Tradition Tuesday: Even in the Wildest of Week 17s, I Imagine It Would Behoove One to Ax Somebody

The rough focus of this blog is the rivalry between the Kansas City Chiefs and the Denver Broncos. We foolishly attend games at one another's stadiums each year, a gig we've had going for eight strong seasons. And by "strong," I mean consecutive. When we're not partaking of said elegance, we're busy bringing you The Tradition, our weekly state-of-the-rivalry address.

I'd be lying if didn't admit the inspiration that the Kissing Suzy Kolber clan has given me over the last two and-a-half years, and given how spanktacular things haven't been in the AFC West these last two seasons, their efforts regarding my division foes continue to stack up each week. While I've likely put together a lot of "work" here that was inspired by the blogkkaksters over yonder, I've never quite lifted an idea of theirs with the deliberance (Editor's Note: Patent pending.) that I will display this very morning. The reason for such is two-fold: I am an uninventive sloth with no sense of originality; and 60 percent of the time, it's damn funny stuff all the time. That said, kudos, as always, to them, and good luck, tho' I wishes it upon myself, to me.

It was 2008. The wind was rustling, the air brisk and heavy. A young, insulin-pack laden, pig-faced Indiana boy, graced with an arm strength greater than Marino, Montana, and Elway combined fondled his imaginary six-shooter, his eye on a prize...

(breeze picks up a bit; music spills out of nearby saloon)



"I'm gonna rope this baby



in easier than some Santa Claus 'tang on a Saturday night..."



"Not so fas-- (leg snaps and crumbles as he goes to stand from his saloon-porch table) Oww!" (fastens stretcher out of two chairs; lays down)



"YOU BUMBLING TWATS! DON'T YOU KNOW A FUCKETY FUCK ABOUT THIS FUCKING GAME SCHEME! THAT'S NOT EVEN A REAL TROPHY. THAT'S SOME COCKAMAMIE HORSE CRAP THAT EDWARDS MADE UP TO GET HIS SORRY-ASS TEAM (makes Marmalardish finger quotes) MOTIVATED."



"Hey now, Phil. That's not very n--"

Rivers: "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU NEVER-COORDINATIN', SWEET-POTATO PIE EATIN' WORD MAKER-UPPER! CUTLERFUCKER -- DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING, YOU VANDERBILT DIPSTICK? WE WANT THIS ONE...



...AND THEN THIS ONE!"





(whispers to self) "Geez. Dunno what he's so mad about."

Rivers: "I HEARD THAT, YOU LITTLE GLAZED-DOUGHNUT FACED SHIT DICK! DON'T YOU EVER MURMUR UNDER YOUR BREATH ABOUT THE MARMANATOR! THE MARMANATOR IS ALL POWERFUL ALL THE TIME. HE CONTROLS THE NORV TURNER. HE CONTROLS THE MIKE SHANAHAN. HE CONTROLS THE GOODELL. HE EVE--

(earth rumbles; glasses fall from Croyle's table, shatter; Rivers and Cutler clutch nearby support beams)



"SILENCE, you pathetic bait-for-Eli fuck stain! How dare you interrupt my workout with your visions of grandeur?! You shall suffer the consequences..." (adjusts scoreboard of already decided contest, then instantly vanishes to write letter of apology to saloon owner for broken glasses)



(searches for words to describe the bone-crackling sound of his about-to-explode skull) "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"



"Hey, guys. What was that noise? Is everybody ok--" (dislocates, wrist, elbow and shoulder with interrogatory shrug) "Ouch!" (scampers at snail's pace back into saloon)



(peeks head out of saloon doors) "Yo, WonderBreads. Either uh y'all got a match?"

Cutler and Rivers: "SHADDUP!"



"Dudes! Y'all gots to see this. Check it out..."

(slowly, diligently removes killing instrument for Marmalard/Cutlerfucker slaying from within skeleton)

"Y'all are never gonna believe it. Somebody showed me this. I's laughin' for days."

(saloon side door flies open; Edwards emerges in sweater vest)

"Tyler! Hey, Tyler. It's Herman. Your head coach, Herman. You know that new fly sound you was talkin' about? Well, listen to THIS."



(mix tape hits Thigpen in temple, dropping him in the dust; weapon of destruction clanks upon a stone, shimmers in the AFC sun; Rivers spies it, makes way toward it while observing Cutler enjoying some Cool Ranch Doritos)



(tumbleweeds whip by; music inside resumes)...
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Open Letter to the Lord Our God

I haven't asked for much this season, God. And you've delivered even less. But come with me, father of Jesus Christ, beyond the jump, to examine my last request. Well, my last request for today anyway...

Okay, it's kind of a combination request package, but I'll keep it simple.

1) One week from today, I need the Denver Broncos to lose when they host the Buffalo Bills at InVesCo Field at Mile High Stadium. On that same day, I need a San Diego Charger road win at Raymond James Stadium against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

2) The week after that, those two AFC West teams face off at Qualcomm Stadium. A Charger win on that day would be cooler than Easter. For real.

And that's it. You pick the scores; arrange them so that your fantasy team goes off, even. I don't care about attendance, or injuries, or anything beyond those results. That is, if you want to throw the above-pictured zebra into that game, that might be awesome, too. But if not, at least make it so this



comes up no less than five trillion times in the week leading up to the game. Thank you so much.

Your devout son,
bankmeister
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