Over the past few weeks, we have seen the photo to the left ad nauseum. It depicts Roger Goodell and his wonks parading down the boulevard to attend another CBA labor meeting. These characters are all filthy rich and work for other fellows who are obscenely rich (which leads me to wonder if there has ever been a fellow who was cleanly rich?). Yet here they are trying to dupe the world with their no-ties, sleeves-rolled-up re-enactment of Jimmy Carter’s stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House in January of 1977. No nonsense, no frills working man guys.
Puleeeeeezzze. You silly, overstuffed fools are seriously interrupting the football off season. Get off the effing stage, already! We need to go find a quarterback. Now! Make an announcement that the league can go about its business as usual while you clowns are in a back room figuring out the pie slices. What’s so hard about that?
Sigh. W h a t a b u m m e r.
Sometime late this week, probably on Friday, or not till next week, but sometime, these jerks will breathlessly announce an agreement and pose for the cameras. Smiling, shaking hands, let’s-do-lunch, self-congratulatory, aren’t we wonderful poses. Bleccchh!
Unfortunately, we fans need these greed heads. Without them, there would be no NFL. It’s a pact with the devil.
I suppose these guys aren’t completely content with material wealth and like to get a little limelight time once in awhile, too. Just like the rest of us who don’t live in the Yukon with the little large-headed green guys who can’t be photographed. (And, judging by those wimptoid bodies, you’d have to think football hasn’t taken hold out there in deep space, either.) But limelighter love is embedded in all of the rest of us.
The Indians probably had this one pegged, feeling that being photographed stole your soul. It’s a thought worth pondering. A pound of good dope helps, too. Civilization has been ogling itself for a couple hundred years or so and look where it’s gotten us. Going to pieces because there’s a delay in our quarterback search. I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I went to pieces over important things, like not being allowed to stay up past my bedtime or not getting laid enough.
IT CAN’T HAPPEN HERE. DOOT n DOO DOO DOOT DOOT. I’M TELLING YOU MY DEAR, THAT IT CAN’T HAPPEN HERE … IN MINNESOTA.
Ooops. Pardon the flashback. Wow. I’m having a Frank Zappa morning. This is getting serious.
WHO ARE THE BRAIN POLICE?
Calm down, now. Breathe deep.
MOTHERLY LOVE, COME ON GET IT NOW.
Whoa! Hey, get a grip. Yoga time. That’ll do it. CRACKKK!. Shit, there went that knee cap.
911. Hello, I’m losing it. You got any horse tranquilizers? Click.
[sirens wail in the distance]
HELP, I’M A ROCK. HELP, I’M A ROCK ….