What up world,
Over the last couple of years, as I've blogged intermittently, I've noticed that I don't write much about the Vikings. I've written inane articles on Timberwolves players, discussed the inner workings of Lil Nicky Punto's mind, and even wrote a piece on classifying gymnasts as a different species, but I don't find that I have much to say on the Vikes.
I don't know why this is. I love the Purple. I've fiercely defended the actions of the team against my heathenish Green Bay parents. I've mirrored Chris Carter's touchdown celebration during numerous beer pong games. I even called into a sports talk radio show to discuss the team (the lowest point of my life).
Disappointment. It's the only thing that I can think of. I haven't cheered for any other team that has had a consistent shot at being great. The Timberwolves had one season of greatness (single tear. I miss you KG). The Twins have made the playoffs on a regular basis, but I've never thought of them as a legitimate contender. We never even think about a national championship for the Badgers. We set our sights on the Rose Bowl, but are really just happy to have a moment of greatness every once in a while. Like beating #1 last weekend. What! Suck it Ohio State.
Every season, however, I look to the Vikings to do something extraordinary. I get my hopes and expectations up, and am usually bitterly disappointed by season's end. The beginning of the 2010 season was no different. After getting to the brink of the Super Bowl last year, I thought that we had a legitimate chance at being dominant from the start. Bring back Favre. Bring back Purple Jesus. Hell, even Chili can come along for the ride. Breeze through the regular season and bring on that championship banner.
The last time that I felt this confident about the team was the beginning of the 2005 season. My boy, Duante Culpepper, was coming off of an amazing season. The majority of the team was back, our defense was getting better, and I was convinced that the departure of Randy Moss would allow the team to gel. I was ready for Duante to take the team in his tiny hands and lead us to glory.
The team started 2-5, Duante's knee was dismantled, and the Vikings ended up not going to the playoffs. In addition, a little incident called "The Love Boat" occurred, leaving me not only disappointed but also ashamed. Ugh, Bryant McKinnie, you are a dirty dude.
Which brings us to 2010. The Vikings are 2-3, and look as coordinated as a newborn deer. Watching our offense makes me want to punch children and kittens. My thoughts of domination have dissolved into hopes of getting to .500.
And scandal has reared its ugly head once again (no pun intended). Brett's penis made its Internet debut last week and discussions of his harassment have run rampant. Our QB is already battered and out of sync with our receivers. Let's add some embarrassment and marital troubles. Sounds like a plan!
It has gotten to the point that I don't want to think about the team throughout the week. I'm trying to guard myself against the pain. I don't want to get my hopes up any longer, only to have them crushed. It's not a great way to go into Packer week.
Pull it together Vikes. I want to love you and dream of a purple championship ring. By the way, I'll be in Dallas for the Super Bowl. It would be fantastic if you could show up as well.
Sincerely,
Sota
Showing posts with label Vikings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vikings. Show all posts
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Oh Percy, Percy Me
What up world,
Did you see what I did there? With the title? Very creative, right? I'm chuckling to myself, and humming Marvin Gaye, as I write this. Regardless of your thoughts on the title, or of me in general, this is the perfect time to introduce you to my newest man-crush on the Minnesota Vikings. That's right! It's WGTKY, the Percy Harvin edition!!!!
For those that are not regular readers of Sota Love, a WGTKY (Wanna Get to Know You) segment delves into the world of a specific Minnesota sports figure, prior to their time in the Great White North. Here are a few of the initial characters that we've focused on in our WGTKY segment:
-Rodney Carney
-Kevin Love
-Ryan Gomes
-Joe Mauer
-Brendan Harris
-Orlando Carbrera
I would like to continue this fine tradition with none other than William Percival Harvin III. This future phenom of the Vikings was born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, to his mother, Linda, and father (you guessed it) William Percival Harvin, Jr.
Percy has been fast, and elusive, from the moment of his birth. As rumor has it, he began life by sprinting out of his mother's womb, eluding the grasping hands of the maternity ward doctors, scoring a touchdown, and hooking up with, not one, but two members of the nursing staff, before settling into the welcoming arms of his mother. Percy was born to fly.
Throughout his childhood, Percy demonstrated his propensity for domination. He won a Pop Warner National Championship at the age of 13, a state championship as a junior in High School, and a BCS Championship for Florida both as a Freshman and Junior. He is widely credited with scoring every touchdown and accounting for every yard for each team that he has played with. He played defensive lineman for a period of time in high school, destroying opposing quarterbacks with 104 sacks over the course of the season. There was one game, in his last season at the University of Florida, in which Percy was the only player on the field on both offense and defense. Final score; Florida Percy's 76, Tennessee Volunteers 3.
As with many superheroes, Percy possesses one distinct weakness. Even with all of the domination on the football field, the countless hours he spends performing charitable acts, and his part-time job as an astronaut, there is still a less desirable side to this superstar. It's hard to believe, but Percy has a thing for weed.
I'm sorry to bring it up, but it was something that I felt was necessary. You demand full disclosure, and I'm here to deliver. Percy tested positive for marijuana at the NFL combine, hurting his draft status, allowing him to fall to the Vikings as the 22nd pick in the 2009 draft. I've had numerous conversations with Percy regarding these events since they occurred. He regrets his actions, and offered me a brief explanation.
1) Percy Harvin moves at such lightening fast speeds, that without the help of marijuana, football games would be unfairly tilted in his team's direction. The weed slows him down to a somewhat human-like speed. He would be like that kid from The Incredibles without it. He doesn't want to crush the spirits of the opposing team too badly.
2) His desire to play for the Vikings was too strong. He had run out of options, and chose to get caught with marijuana in his system. Percy is far too intelligent to be apprehended for something this ridiculous. It was an intentional move, made to be a part of the purple and gold.
3) He was listening to Bob Marley, while watching the sunset, after spending the day playing Frisbee-Golf. It was the logical next move.
So, while testing positive for marijuana does not improve his perceived character in the eyes of the public, it was mostly justifiable. I've told him that he can continue his smoking habits if he wants, provided that he keeps it out of the medias' hands for the duration of his stay with the Vikings. He's agreed, possibly hinting that he might stop altogether, to focus on embarrassing every other team in the NFL.
I'm sure that all of us can agree that this is the best course of action. With Purple Jesus as our running back, Old Man River as our QB, and Percy "Sexual Healing" Harvin in our receiving corp., I see only good things for the rest of the season.
It's good to get to know you Mr. Harvin. Help me forget about the pain that T-Jack inflicted upon my heart last season. Continue on with your dominating ways.
