Dey mek some good rum hyeh. Life be gwan pretty well, all tings consideh’d.
Tek las naht [*clears throat*] Uh, take last night. After being missing for a solid month, The Thumb of God makes a token reappearance in the Superdome, quashing several blatant instances of interference on the part of the New Orleans secondary, and allowing the Saints to escape with a narrow victory that they should have had anyway, 31-24.
Plus that whole record thing. Excuse me, two records. First, the one that guarantees Drew Brees a spot in the Hall of Fame once he hangs up his cleats; and second, the one that guarantees that Marques Colston will be forever remembered by Saints fans, not that he wouldn’t be anyway. Joe Horn was good; but Joe Horn was self-centered asshole. Colston isn’t, and probably isn’t in any danger of becoming one, either. He’s just the most underrated receiver in the league, playing with the man who is still the most underrated quarterback. And all they do is win…one out of five times.
But the most remarkable thing was the sudden development of the defense. After looking like utter dogshit for four weeks, they rose up when needed and became utter catshit. We’re still ranked #32, but we got five sacks, and an interception by Roman Fucking Can You Believe It Stonehands Harper, plus a strip-sack-recovery by Martez Wilson to drive a stake in San Diego’s heart. When was the last time this defense actually saved a game for us?
And why are they nine months late?
Well. Lots of chatter this morning. Everyone in New Orleans is probably smiling. That was always the most charming aspect of Saints fans: how a single win could make them forget a dismal year. And far be it from me to ruin things today…I’m with you. My head is filled with improbable scenarios involving twelve straight wins, knocking Atlanta out of a division championship, and making a royal progress to the podium at Super Bowl XLVQZ%, where Roger Goodell is hogtied and the entire stadium crowd (or the male half, anyway) passes in review, the resulting golden shower resembling Roger’s own personal Katrina.
Could it happen? Depends on The Thumb. I’d say it’s doable. (But I’ve had quite a lot of rum lately.) So I’m just going to bask in the reflected glory of this win, and not mention anything at all about the historically atrocious run defense, the secondary that resembles a class of petulant kindergartners, the poor forgotten waifs of the offensive line (“C’mon, Mister Kromer, coach us up, pleeeeeze?” “No time, kids, sorry, too much to do…”), or Mark Ingram.
No. I’m just going to have another rum, and thank The Thumb that we’re getting a bye at the right time, because I’m staying down here for at least another two weeks.