Saturday night (seems like ages ago now, doesn’t it) the Saints went up to Cincinnati and put it to the Bengals in just about every way permissable under Ohio law.

First, allow me to demonstrate my firm grasp on the obvious: the Saints’ offense is going to be straight up loco come September.

Much like the merciless pepper of Quetzlzacatenango, grown deep in the jungle primeval by the inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum, this offense is gonna have opposing d-coordinators coating the inside of their mouths with candle wax so as not to taste it as it’s shoved down their throats. That, and crapping their pants. Oh there will be plenty of pants-crapping. And we will laugh and laugh as we bask in the warm, glowing, warming glow of general superiority.

Chuck Norris continues to live and breathe because Drew Brees allows him to. The Saints went in minus two offensive lineman and both of their starting wideouts (assuming you do not harbor the irrational hatred of Jack Hunt which causes the bullheaded to continue to absurdly assert that he shouldn’t start.)

So what does Drew do? Oh, just 6-6 for 55 yards and 6 points quicker than you can say “Oh crap, here comes Jamie Martin.”

This offense has more weapons than a rural Idaho survivalist compound. The depth at wide receiver is batshit insane. I know that a lot of people are getting a little sick and tired of Meachem’s schtick right about now, and it’s not necessarily an unreasonable reaction (depending on how far you’re willing to go with it on the obnoxiousness scale) but the fact that Meachem is at best 6th on the depth chart right now is actually a good thing.

Under previous Saints regimes, Meachem would be the second or third wideout by default. That a disappointing first round draft pick can get his ass chained to the bench for a redshirt year so that he can’t hurt us speaks to Coach Payton & Crew’s ability. And balls. It’s only because the people in charge were bright enough and ballsy enough to bring in Terrance Copper, David Patten, Lance Moore and lest we forget badass #12, and not be deterred by where these guys came from, that the Saints can currently afford the luxury of not forcing it with Meachem right now, when it’s clearly not working. That doesn’t suck, that kicks ass.

And then there’s Reggie Bush. I don’t get to listen to The Great Jim Henderson call a game very often. Oh sure, I hear the occasional highlight with Mr. Henderson’s call (thankfully, an awful lot more frequently these days) but what struck me Saturday night listening to Mr. Henderson call an entire game, is that subtle (sometimes not-so-subtle) giddiness that creeps into his voice whenever the ball finds itself in Reggie’s hands. That in itself is enough to bump the excitement meter up several notches for me.

What’s striking is that it’s not just when Reggie is juking chumps for big plays. It’s every time he touches the ball. It makes me giggle a little, but then I think about what a consummate professional Jim Henderson is and has always been, a man who has seen it all up close and personal for decades, and is not prone to irrational exuberance. (Sure there was the whole Az-Zahir Hakim/Brian Milne thing, but that exuberance was perfectly rational.)

For Reggie to put that kind of gleam in Mr. Henderson’s eye, to the point that it comes through audibly in the voice of such a wisened veteran, even on routine plays, speaks to what unique talent Reggie has. And yet, so far the surface has been scratched less than a Van Halen featuring Gary Cherone CD.

Lance Moore! Fuck yeah!

The defensive performance might have been even more notable, if only for the lower expectations going in.

Ass-Kicking Charles Grant seems hell bent for leather to remind us all every single week what a great decision it was to keep that guy here for a long time. Teeny-tiny Jason David seems to be settling in. Only a fool doesn’t fear Roman Harper. The Shanle… not a fluke? Starting to look that way.

The Bengals’ leading rusher was their 3rd string QB. 20 yards. Rudi Johnson? 8 runs for 15. Their leading receiver had 26 yards, one more than Skyler friggin’ Green. Houshamazolie? 3 for 23. Ocho Cinco? 1 for 15. That smells worse than a plate of Cincinnati chili.

All this without the Asian Assassin Scotty Badass.

As is so often the case during preseason, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s a mirage. You still get the feeling that the defense is going to be a week-to-week wait-and-see proposition.

But in the meantime, it seemed pretty clear to me that Saturday night’s performance, especially by the first string units, can be described as nothing less than a straight up can of whoopass.

The thought of what’s gonna happen when Colston, Jack Hunt, Jeff Faine, Jammal Brown and Scotty Badass are back in bidness should have a shit-eating grin on all our faces right about now.

Next victim, Kansas City. And as we all know, Charles Grant, Will Smith and Roman Harper know how to tenderize some ribs. After that, it will be time for the easiest part of any coach’s job: the cuts. Somewhere in northern Kentucky, Milhouse is getting nervous.