We here at moosedenied have long maintained that the Saints' three biggest needs for years now have been: 1. Samoans, 2. Guys who will kill a motherfucker for a biscuit, and 3. DUDES NAMED RUFUS! Two out of three ain't bad, eh? High five!

Fortunately, days two and three more than made up for a first night that wasn't nearly as fun as we had hoped it would be. Eventually, it turned out that there was something for (almost) everybody in this here rookie class. In fact, preliminary indications are that this might very well be the most immediately-satisfying Saints draft overall since 2006. (And because it really doesn't feel like it most of the time, I'd like to point out that 2006 was a long time ago.) So for now, I guess we'll go ahead and chalk that up as a bona fide win.

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Welcome to draft week, bitches!

Mercifully, it appears we've finally awoken from our collective year-long fever dream, and at long last, shit's about to get real once again.

Dan Dalrymple has Our Heroes (and Patrick Robinson) back to grinding and chopping and pureeing and whatever else they do on the line there. Our award-winning Executive Chef is back in the kitchen and apparently more eccentric than ever, blasting those nips and looking vaguely like he just came from auditioning to be the new drummer for Green Day. There's a brand new big fat party animal in charge of conjuring up the chicken salad, and while it remains to be seen whether or not his recipe is any better, all indications so far are that he's at least somewhat less of a complete sociopath than our last big fat crazy-ass garde manger. Somehow Mickey Loomis manages to continue stocking the fridge using whatever loose change he can find out in the parking lot. And later this week, we're getting a delivery of brand new exotic proteins to put on the menu. Shouldn't we be a hell of a lot more excited about all this than we seem to be so far?

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Welp. I mean, of course wackiness was bound to ensue. Duh. It was inevitable. This! Is! New Orleans!

And of course, no matter how the aforementioned inevitable wackiness were to have manifested itself, you just knew that there would be an immediate chorus of put-upon media types wagging their fingers and screaming "Shame on NOLA!" What an absolute travesty! It's an outrage! Oh boo fuckin' hoo. The Legits are such bitches. And, as usual, their sense of entitlement and their general-purpose irritability have them looking at this thing all wrong. The blackout was without a doubt the single most awesome thing that happened during Super Bowl "Big Game" 47, and quite possibly the most fun thing that happened during whole damn two-week corporate orgy. It was a bona fide "for the ages" moment. To hell with who's "to blame." They ought to be trying to figure out who deserves the credit. Continue Reading…

Alright Barkevious, it's high time we set a few things straight here before this situation gets out of hand.

Look, I know that Sean Payton wasted little time last week in putting the Spaghead Experience™ to its merciful end, and that he has publicly stated that the Saints will be moving to a 34 defense this fall. I'm aware of the fact that this has plenty of Saints fans daydreaming of a return to the good old days of the Dome Patrol. I bet you think you ought to be a part of that project, don't you Barkevious? Who do you think you are, former New Orleans Saints linebacker Pat Swilling? Continue Reading…

The first time I saw Sonny I was just about this tall. And he always made my mama kinda crazy when he'd call. And him and my old man would stand and whisper in the hall. Then they'd disappear, and maybe not come home at all.

Then one day Sonny stopped coming around. Heard he got himself into a little trouble up in town. Some time after that, he finally disappeared for good. But he pulled that ole Houdini, like we always knew he would. Continue Reading…

Speak out, you've got to speak out against the madness. You've got to speak your mind, if you dare. ~David Crosby

Welcome to 2013, bitches. Hope you weren't expecting this here soap opera to suddenly come to an end when the clock struck midnight Tuesday morning. Turns out it was just the beginning of the next episode, and it looks like this one's gonna be just as packed with incessant plot twists, intrigue and reality tee vee show drama as the last one. And you know what? I think I'm just fine with that. I've grown accustomed to it. And as frustrating and downright bizarre as it can be sometimes, it's sure to be a hell of a lot more entertaining than staring at a test pattern until August (or April, whichever comes first.) Continue Reading…

Where y'at, brah? Been a while. Say, if you've got a couple minutes, mind if I fix you up a Mid City Mule or three and have a word?

