Over?!? Did you say "over?!?" Nothing is over until WE say it is!

So we’re saying it. It’s over.

Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no! It was over when the British bombed Nagasaki. And Vinse Yung was flying the Bockscar when they dropped the Fat Man on us Monday night.

Realistically, the Saints aren’t going to recover from this 0-3 start to make the playoffs. That would require a miracle, and the Saints don’t do miracles. The Saints do kicks to the genitals.

Hakim’s fumble? Last year’s NFC Championship run? No, those weren’t miracles. Those were just things that happen to other teams all the time, but they look and feel like miracles to us because we’re Saints fans. Saints fans with perpetually aching groins.

But those aching groins are precisely why Wormer is a dead man. Marmalard, dead! Niedermeyer, dead!!! It’s because we’re Saints fans. Damn hell ass Saints fans! You want to talk about trading Reggie and benching Drew and firing Coach Payton, well you can just kiss my ass from now on! Not me! I’m not gonna take it anymore! You know I’m right. Psychotic, but right. We’ve gotta take these bastards. 

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So long ago
Was it in a dream, was it just a dream?
I know, yes I know
Seemed so very real, it seemed so real to me

Was it really just last year? Seems like so long ago. 2-0, Gleason’s block, all day coverage on all the major sports networks, people were falling in love with the Saints all over again. Hard to believe that was just 364 days ago. And now?

Strange days indeed. Most peculiar, mama.

The Saints are 0-2 and there’s a freaky mix of confusion, denial, desperation and general, all-purpose pissedoffedness surrounding tonight’s game. On message boards, everybody’s talking and no one says a word. Everybody’s making love and no one really cares. There’s Nazis in the bathroom just below the stairs. On the field, there’s always something happening and nothing going on. There’s always something cooking but nothing in the pot. They’re reeling down on Airline, so we’ll go with what we’ve got.

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Is it any wonder Vinse Yung is the leader of the Titans? The original leader of the Titans (otherwise known as the children of Uranus, which is a strikingly appropriate homonym) was Cronus. He cut off his dad’s cock and threw it into the ocean. Then he married his sister and knocked her up six times. Cronus didn’t want the kids, so he ate them. Except for one. Cronus’ sister/wife tricked him by giving him a rock wrapped in a blanket instead, which he promptly ate. Ha, what a chump. The surviving son, Zeus, eventually cut off Cronus’ cock and sent him to hell.

Only in Texas.

The Saints offense comes into this game with a simple goal: Try to put up a score higher than Vinse did on his Wonderlic. The defense will be hoping the Titans don’t top that on their first drive.

Though, to be fair to Vinse, the rumors that he put up a mind-numbingly-shitty 6 on his Wonderlic did turn out to be false. (Or, as Vinse would put it, "not write." ) What actually happened was that when Vinse wrote his name at the top of the test, he spelled it with a six. Six was also his answer to the question: "What is the opposite of up?"

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Everyone is going fetal
If you feel like your fate is sealed
Then just get down and curl on up
Just like a little helpless pup
Alright

New Orleans Saints: Souljackers

Know what’s great about this week’s game against the Titans? It won’t ruin your Sunday. Hey, we take what we can get.

Funny what a couple of weeks will do to your outlook on life. And I’ve got jury duty tomorrow. Oh yeah, I’m one big ball of fucking sunshine right about now.

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Welcome to my breakdown
I hope I didn’t scare you
That’s just the way we are when we come down
We sweat and laugh and scream here
‘cuz life is just a dream here
You know inside you feel right at home here

That loud crunching sound you heard Sunday afternoon was the sound of hundreds of thousands of souls being crushed under the weight of the Saints’ general incompetence. Damned if I wasn’t less than a week away from completely forgetting what that feels like.

NFC Championship? Nah. I was still riding high on the wave of euphoria from the Saints just being there in the first place. Colts game last week? Nah. It was the Colts. And the irrational exuberance of the start of a season with unprecedented expectations served to soften the blow.

This? Well, fuck this. The Buccaneers? Really? Nah, I just shouldn’t have eaten those mushrooms with the purple stuff on the bottoms of their caps. Right? RIGHT??? What planet am I on, and how can I get back to the one where the Saints are contenders? Hell, I’d settle for the one where the Saints are competitive.

I used to be such a sweet, sweet thing
‘Til they got a hold of me.
I opened doors for little old ladies,
I helped the blind to see.

But when I die, I want you to remember me as I am right now. A steaming pile of simmering rage.

Sunday, the Saints travel to Northern Cuba with the intention of reminding us all that they’re still a contender, and a game against the only NFL franchise officially endorsed by the International Lesbian and Gay Association ought to be just what the doctor ordered.

Heads are still exploding all over these here internets after the Saints’ skulldragging two Thursdays ago at the hands of Peyton Manning and the Colts. The carnage will only cease once the Bucs roll over and take it Ybor City style, which is exactly what’s going to happen.

The best part, for me anyway, is that this game is actually scheduled for Sunday, 1:00 Eastern / 12:00 Central, which is the only proper time to schedule a Saints game.

Combine that with what should be a fairly dominant Saints win, and Sunday has the potential to be a fine, fine day. (Ashley, I see your Donnie Iris and raise you one Tony Carey.)

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Bet you didn’t know that we here at moosedenied "know people." Oh yeah, we’re VIPs. When we’re not eating pizza with Dulymus or hanging at the Bad Newz barber shop with Aaron Brooks, we’re drunk-dialing various notables to see if we can actually get them on the phone. Recently we were able to convince the lady at the front desk at LSU’s athletic department that it would be a good idea to put us through to coach Les Miles. And she bought it. Holy shit! We hit the motherlode, as during the conversation with coach Miles, a handful of other notables actually returned our voice mails and we were able to conference them in. Sounding exactly like Screamin’ A. Smith on the phone has its benefits. Anyway, here’s a transcript…

GW: Hi coach Miles, thanks for taking my call.
Miles: I’m not discussing Michigan. I’m not discussing it at home, I’m not discussing it here, I’m not discussing it in a boat, I’m not discussing it with a goat, I’m not discussing it in a tree, I’m not……

GW: I understand, coach. No problem.
Miles: Good. Because I’m not discussing Michigan.

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