-Sota
Did you see what I did there? With the title? Very creative, right? I'm chuckling to myself, and humming Marvin Gaye, as I write this. Regardless of your thoughts on the title, or of me in general, this is the perfect time to introduce you to my newest man-crush on the Minnesota Vikings. That's right! It's WGTKY, the Percy Harvin edition!!!!
For those that are not regular readers of Sota Love, a WGTKY (Wanna Get to Know You) segment delves into the world of a specific Minnesota sports figure, prior to their time in the Great White North. Here are a few of the initial characters that we've focused on in our WGTKY segment:
-Rodney Carney
-Kevin Love
-Ryan Gomes
-Joe Mauer
-Brendan Harris
-Orlando Carbrera
I would like to continue this fine tradition with none other than William Percival Harvin III. This future phenom of the Vikings was born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, to his mother, Linda, and father (you guessed it) William Percival Harvin, Jr.
Percy has been fast, and elusive, from the moment of his birth. As rumor has it, he began life by sprinting out of his mother's womb, eluding the grasping hands of the maternity ward doctors, scoring a touchdown, and hooking up with, not one, but two members of the nursing staff, before settling into the welcoming arms of his mother. Percy was born to fly.
Throughout his childhood, Percy demonstrated his propensity for domination. He won a Pop Warner National Championship at the age of 13, a state championship as a junior in High School, and a BCS Championship for Florida both as a Freshman and Junior. He is widely credited with scoring every touchdown and accounting for every yard for each team that he has played with. He played defensive lineman for a period of time in high school, destroying opposing quarterbacks with 104 sacks over the course of the season. There was one game, in his last season at the University of Florida, in which Percy was the only player on the field on both offense and defense. Final score; Florida Percy's 76, Tennessee Volunteers 3.
As with many superheroes, Percy possesses one distinct weakness. Even with all of the domination on the football field, the countless hours he spends performing charitable acts, and his part-time job as an astronaut, there is still a less desirable side to this superstar. It's hard to believe, but Percy has a thing for weed.
I'm sorry to bring it up, but it was something that I felt was necessary. You demand full disclosure, and I'm here to deliver. Percy tested positive for marijuana at the NFL combine, hurting his draft status, allowing him to fall to the Vikings as the 22nd pick in the 2009 draft. I've had numerous conversations with Percy regarding these events since they occurred. He regrets his actions, and offered me a brief explanation.
1) Percy Harvin moves at such lightening fast speeds, that without the help of marijuana, football games would be unfairly tilted in his team's direction. The weed slows him down to a somewhat human-like speed. He would be like that kid from The Incredibles without it. He doesn't want to crush the spirits of the opposing team too badly.
2) His desire to play for the Vikings was too strong. He had run out of options, and chose to get caught with marijuana in his system. Percy is far too intelligent to be apprehended for something this ridiculous. It was an intentional move, made to be a part of the purple and gold.
3) He was listening to Bob Marley, while watching the sunset, after spending the day playing Frisbee-Golf. It was the logical next move.
So, while testing positive for marijuana does not improve his perceived character in the eyes of the public, it was mostly justifiable. I've told him that he can continue his smoking habits if he wants, provided that he keeps it out of the medias' hands for the duration of his stay with the Vikings. He's agreed, possibly hinting that he might stop altogether, to focus on embarrassing every other team in the NFL.
I'm sure that all of us can agree that this is the best course of action. With Purple Jesus as our running back, Old Man River as our QB, and Percy "Sexual Healing" Harvin in our receiving corp., I see only good things for the rest of the season.
It's good to get to know you Mr. Harvin. Help me forget about the pain that T-Jack inflicted upon my heart last season. Continue on with your dominating ways.
-Sota
Friday, August 21, 2009
Jilted Affection
What up world,
It's time that I address the biggest news story out of Minnesota since...well...
there was that bridge thing...
and there was that wrestling governor...
and that mall...
But each of those things seem to pale in comparison to the recent developments in Eden Prairie. The events that occurred Tuesday will impact the state, and myself, in ways that will be difficult to comprehend hundreds of years from now. We will be able to look back at August 18th, 2009 as the day that the Minnesota Vikings mattered again. It was the day that number 4, Brett Lorenzo Favre, finally donned the purple and gold.
Brett and I have had a difficult relationship throughout my lifetime. Since I became conscious of sports, and the amazing highs and lows of fandome, Brett has always been there to crush my dreams. Since the fall of 1992, I've watched Favre continuously beat up on the Vikings. I cursed his name, cheered his interceptions, and prayed for injury, while watching him lead the Packers to two Super Bowls and multiple MVPs. I would sit, alone, in the basement of my parent's suburban Minneapolis home, seething at the sight of Brett, running around the field after yet another touchdown pass. It was awful.
But there is something that I have not disclosed earlier. The thing is...I'm sorry, it's difficult to say....It's just that.....I was raised by a pair of Packer fans.....
I know! Don't judge me for it! Don't immediately close your internet tab. I didn't ask for this. It was the hand that I was dealt. There were so many Sunday nights that I fell asleep, hoping against hope, that I would wake up in a Vikings friendly household. Unfortunately, God never listened to my prayers, and I continue to be tormented by the choices that my parents made.
But wait, there's more...
In addition to my parents, my entire extended family are fans of the Cheese. My grandparents have owned season tickets for approximately 100 years. My aunts, uncles, cousins, even sisters are Packer fans. I went to the University of Wisconsin-Madison for college, and even became friends with other Packer fans. It's awful, I know. I'm a small glimmer of Purple Pride in a sea of Green and Gold.
So, for years, I've watched the Packers destroy the Vikings. I watched as Brett became a folk hero among Wisconsinites. Number 4 jerseys chased me around campus for five years, providing reminders of the most recent failure of the Vikes at the hands of the Pack. I would watch Packer games with my family and friends, trying to injure Brett with the death lasers that were being emitted from my eyes. I made fun of him when he lost games, ridiculed his acting skills, and made endless comments about his appearance during the "Braces Years". I despised Brett Favre.
At least that was what I said to the Packer fans that surrounded me. However, on the inside, in the deepest, darkest corners of my heart, I loved him. He represented everything that I wanted in a quarterback. He took risks, was a leader, and seemed to enjoy himself every time that he took the field. While I was trying to cheer for Dennis Green, Daunte Culpepper, Mike Tice, Randy Moss, the entire Love Boat crew, and every other shady character on the Vikings, Green Bay was winning games with my secret crush at the helm.
