redbeard, what
happened to your predictions? Were you forsaken by every deity conceived by the
mind of man, from the ancient religions of Greece and Rome, to the most
lackluster demonic entities from DC and Marvel Comics? I’m looking at you, Thanos
and Darkseid… or worse yet, Shuma-Gorath.
Sally: So, yeah, this is
apparently my character now. Sit back and watch sports fans, as the Bears play in
a game against another 1-3 team and, uh, you know what? Why doesn’t everybody
just take a break from sports today and ready yourselves for Monday’s Cubs
game?
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