Cha… ching? Pop quiz, hotshot: What happens when an unprecedented level of success, an impossible-to-maintain early season hot streak and a far-crappier-than-expected midseason performance collide with the acute neurosis of a fatalistic fanbase who just can’t shake the notion that it’s only a matter of time before all their hopes and dreams slip from their grasp for the 42nd consecutive time?

Answer: Panic.

Heads have been exploding all over the internet. The other shoe is finally dropping. Saints fans thought they were about to close the deal on a postseason date with Sara, but they’re beginning to think they might have been on the phone with Jackie the whole time. The Saints’ mojo has gone the way of the "i" in Jm J Bullock. It’s as if the network has taken our Three’s Company lead-in and replaced it with Joanie Loves Chachi. Before we know it, we’re gonna be finding out that Muriel’s pregnant and a long lost cousin is moving to town. This isn’t going to end well, is it?

Easy there, cowboy. Just because it looks like they might be installing a ramp on the Gulf Exhibit at the Aquarium of the Americas, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Drew Brees is waxing up his waterskis. It’d be hard for him to jump a shark right now anyway, what with his head up his ass and all.

Oh, I’m not saying that the concerns aren’t valid. Of course they are. And because the concerns right at the moment have nothing to do with Reggie Bush, they’re a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation. I don’t think anyone is blind to the fact that the quality of the Saints’ play isn’t nearly what it was earlier in the season.

And we’re Saints fans, for crying out loud. We’ve been conditioned our whole lives to look at even modest success as merely the precursor to the eventual epic collapse. Every silver lining has its cloud. It’s always brightest just before the dusk. Every rose has its thorn, and other such introspective power ballad fodder. It’s not like we don’t have the scar tissue on our genitals to justify our considerable baggage.

There’s been a lot of talk over the last few weeks about whether or not Saints fans have gotten "spoiled" by the unsustainable early-season spate of dominance. I don’t think we’re spoiled. Just neurotic. Reeeeeeeally fuckin’ neurotic.

What other explanation can there be for our collective predilection for lamenting all manner of DOOOOOM that hasn’t even happened yet? We’re 9-0 and already crying in our beer. Hell, some of us (I’m looking in your direction, Ed Daniels and Pete Finney) got started back in fuckin’ August, which seems to fly in the face of the "spoiled" notion. To me, it’s not so much about spoilage as it is about an innate emotional instability in the first place.

It’s understandable, but it’s still ridiculous. This is why I’d make a terrible psychoanalyst or therapist, and an even worse Analrapist™. Because, while I get it, I still wouldn’t be able to stop myself from pointing and snickering and indulging in various forms of jackassery at the patients’ expense. Which would probably be bad for business.

Look, I know you’re tired of hearing "We’re 9-0! What’s the fuckin’ problem?!?" Especially when you know that there are problems, and that they’re real, and that there’s no sense in ignoring them until the damage is already done. Hey, after foolishly attempting to address the Reggie Bush issue last month, I can definitely relate. Sucks, doesn’t it?

But if Reggie can regain some semblance of his erstwhile intermittent awesomeness, which has clearly been the case since the calendar flipped to November, then so can the Saints.

And in the meantime, it’s not like Jackie wasn’t pretty hot in her own right. Sure, maybe Sara’s bra could put a bigger hurtin’ on a washing machine than Jackie’s jeans, and that’s a pretty strong selling point right there. No harm in setting one’s goals higher than could reasonably be expected. As long as you don’t torpedo yourself by forgetting that, before you got carried away, banging either of the Rush girls was little more than a beautiful, unachievable pipe dream.

We’re Saints fans, for crying out loud. We’re not choosers, we’re still beggars. Which is precisely why the only correct reaction to the "ugly" NINE AND MOTHERFUCKING OH situation here is to let our oozing euphoria gush out all over the rainbow painted on the wall.

Because self-inflicted erectile dysfunction, regardless of whether it’s a result of fear of a future which may never come to pass, or whether it’s a result of "settling" for your second choice of chicks who are way out of your league, is for chumps.

Big huge pathetic fuckin’ chumps.

Don’t believe me? I dare you, DARE YOU to refute the preseason wisdom of the venerable Pete Finney:

But I’m listening to all the tweets and twitters — is that what they call ‘em? — and I’m in a fog. You read some of those gushing communiqués from Saints-land, and it’s enough to ask: What happens if the Bengals happen to make a first down against Gregg Williams’ defense?

Better yet, God forbid, what happens if they throw a 30-yard touchdown pass to a wide-open receiver? Will the NFL world, as we know it, come crashing down?

For many of you out there, it might.

My question: How good will the 2009 Saints be?

My answer: As good as their record.

As good as their record. Indeed.

Dude’s a fuckin’ prophet, I tells ya! And all this time you were probably thinking that was just the barely-coherent babbling of a guy whose give-a-damn took its last breath during the Carter administration. Ever get tired of being WRONG?

Clearly this was the barely-coherent babbling of a guy who’s totally plugged in to the nature of the neurosis. He may still be struggling to get fully hipped to the tweets and twitters and horseless carriages and whatnot, but who among us isn’t?

You come to moosedenied for insight. (We’ll pause here for a moment while mock applause fills the internet.) And there you have it. On behalf of Pete, you’re welcome.

I mean, seriously, lest we forget that in ANY OTHER YEAR, Porter’s ACL would have been busted up worse than Tommy Chong’s head shop. Any other year, the Saints are playing the role of Monroe Ficus in the back of a van with two very large ladies.

Not this year. This year, everything’s different. Everything.

Oh sure, the cosmos is mocking us right now, to a degree. For old times’ sake, I’m sure. But if 9-0 and the prospect of Porter being healthy and hell bent for leather come playoff time aren’t proof positive that these ain’t the old times, then what’s it gonna take?

The Saints have still yet to relinquish a lead all season. They still lead the league in takeaways. They still have the best quarterback in the league when his head isn’t up his ass. They still lead the league in total offense. They’re still 4th place all-time in scoring through 9 games. They rushed for 200+ yards Sunday, led by Reggie Bush, no less. All indications are that Ellis, Sharper, Greer, Porter and Lance Moore have dodged bullets that would have each on its own severed an artery in any other year. And dammit, they’re 9-0 for crying out loud!

So I implore you, for the love of fuck, BELIEVE ALREADY! The only vicious cycle left to be broken is our own.

Because everything else, believe it or not, is falling into place. The division is won (and if you don’t believe that at this point, you really need professional help) and the only competition left for homefield advantage is a dome team with an 80 year old hillbilly douchebag at quarterback.

And the Saints have been playing their worst football… at the best possible time.

It’s just a slump, not the beginning of a collapse. If it were the beginning of a collapse, somebody new wouldn’t be stepping up every fucking week to save the day. Hargrove, Usama, Roby, Devery, Meachem, Morstead, Ayodele, Reggie…

We got this. How can that not be obvious at this point when, despite all odds, everything continues to come up Milhouse?

With the Non-Denominational General-Purpose Federal Winter Holiday Season quickly approaching, perhaps it’s time to re-acquaint ourselves with the wisdom of the magnificent bastards at Negativland:

Shop as usual, and avoid panic buying.

Indeed. These Saints, they are Squant. Confounding, but beautiful. If you’re letting your own baggage get in the way of enjoying them, you’re missing out something fierce.