So, for years, I've studied Brett from afar. I would make comparisons to him with every quarterback that we drafted over the years. Here is a list of our drafted qb's since 1992, the year that Brett took over the starting job:
1992: Brad Johnson
1993: Gino Torretta
1995: Chad May
1999: Daunte Culpepper
2006: Tavaris Jackson
2007: Tyler Thigpen
2008: John David Booty
I have not loved any of these men. I had a bit of affection for Brad Johnson, early on. Daunte was a giant tease. I wanted to love T-Jack, but he never delivered on any of his promises. Compared to Brett, none of these men stood a chance.
And then, Tuesday arrived. After years of torment, the one person that I had desired for so many years, was in my house, wearing my uniform, and throwing to my receivers. It was like the plot of an 80's romantic comedy.
I'm willing to look past the waffling. I don't care about his giant ego, or need to let everyone know that he is a "normal" guy. Bring the wife, Brett! Bring the kids! Win us some games, and all of your past sins will be forgiven. I promise. At least from all the Minnesota fans. I can't imagine how the Packer fans feel about this...
Ok, I can, because I have heard it. From my family. From my friends. They may be a little upset right now. Maybe a little angry. Livid even.
But that's okay, Brett. Don't worry about them. You are in good hands now.
Welcome to Minnesota!!!!
-Sota
It's time that I address the biggest news story out of Minnesota since...well...
there was that bridge thing...
and there was that wrestling governor...
and that mall...
But each of those things seem to pale in comparison to the recent developments in Eden Prairie. The events that occurred Tuesday will impact the state, and myself, in ways that will be difficult to comprehend hundreds of years from now. We will be able to look back at August 18th, 2009 as the day that the Minnesota Vikings mattered again. It was the day that number 4, Brett Lorenzo Favre, finally donned the purple and gold.
Brett and I have had a difficult relationship throughout my lifetime. Since I became conscious of sports, and the amazing highs and lows of fandome, Brett has always been there to crush my dreams. Since the fall of 1992, I've watched Favre continuously beat up on the Vikings. I cursed his name, cheered his interceptions, and prayed for injury, while watching him lead the Packers to two Super Bowls and multiple MVPs. I would sit, alone, in the basement of my parent's suburban Minneapolis home, seething at the sight of Brett, running around the field after yet another touchdown pass. It was awful.
But there is something that I have not disclosed earlier. The thing is...I'm sorry, it's difficult to say....It's just that.....I was raised by a pair of Packer fans.....
I know! Don't judge me for it! Don't immediately close your internet tab. I didn't ask for this. It was the hand that I was dealt. There were so many Sunday nights that I fell asleep, hoping against hope, that I would wake up in a Vikings friendly household. Unfortunately, God never listened to my prayers, and I continue to be tormented by the choices that my parents made.
But wait, there's more...
In addition to my parents, my entire extended family are fans of the Cheese. My grandparents have owned season tickets for approximately 100 years. My aunts, uncles, cousins, even sisters are Packer fans. I went to the University of Wisconsin-Madison for college, and even became friends with other Packer fans. It's awful, I know. I'm a small glimmer of Purple Pride in a sea of Green and Gold.
So, for years, I've watched the Packers destroy the Vikings. I watched as Brett became a folk hero among Wisconsinites. Number 4 jerseys chased me around campus for five years, providing reminders of the most recent failure of the Vikes at the hands of the Pack. I would watch Packer games with my family and friends, trying to injure Brett with the death lasers that were being emitted from my eyes. I made fun of him when he lost games, ridiculed his acting skills, and made endless comments about his appearance during the "Braces Years". I despised Brett Favre.
At least that was what I said to the Packer fans that surrounded me. However, on the inside, in the deepest, darkest corners of my heart, I loved him. He represented everything that I wanted in a quarterback. He took risks, was a leader, and seemed to enjoy himself every time that he took the field. While I was trying to cheer for Dennis Green, Daunte Culpepper, Mike Tice, Randy Moss, the entire Love Boat crew, and every other shady character on the Vikings, Green Bay was winning games with my secret crush at the helm.
So, for years, I've studied Brett from afar. I would make comparisons to him with every quarterback that we drafted over the years. Here is a list of our drafted qb's since 1992, the year that Brett took over the starting job:
1992: Brad Johnson
1993: Gino Torretta
1995: Chad May
1999: Daunte Culpepper
2006: Tavaris Jackson
2007: Tyler Thigpen
2008: John David Booty
I have not loved any of these men. I had a bit of affection for Brad Johnson, early on. Daunte was a giant tease. I wanted to love T-Jack, but he never delivered on any of his promises. Compared to Brett, none of these men stood a chance.
And then, Tuesday arrived. After years of torment, the one person that I had desired for so many years, was in my house, wearing my uniform, and throwing to my receivers. It was like the plot of an 80's romantic comedy.
I'm willing to look past the waffling. I don't care about his giant ego, or need to let everyone know that he is a "normal" guy. Bring the wife, Brett! Bring the kids! Win us some games, and all of your past sins will be forgiven. I promise. At least from all the Minnesota fans. I can't imagine how the Packer fans feel about this...
Ok, I can, because I have heard it. From my family. From my friends. They may be a little upset right now. Maybe a little angry. Livid even.
But that's okay, Brett. Don't worry about them. You are in good hands now.
Welcome to Minnesota!!!!
-Sota
Monday, August 17, 2009
Losing Faith
What up world,
It's come to this. After 116 games, I'm willing to admit that the 2009 Twins are not the team of destiny that I had dreamed of in April. They are 5 games below .500 and 6 games behind the division leading Tigers. They have lost consecutive series against the Royals and Indians, and are currently getting crushed by the Texas Rangers. Our starting pitcher tonight is none other than Saint Francisco. Even in all of his holiness, he can't manage to string together a quality start. Things are starting to look extremely bleak.
For months I've been ignoring the writers and bloggers of Twin Nation. I've always maintained hope that something would happen. That something would click. That a light would turn on. That we would turn the corner. And any other number of cliche sport's phrases that you can think of, but the team never seemed to come together. They never gelled. They didn't form a cohesive unit. They didn't pick each other up. They spelled team with an "I". They were a group of individuals...
Sorry, it's a tough habit to break. Moving on...
Throughout the last couple of seasons, there has always been a point that I've realized that things have grown hopeless. It's depressing each and every time. After months of following box scores, watching the team on tv or in person, and hoping that the White Sox limbs will fall off, when you realize that you are going to have to wait through another offseason, it crushes the spirit.
