This is your hero?!? He ain't nothin'!!! ~Terry Bollea

Settle down, Saints fans. Don't get too excited. It's not real. Very little actually changed yesterday afternoon. Roger still makes the rules, pal. Jonathan Vilma and Will Smith were neither absolved nor vindicated by yesterday's ruling, and the truth is that they're still pretty well boned. What happened yesterday was far from anything like a knockout blow. In reality, it amounts to little more than merely landing a single solid jab before the other eye finally swells shut from the pummelling and the ref mercifully steps in and calls it.

Here's the thing though: We don't give a shit about any of that.

Because that single solid jab was fucking glorious.

So what if Roger still holds most of the cards here? So what if Jonathan Vilma still can't play, and probably won't be able to play for a long, long time, if ever again? (And if he does ever make it back onto the field, it's anybody's guess as to whether or not that'll actually be a good thing.) So what if the ruling was really just about a technicality that Roger probably can easily dodge and just re-impose the penalties? So what if the "win" is temporary at best and all-but-completely-insignificant at worst?

The reality of the situation has nothing to do with it. We've had quite enough reality here lately, thank you very much.

It ain't about winning the fight. Not anymore, anyway. Most of us have long since resigned ourselves to the reality that the fight just isn't winnable. The fix was in from the start, we all know that. The Booker Man jobbed us out, and he isn't about to change his mind about it any time soon. And ultimately, there's not a whole hell of a lot we can do about that. We get it.

None of that makes the occasional largely-futile shot out of the blue right square to the fuckin' jaw any less awesomely satisfying.

To hell with the predetermined eventual outcome of the match. At this point, that's only barely even relevant anymore. Just because we're getting jobbed one way or another doesn't mean we can't still fuck some shit up. Doesn't mean we can't load up a glove and put Roger on his back just long enough to spraypaint "nWo" on his face and bask in the resulting "cool heel" pop for as long as he stays down.

It's about defiance. It's about sticking it to an asshole, no matter how temporary and/or ultimately insignificant it might be. It's about the opportunity to strut around like we're Barry fuckin' Horowitz for a few minutes.

There's a time and place for acknowledging the sobering realities. To realize that you just bowed up and got in the face of a dude who's got you by about 8 inches and 100 pounds, and you probably ought to just back away slowly.

There's also a time for "Welp, too late now. Chances are I'm gonna get my ass kicked regardless. Might as well go ahead and take a swing at this asshole while I still can. If I'm lucky, maybe it'll put him down long enough that I can at least teabag him a little. And that'll be big fun."

Yesterday afternoon was the latter. Maybe it was nothing more, but it was damn sure nothing less. And I'm confident that I can speak for at least some subset of my fellow Saints fans here when I say that, at least for the time being, that'll do just fine, thank you very much.

Every little "fuck you moment" is well worth it. Every single one. Might as well enjoy 'em when they present themselves.

Perhaps this won't be the last of 'em (between now and February, that is.) Maybe yesterday will be remembered as the day shit got real, and it all started crumbling down upon Roger's head. And if so, then that'll be just fine too. I'm not holding my breath though.

But it really isn't about that. I tweeted yesterday afternoon that at this point the Saints really ought to go ahead and name Roger an honorary captain for the season. And when it's all over, they ought to present him with a Super Bowl ring. (A Mike Cerullo cubic zirconia special, of course.)

Because when February rolls around and the Saints win the Super Bowl, Roger will have played no small role in it. On the motivational scale, even novelty baseball bats and a Giant Sean Payton Face pale in comparison to the dream of sticking it to The Man. Nothing ever trumps sticking it to The Man.

And yesterday, they… we… stuck it right up The Man's ass. For now, that's really all that matters. Until the next time, anyway. Is it Sunday yet? #wemaketherulespal

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