Look, man, I know I've been a bit of a dick this year. I'm not proud of it, but there's no sense in denying it. In my defense, it's been one hell of a crappy year for us Saints fans, and there's been an awful lot to be pissed off about. But I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. Fuckin' Roger, am I right? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. You've always been cool like that. That's why you're my boy. High five! Anyway, I hate to ask, but I was wondering if you might do a brother a solid over here. I'm not just asking for me, I'm asking for all of us. I'd be happy to pay you back by trashing that "Elf On The Shelf" douche on the internets if you want. That work for ya? Continue Reading…

Happy throngs, take this joy. Wherever. Wherever you go.

To hell with drafting five spots higher come April. That right there hit the damn spot, and was totally worth it.

So much for the ridiculous notion that the Saints had "given up" or "don't give a shit anymore." So much for fans resigning themselves to 1970s-style Saints football for the next ten years because Roger slammed the window shut. So much for the offense having lost the Magic. So much for the defense being hopelessly, irredeemably shitty. So much for Mark Ingram being The Next Troy Davis. So much for Joseph Morgan being The Next Onome Ojo. So much for Jimmy Graham being a one-year-wonder. So much for the 100 Million Dollar Man being in the early stages of being washed-up and/or having lost his edge. So much for this team being a shell of its former self. Sunday's performance reaffirmed that the killing machine of the last three years is still in there somewhere. Feel free to exhale now. Continue Reading…

Eat that, King Jerkface.

So at long last, Paul Tagliabue finally told us what we've known all along. This whole thing was mostly a crock of shit right from day one, and Joffrey Roger is a capricious, tyrannical megalomaniac who seized an opportunity (granted, one that the Saints organization handed him on a silver platter) to coerce into existence a foundation upon which to stage a dog-and-pony show for the sake of advancing the league's self-serving agenda with regard to the player safety issue, as well as cementing his own status as the unimpeachable lord and master of all his eyes survey. Unfortunately that specific language was stricken from the final draft, but the substance of the ruling made it clear anyway. Continue Reading…

Welp, round 13 sure was a sumbitch.

I suppose this is the point in the plot where Our Hero is way down on the scorecard, has just gone face down in the middle of the ring for the 7th time, his left eye is swollen shut, Paulie's got the towel in his hand and is winding up to throw, the referee's at 8, and Mickey's shouting at him from the corner to just stay down. "Ya can't win, Rock!" And then something horribly, horribly fortuitous happens. The bell rings to end the round. Our Hero peels himself up off the mat, staggers over to the corner, and now he's got 60 seconds to regroup and convince himself that he's still got a chance in hell. "Cut me, Mick."  Oh shit. This can't possibly end well. Continue Reading…

Ouch. I swear, the 49ers were affecting the Saints' heads so hard, they had me reaching for the Advil. (And the bourbon.)

Now might be a good time to go ahead and remind ourselves that the Saints straight up own the Falcons. Own! And we won't have to wait a full 7 days to get the bad taste out of our mouths this week. So we've got that going for us. Until then, hey, at least everything else was coming up Milhouse around the NFC Sunday afternoon. Jeff Duncan and Pete Finney can dance on their graves all they want, but the Saints ain't dead just yet. Continue Reading…

Twenty-nine minutes of garbage time. That's good stuff right there.

Sure, Oakland blows. But so does Arizona, and the Falcons had to escape with a 4-point win against them in the Georgia Dome. So does Cleveland, and Dallas had to go to overtime at home to beat them. So does Camrolina, and Tampa had to pull off a minor miracle just to get to overtime. So does Jacksonville, and they took the 8-1 Texans to overtime in Houston. So say what you will about Oakland as an opponent, but a 21-point blowout win on the road — on the west coast, no less — which was all-but-over less than a minute into the second half, is a bona fide "statement win." And the statement goes a little something like this: Y'all better get the fuck up out the way. Because it's official, the Saints are back for real. Continue Reading…