It not only signifies the end of the baseball season, it also means that summer is coming to a close. Having a post-season bound baseball team can provide some distraction from the ever cooling winds of fall. Not that I have to deal with these changing weather patterns in the idealistic world of Southern California, but I can still sympathize with the citizens of my home state.
For anyone reading this, I would like to offer my most sincere condolences. Baseball, and summertime, are coming to a close for 2009. However, I would like to offer each of you a small glimmer of hope. While everyone has been focused on the increasingly poor play of the Twins' starting pitchers and the miserable performance of our infield of tiny superheroes, there has been another team gathering and preparing for the start of their season.
That's right! The purple clan heathens of Scandinavia have landed on the shores of the Minnesota River, in a small town called Mankato. For almost a month, they have been raping and pillaging this sleepy metropolis, preparing to make the move up-river to Minneapolis. It just a few short weeks, led by a hairless, socially awkward chieftain, the Vikings will take up residence in the current home of the Twins, preparing to wreak havoc among the entire National Football League.
Monday, October 5th. There will be green and gold blood running through the streets of downtown Minneapolis. The Vikings are hungry for cheese and overweight women. Beware Green Bay fans. I can hear the war horns of the Vikings, even here in the southwestern portion of the country.
So, while one season is slowly dying, faith is renewed in the birth of another. Bring on football!
-Sota
It's come to this. After 116 games, I'm willing to admit that the 2009 Twins are not the team of destiny that I had dreamed of in April. They are 5 games below .500 and 6 games behind the division leading Tigers. They have lost consecutive series against the Royals and Indians, and are currently getting crushed by the Texas Rangers. Our starting pitcher tonight is none other than Saint Francisco. Even in all of his holiness, he can't manage to string together a quality start. Things are starting to look extremely bleak.
For months I've been ignoring the writers and bloggers of Twin Nation. I've always maintained hope that something would happen. That something would click. That a light would turn on. That we would turn the corner. And any other number of cliche sport's phrases that you can think of, but the team never seemed to come together. They never gelled. They didn't form a cohesive unit. They didn't pick each other up. They spelled team with an "I". They were a group of individuals...
Sorry, it's a tough habit to break. Moving on...
Throughout the last couple of seasons, there has always been a point that I've realized that things have grown hopeless. It's depressing each and every time. After months of following box scores, watching the team on tv or in person, and hoping that the White Sox limbs will fall off, when you realize that you are going to have to wait through another offseason, it crushes the spirit.
It not only signifies the end of the baseball season, it also means that summer is coming to a close. Having a post-season bound baseball team can provide some distraction from the ever cooling winds of fall. Not that I have to deal with these changing weather patterns in the idealistic world of Southern California, but I can still sympathize with the citizens of my home state.
For anyone reading this, I would like to offer my most sincere condolences. Baseball, and summertime, are coming to a close for 2009. However, I would like to offer each of you a small glimmer of hope. While everyone has been focused on the increasingly poor play of the Twins' starting pitchers and the miserable performance of our infield of tiny superheroes, there has been another team gathering and preparing for the start of their season.
That's right! The purple clan heathens of Scandinavia have landed on the shores of the Minnesota River, in a small town called Mankato. For almost a month, they have been raping and pillaging this sleepy metropolis, preparing to make the move up-river to Minneapolis. It just a few short weeks, led by a hairless, socially awkward chieftain, the Vikings will take up residence in the current home of the Twins, preparing to wreak havoc among the entire National Football League.
Monday, October 5th. There will be green and gold blood running through the streets of downtown Minneapolis. The Vikings are hungry for cheese and overweight women. Beware Green Bay fans. I can hear the war horns of the Vikings, even here in the southwestern portion of the country.
So, while one season is slowly dying, faith is renewed in the birth of another. Bring on football!
-Sota
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Little of This...Some of That
What up World,
This is going to be a mixed bag o' stuff, as there is quite a bit going on in Vikings and Twins land, and not a whole lot in the miserable drudgery of the Timberwolves. A couple of quick thoughts on each of my teams.
Timberwolves: The team lost last night to the Spurs, without the presence of Timmy D or Manu G. Tony Parker continues to own us with his teardrop runners and speed of light movements. Tim Thomas had a double-double in the win, and apparently he doesn't enjoy holding hands with Jason Collins
Kevin Love had 17 points and 19 rebounds, for his 21st double-double of the season. I think if a player has more double-doubles than his age, he is having a fairly solid season. I'm not sure if the same rule applies to double-double hamburger orders from In-and-Out, but if it does, I am having a dominant winter.
The Wolves have 6 playoffs bound teams in the next 7 games. I foresee an excellent freefall in the standings in the next couple of weeks. Lose baby, lose!
Vikings: I have to admit that currently, I am obsessively following the saga of Jay Cutler and Denver. I love T-Jax and I have a strong desire to hang out with him on a daily basis, but I think that my love could easily be transferred to Cutler. He's a firey, young guy, with a cannon arm, that could be our quarterback for a long time.
He's receiving a lot of critism for throwing interceptions or not winning big games, which is very similar to the critism another quarterback received early in his career. This quarterback ended up tormenting the Vikings for the majority of my childhood, leading the 'team that shall not be named' to two Super Bowls and winning one of them. I'm not going to mention his name, but I'll give you some clues. He has a penchant for pain killers, Wrangler jeans, and killing small children's dreams.
Twins: There is a whole lot of news coming out of spring training for the T-Wins. Joe Mauer has a sore back from too much humping around, Joe Crede can't seem to find his swing, Jose Mijares apparently loves double-doubles as much as myself, Span is batting under .000, Cuddyer may not be as good as we thought, as well as thousands of other stories.
The excitement I had for the start of spring training has disipated somewhat. It seems like it has lasted for two months already, and I just want the games to freaking start. Than I can start writing about them for real, and escape the overwhelming depression that is the Timberwolves' season.
Other Stuff: I received an overwhelming response to the nickname column. There was a whopping 1 post, which shatters the record for the majority of my articles. The post was a quality one however, offering multiple nickname selections. Here is the list and my thoughts on each:
Meatloaf - I had forgotten that I was "meatloaf" for a year of my life, while I was living in Chicago. I enjoyed the nickname, hearing it repeatedly yelled at me while I hid out in the basement of my apartment. It would have been that much better if an actual meatloaf had been prepared for dinner. Then Brent could have yelled, "Meatloaf, get your meatloaf."
SM2 (Scissor Master 2) - I enjoyed my time as part of the scissor master team, spreading the scissoring love movement across the nation. However, I don't know if I would like it to be a permanent nickname. First of all, it is a long one. The best nicknames are short and sweet, one or two syllables at most. Secondly, the name implies that I was an equal scissoring "master". I cannot pretend that I was at the same level at Brent or Jaimie. I was more a "scissor apprentice" or "scissor in training".
Queer Moe Dee - I love this nickname. There is no specific meaning, other than the combination of an 80's rapper and making fun of me for being gay. The only hesitation that I have is that I'm not actually gay, and I slowly trying to repair my image in that sense. In my last year in Chicago, I received a Sammy the Sailor Christmas ornament, a man-thong for my birthday, and a birthday cake that was served to me by three shirtless guys with whipped cream on their nipples. A nickname like Queer Moe Dee might not help my reputation.
Roomie - Simple and short, but not as unique as some of the others. Also, it might force me to move back to Chicago and start living in the basement again.
Dorkus Malorkus - I've spoken to Brent about this choice. It works well, even though it is longer than some of the other options. The only drawback is that Brent called other people this while he was in third grade. This means that this name is not unique to me. Anyone could be DM.
FOB (Friend of Brent) - This works well, as I already have a t-shirt that proclaims this fact, and I am a friend of Brent. Brent hates pretty much everyone, including Gingers, Leffers, Oppos, and Moons, so this is a fairly exclusive club. I think that this may be my selection for now.
That is all for now. If you would like an article written about you, all you have to do is leave a comment. I have two regular readers, one has received a call out, one hasn't. I need a post Mark. Post!
-Sota (FOB)
This is going to be a mixed bag o' stuff, as there is quite a bit going on in Vikings and Twins land, and not a whole lot in the miserable drudgery of the Timberwolves. A couple of quick thoughts on each of my teams.
Timberwolves: The team lost last night to the Spurs, without the presence of Timmy D or Manu G. Tony Parker continues to own us with his teardrop runners and speed of light movements. Tim Thomas had a double-double in the win, and apparently he doesn't enjoy holding hands with Jason Collins
Kevin Love had 17 points and 19 rebounds, for his 21st double-double of the season. I think if a player has more double-doubles than his age, he is having a fairly solid season. I'm not sure if the same rule applies to double-double hamburger orders from In-and-Out, but if it does, I am having a dominant winter.
The Wolves have 6 playoffs bound teams in the next 7 games. I foresee an excellent freefall in the standings in the next couple of weeks. Lose baby, lose!
Vikings: I have to admit that currently, I am obsessively following the saga of Jay Cutler and Denver. I love T-Jax and I have a strong desire to hang out with him on a daily basis, but I think that my love could easily be transferred to Cutler. He's a firey, young guy, with a cannon arm, that could be our quarterback for a long time.
He's receiving a lot of critism for throwing interceptions or not winning big games, which is very similar to the critism another quarterback received early in his career. This quarterback ended up tormenting the Vikings for the majority of my childhood, leading the 'team that shall not be named' to two Super Bowls and winning one of them. I'm not going to mention his name, but I'll give you some clues. He has a penchant for pain killers, Wrangler jeans, and killing small children's dreams.
Twins: There is a whole lot of news coming out of spring training for the T-Wins. Joe Mauer has a sore back from too much humping around, Joe Crede can't seem to find his swing, Jose Mijares apparently loves double-doubles as much as myself, Span is batting under .000, Cuddyer may not be as good as we thought, as well as thousands of other stories.
The excitement I had for the start of spring training has disipated somewhat. It seems like it has lasted for two months already, and I just want the games to freaking start. Than I can start writing about them for real, and escape the overwhelming depression that is the Timberwolves' season.
Other Stuff: I received an overwhelming response to the nickname column. There was a whopping 1 post, which shatters the record for the majority of my articles. The post was a quality one however, offering multiple nickname selections. Here is the list and my thoughts on each:
Meatloaf - I had forgotten that I was "meatloaf" for a year of my life, while I was living in Chicago. I enjoyed the nickname, hearing it repeatedly yelled at me while I hid out in the basement of my apartment. It would have been that much better if an actual meatloaf had been prepared for dinner. Then Brent could have yelled, "Meatloaf, get your meatloaf."
SM2 (Scissor Master 2) - I enjoyed my time as part of the scissor master team, spreading the scissoring love movement across the nation. However, I don't know if I would like it to be a permanent nickname. First of all, it is a long one. The best nicknames are short and sweet, one or two syllables at most. Secondly, the name implies that I was an equal scissoring "master". I cannot pretend that I was at the same level at Brent or Jaimie. I was more a "scissor apprentice" or "scissor in training".
Queer Moe Dee - I love this nickname. There is no specific meaning, other than the combination of an 80's rapper and making fun of me for being gay. The only hesitation that I have is that I'm not actually gay, and I slowly trying to repair my image in that sense. In my last year in Chicago, I received a Sammy the Sailor Christmas ornament, a man-thong for my birthday, and a birthday cake that was served to me by three shirtless guys with whipped cream on their nipples. A nickname like Queer Moe Dee might not help my reputation.
Roomie - Simple and short, but not as unique as some of the others. Also, it might force me to move back to Chicago and start living in the basement again.
Dorkus Malorkus - I've spoken to Brent about this choice. It works well, even though it is longer than some of the other options. The only drawback is that Brent called other people this while he was in third grade. This means that this name is not unique to me. Anyone could be DM.
FOB (Friend of Brent) - This works well, as I already have a t-shirt that proclaims this fact, and I am a friend of Brent. Brent hates pretty much everyone, including Gingers, Leffers, Oppos, and Moons, so this is a fairly exclusive club. I think that this may be my selection for now.
That is all for now. If you would like an article written about you, all you have to do is leave a comment. I have two regular readers, one has received a call out, one hasn't. I need a post Mark. Post!
-Sota (FOB)
Monday, October 27, 2008
Brothers Gotta Share
What up world,
While wandering the hallways of the Vikings practice facility earlier this year, I heard the following conversation.
Kevin Williams: "Pat are you crying?"
Pat Williams (sniffling): "Oh, hey Kevin."
Kev: "What's going on? What's wrong?"
Pat: "Nothing."
Kev: "Come on. You can tell me. I'm your brother."
Pat: "Well, it's just that all of the guys in the locker room keep calling me Fat Pat. People on the radio are saying it too. Even the fans call me fat."
Kev: "Pat, you're just a little bigger than most of the other kids. I wouldn't call you fat. Maybe just a little chunky."
Pat: "I am fat. I know it. My bathroom scale doesn't even register my weight any more. It just says 'Error', like a bad Garfield cartoon. Even Coach said that I wouldn't be able to play if I didn't lose weight."
Kev: "Well then, you and I will hit the weight room and work off some of those pounds this week."
Pat: "I don't think it's going to work. The thing is, when people call me Fat Pat, it just makes me depressed. When I'm depressed, all I want to do is eat. I went to McDonalds before practice this morning."
Kev: "They have a couple of healthy options at McDonalds. What did you get?"
Pat: "When they asked what I wanted, I just said "everything". I got everything Kev. I even supersized my order. I sat in my car in the parking lot and took it all down. When I was done, I went through the drive through and got a milkshake for the road."
Kev: "It's across the street."
Pat (sobbing): "I know."
Kev: "Well, we can work on this together. We'll go see a dietician and get this thing under control."
Pat: "How are you not as fat as I am? We're brothers, and you look anorexic compared to me."
Kev: "Well, I have a little weight loss secret that I haven't told anyone about."
Pat: "What? Tell me. I need help here Kev."
Kev: "Well, it's this little pill called Bumetanide."
Pat: "Bu..me...t..."
Kev: "I just call it a water pill. It helps me keep some of the weight off. I'll let you use some of them for a while if you want. The only thing is, we can't tell anyone about this. If we get caught using these weight loss drugs, someone might think that we were trying to mask steroid use."
Pat: "But we would never EVER use steroids."
Kev: "I know, but you know how people talk."
Pat: "Yeah. Hopefully these water pills do the trick. Pretty soon people will be calling me Phat Pat. Like with a 'ph' phat, not 'f' fat."
Kev: "Nice one. Now lets go put cottage cheese in Jared Allen's cowboy hat. It will be hilarious."
With that they left. I learned a couple of things during the conversation. One, Pat and Kevin Williams really are brothers, even though everyone thinks that they aren't. Two, the water pills were just for weight loss purposes and could not have used to mask steroid use. Three, Jared Allen is a huge hick (I may have already known this). Please Commish, take it easy on the team. I think that Zygi might go on a killing spree if anything else happens to the team this season.
-Sota
While wandering the hallways of the Vikings practice facility earlier this year, I heard the following conversation.
Kevin Williams: "Pat are you crying?"
Pat Williams (sniffling): "Oh, hey Kevin."
Kev: "What's going on? What's wrong?"
Pat: "Nothing."
Kev: "Come on. You can tell me. I'm your brother."
Pat: "Well, it's just that all of the guys in the locker room keep calling me Fat Pat. People on the radio are saying it too. Even the fans call me fat."
Kev: "Pat, you're just a little bigger than most of the other kids. I wouldn't call you fat. Maybe just a little chunky."
Pat: "I am fat. I know it. My bathroom scale doesn't even register my weight any more. It just says 'Error', like a bad Garfield cartoon. Even Coach said that I wouldn't be able to play if I didn't lose weight."
Kev: "Well then, you and I will hit the weight room and work off some of those pounds this week."
Pat: "I don't think it's going to work. The thing is, when people call me Fat Pat, it just makes me depressed. When I'm depressed, all I want to do is eat. I went to McDonalds before practice this morning."
Kev: "They have a couple of healthy options at McDonalds. What did you get?"
Pat: "When they asked what I wanted, I just said "everything". I got everything Kev. I even supersized my order. I sat in my car in the parking lot and took it all down. When I was done, I went through the drive through and got a milkshake for the road."
Kev: "It's across the street."
Pat (sobbing): "I know."
Kev: "Well, we can work on this together. We'll go see a dietician and get this thing under control."
Pat: "How are you not as fat as I am? We're brothers, and you look anorexic compared to me."
Kev: "Well, I have a little weight loss secret that I haven't told anyone about."
Pat: "What? Tell me. I need help here Kev."
Kev: "Well, it's this little pill called Bumetanide."
Pat: "Bu..me...t..."
Kev: "I just call it a water pill. It helps me keep some of the weight off. I'll let you use some of them for a while if you want. The only thing is, we can't tell anyone about this. If we get caught using these weight loss drugs, someone might think that we were trying to mask steroid use."
Pat: "But we would never EVER use steroids."
Kev: "I know, but you know how people talk."
Pat: "Yeah. Hopefully these water pills do the trick. Pretty soon people will be calling me Phat Pat. Like with a 'ph' phat, not 'f' fat."
Kev: "Nice one. Now lets go put cottage cheese in Jared Allen's cowboy hat. It will be hilarious."
With that they left. I learned a couple of things during the conversation. One, Pat and Kevin Williams really are brothers, even though everyone thinks that they aren't. Two, the water pills were just for weight loss purposes and could not have used to mask steroid use. Three, Jared Allen is a huge hick (I may have already known this). Please Commish, take it easy on the team. I think that Zygi might go on a killing spree if anything else happens to the team this season.
-Sota
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Antoine is a Ninja
What up world,
On Monday night, I settled down on my roommates couch and watched the Vikings bumble their way toward a victory against the New Orleans Saints. It was absolutely god awful to watch. If I were a Saints fan, I would have wanted to stab bunnies after seeing my team give that game away. The Vikings offense looked like they had been kicked in the balls prior to each play from scrimmage. Each time the ball was snapped, they would immediately fall to the ground and writhe in agony. It burned my eye-balls to watch it.
I needed four fantasy points out of Purple Jesus in order to win for the week. Four points, that was it. I understand that the Saints were putting their entire defense, several members of the coaching staff, a couple of fans, and the entire referee crew into the box, but Peterson could get four fantasy points if he were running without a foot, both arms, and carrying his mother on his back. I'm going to chalk this up to Purple Jesus spending his entire weekend rebuilding the remaining homes of New Orleans. Instead of renting those 'wide load' trucks, the city asked Adrian to lift and move the rebuilt houses on his shoulders. He was a little tired from the heavy lifting. I get that, but I need you AP. No more charity work while the fantasy football season is going, okay? Alright, we're cool.
The real key to victory for us, more than Bernard Berrian's big day, or the fairly solid performance of the defense, or Grundy Undies somewhat accurate throws , was the play of my boy Antoine Winfield. He was all over the place, single handily winning the game for the Purple. I don't know much about Antoine, other than the fact that he is tiny and awesome. I caught up with him after the game. Here's a quick recap of our conversation.
Sota: What it is Antoine? Great game on Monday.
Antoine Winfield: Thanks Sota. I was just doing my job.
S: Yeah right. I think you far exceeded your job expectations. Unless your defined role is to make quarterbacks wet themselves, or to look extra sexy scoring defensive touchdowns, or to be a little, stealth ninja out on the field.
AW: What? Who told you that?
S: What?
AW: That I was a ninja?
S: Nobody. I was just making things up. I was just trying to tell you that you had a great game, and that I plan on putting a life-size poster of you on my wall and having frequent conversations with it.
AW: Oh good, because if word got out there that I was a ninja, I would have to start killing people.
S: So you are telling me that you are an actual ninja?
AW: Yes, but that has to be our little secret. Nobody can know about this.
S: Okay, I understand. It's probably against ninja code to show your face right?
AW: Exactly. The Ninja Alliance, of which I am a co-founder, would not look too kindly on me revealing myself to millions of people each week. Plus, other quarterbacks would probably say that it's unfair for a ninja to be playing against them.
S: Well yeah.
AW: But if the Vikings didn't have a ninja on their roster, with a head coach as awful as ours, we would be the worst team in the NFL. It would be like a drunk house cat named Fluffles trying to teach the Ninja Turtles to fight, instead of Splinter.
S: Right. Good analogy. Well, I look forward to more of your ninja ways in the upcoming weeks. Maybe you can start your own Dojo in the caverns of the metrodome and secretly teach T-Jack to be a ninja of his own?
AW: I'm already working on it. We're also working on a secret plan to assassinate Chilli Willi with some of our throwing stars.
S: Nice, I'm on board. I'll keep your secret safe.
"The Ninja Alliance"
I couldn't help myself. I had to tell someone, but I'm asking you, the reader, to keep this secret as well. Here is a quick video of our favorite secret assassin while acting as commissioner of the Ninja Alliance.
-Sota
On Monday night, I settled down on my roommates couch and watched the Vikings bumble their way toward a victory against the New Orleans Saints. It was absolutely god awful to watch. If I were a Saints fan, I would have wanted to stab bunnies after seeing my team give that game away. The Vikings offense looked like they had been kicked in the balls prior to each play from scrimmage. Each time the ball was snapped, they would immediately fall to the ground and writhe in agony. It burned my eye-balls to watch it.
I needed four fantasy points out of Purple Jesus in order to win for the week. Four points, that was it. I understand that the Saints were putting their entire defense, several members of the coaching staff, a couple of fans, and the entire referee crew into the box, but Peterson could get four fantasy points if he were running without a foot, both arms, and carrying his mother on his back. I'm going to chalk this up to Purple Jesus spending his entire weekend rebuilding the remaining homes of New Orleans. Instead of renting those 'wide load' trucks, the city asked Adrian to lift and move the rebuilt houses on his shoulders. He was a little tired from the heavy lifting. I get that, but I need you AP. No more charity work while the fantasy football season is going, okay? Alright, we're cool.
The real key to victory for us, more than Bernard Berrian's big day, or the fairly solid performance of the defense, or Grundy Undies somewhat accurate throws , was the play of my boy Antoine Winfield. He was all over the place, single handily winning the game for the Purple. I don't know much about Antoine, other than the fact that he is tiny and awesome. I caught up with him after the game. Here's a quick recap of our conversation.
Sota: What it is Antoine? Great game on Monday.
Antoine Winfield: Thanks Sota. I was just doing my job.
S: Yeah right. I think you far exceeded your job expectations. Unless your defined role is to make quarterbacks wet themselves, or to look extra sexy scoring defensive touchdowns, or to be a little, stealth ninja out on the field.
AW: What? Who told you that?
S: What?
AW: That I was a ninja?
S: Nobody. I was just making things up. I was just trying to tell you that you had a great game, and that I plan on putting a life-size poster of you on my wall and having frequent conversations with it.
AW: Oh good, because if word got out there that I was a ninja, I would have to start killing people.
S: So you are telling me that you are an actual ninja?
AW: Yes, but that has to be our little secret. Nobody can know about this.
S: Okay, I understand. It's probably against ninja code to show your face right?
AW: Exactly. The Ninja Alliance, of which I am a co-founder, would not look too kindly on me revealing myself to millions of people each week. Plus, other quarterbacks would probably say that it's unfair for a ninja to be playing against them.
S: Well yeah.
AW: But if the Vikings didn't have a ninja on their roster, with a head coach as awful as ours, we would be the worst team in the NFL. It would be like a drunk house cat named Fluffles trying to teach the Ninja Turtles to fight, instead of Splinter.
S: Right. Good analogy. Well, I look forward to more of your ninja ways in the upcoming weeks. Maybe you can start your own Dojo in the caverns of the metrodome and secretly teach T-Jack to be a ninja of his own?
AW: I'm already working on it. We're also working on a secret plan to assassinate Chilli Willi with some of our throwing stars.
S: Nice, I'm on board. I'll keep your secret safe.
"The Ninja Alliance"
I couldn't help myself. I had to tell someone, but I'm asking you, the reader, to keep this secret as well. Here is a quick video of our favorite secret assassin while acting as commissioner of the Ninja Alliance.
-Sota
Monday, September 22, 2008
G.U.S.
What up world,
I have some mixed emotions on the Vikings game yesterday. I really like the Carolina Panthers. I like that Jake Delhomme gets fired up on the field and shoots flames from his nostrils. I like that Steve Smith has a huge Napoleon complex and will eventually dominate fantasy football stats for the rest of the season (I need you Steve. Go crazy. Not like, punch a teammate crazy, like touchdown crazy). I like that Julius Peppers could sack a quarterback, save a child from a burning building, and impregnant an entire section of a football stadium in one quarter of a game.
Also, I'm not thrilled with the selection of Gus Frerotte as our quarterback of the future. He did look a lot better than a certain T-Jack quarterback, but he's just so old. His Bradke grease hair has started to show a little gray around the edges. He was born in 1971, and I still can't get past the name. Gus is the kid that picks his nose and wears suspenders, not the heroic leader of a football team.
Last night, as I watched the Cowboys sexually assualt the Packers, I asked whether anyone knew Gus' full name. There was a myriad of suggestions, my favorite being an acronym of Grundy Underwear Sweat, but no one seemed to know exactly what it was. Through the magic of the internets, I found his full name was Gustave Joseph Frerotte. I'm a little dissappointed that it wasn't Grundy Undies, but as long as he continues to lead the Vikes to victory, I'm willing to let it pass.
In the end, a win is still a win. I thought that the defense looked really good, and I'm even starting to like EJ Henderson. This is a big move for me, as I've wanted to murder him in his sleep for several years prior to this. Purple Jesus did not dominate like I expected him to, but I'm pretty sure that he was playing with only one hamstring yesterday. He told me that he just tied the other in a knot prior to heading onto the field. After the game, I saw him walking around the field turf piece that covers the pitcher's mound. He told me that he was blessing it in anticipation of the Twins series this week. I asked him if he could predict what was going to happen. He smiled at me and simply said, "Sweep" before ascending into the heavens.
-Sota
I have some mixed emotions on the Vikings game yesterday. I really like the Carolina Panthers. I like that Jake Delhomme gets fired up on the field and shoots flames from his nostrils. I like that Steve Smith has a huge Napoleon complex and will eventually dominate fantasy football stats for the rest of the season (I need you Steve. Go crazy. Not like, punch a teammate crazy, like touchdown crazy). I like that Julius Peppers could sack a quarterback, save a child from a burning building, and impregnant an entire section of a football stadium in one quarter of a game.
Also, I'm not thrilled with the selection of Gus Frerotte as our quarterback of the future. He did look a lot better than a certain T-Jack quarterback, but he's just so old. His Bradke grease hair has started to show a little gray around the edges. He was born in 1971, and I still can't get past the name. Gus is the kid that picks his nose and wears suspenders, not the heroic leader of a football team.
Last night, as I watched the Cowboys sexually assualt the Packers, I asked whether anyone knew Gus' full name. There was a myriad of suggestions, my favorite being an acronym of Grundy Underwear Sweat, but no one seemed to know exactly what it was. Through the magic of the internets, I found his full name was Gustave Joseph Frerotte. I'm a little dissappointed that it wasn't Grundy Undies, but as long as he continues to lead the Vikes to victory, I'm willing to let it pass.
In the end, a win is still a win. I thought that the defense looked really good, and I'm even starting to like EJ Henderson. This is a big move for me, as I've wanted to murder him in his sleep for several years prior to this. Purple Jesus did not dominate like I expected him to, but I'm pretty sure that he was playing with only one hamstring yesterday. He told me that he just tied the other in a knot prior to heading onto the field. After the game, I saw him walking around the field turf piece that covers the pitcher's mound. He told me that he was blessing it in anticipation of the Twins series this week. I asked him if he could predict what was going to happen. He smiled at me and simply said, "Sweep" before ascending into the heavens.
-Sota
Monday, August 18, 2008
Purple Jesus
What up world,
I'm watching the Twins play on-line right now, and too disgusted with the assiness of the bats to make any comment. 10 hits and 2 runs? Gross. The Sux are going boom all over the Mariners also, so it looks like our brief ride at top is coming to a close. Do the Sux ever score other than home runs? Ughh.
Instead of discussing these topics, I would like to talk to you about my fantasies. It's time to get real up close and personal. I have this recurring dream involving Jesus, Sharpie markers, an airplane, and monkeys. It's a complicated dream, but the first portion came to fruition on Sunday night. With the number two pick in my fantasy football draft I selected my boy, Purple Jesus. I'm hoping that he will be the savior of my miserable fantasy football team this year and I can finally fulfill my quest of winning the league.
I have been the commissioner of the league for four years and the closest that I've come to winning has been a third place finish. Other years I haven't even made the playoffs, and unless Purple Jesus brings God's wrath upon every team the Vikings face this year (I would suggest fire and brimstone), I may be headed for a very similar finish. I don't feel like the poor showings can be attributed to a lack of trying either. I put a ridiculous amount of time into research each year. A ridiculous amount of time into an activity that is completely based in fantasy.
I'm not saying that fantasy football isn't fun. It makes me far more entertained on Sundays, and it provides ample opportunity to talk trash to your friends. Why would I be interested in the Colts and Steelers game? There is no impact on the Vikings, but I do have Peyton Manning and the Steelers defense, so I'm locked to the television and drooling over every touchdown pass and fumble recovery for three hours. Under normal circumstances, why would I tell my friend that I'm going to throw monkey feces at Tony Romo? Fantasy football provides a perfect format for this type of discussion.
So Purple Jesus, put the healing touch to your quarterback's knee, demand that he throws multiple swing passes to you, request clean hand-offs, and to never, ever look to someone else in the red zone. Tell Childress that it's God's will for you to have 2,000 yards rushing, with something like 60 combined touchdowns. That should do nicely.
The Vikings and my fantasy team are your sheep Purple Jesus. Shepard us to the postseason, and if you feel like releasing locusts on the Packers along the way, that would be welcomed.
-Sota
I'm watching the Twins play on-line right now, and too disgusted with the assiness of the bats to make any comment. 10 hits and 2 runs? Gross. The Sux are going boom all over the Mariners also, so it looks like our brief ride at top is coming to a close. Do the Sux ever score other than home runs? Ughh.
Instead of discussing these topics, I would like to talk to you about my fantasies. It's time to get real up close and personal. I have this recurring dream involving Jesus, Sharpie markers, an airplane, and monkeys. It's a complicated dream, but the first portion came to fruition on Sunday night. With the number two pick in my fantasy football draft I selected my boy, Purple Jesus. I'm hoping that he will be the savior of my miserable fantasy football team this year and I can finally fulfill my quest of winning the league.
I have been the commissioner of the league for four years and the closest that I've come to winning has been a third place finish. Other years I haven't even made the playoffs, and unless Purple Jesus brings God's wrath upon every team the Vikings face this year (I would suggest fire and brimstone), I may be headed for a very similar finish. I don't feel like the poor showings can be attributed to a lack of trying either. I put a ridiculous amount of time into research each year. A ridiculous amount of time into an activity that is completely based in fantasy.
I'm not saying that fantasy football isn't fun. It makes me far more entertained on Sundays, and it provides ample opportunity to talk trash to your friends. Why would I be interested in the Colts and Steelers game? There is no impact on the Vikings, but I do have Peyton Manning and the Steelers defense, so I'm locked to the television and drooling over every touchdown pass and fumble recovery for three hours. Under normal circumstances, why would I tell my friend that I'm going to throw monkey feces at Tony Romo? Fantasy football provides a perfect format for this type of discussion.
So Purple Jesus, put the healing touch to your quarterback's knee, demand that he throws multiple swing passes to you, request clean hand-offs, and to never, ever look to someone else in the red zone. Tell Childress that it's God's will for you to have 2,000 yards rushing, with something like 60 combined touchdowns. That should do nicely.
The Vikings and my fantasy team are your sheep Purple Jesus. Shepard us to the postseason, and if you feel like releasing locusts on the Packers along the way, that would be welcomed.
-Sota
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