SOMEWHERE IN THE CARIBBEAN - There is great disorder under Heaven.
It was Confucius, I believe, or some other ancient Eastern sage that uttered that wisdom ages ago. It rings true again today as we stand before the awful spectacle of yet another Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl, a disaster I'd hoped to avoid again in my lifetime.
Sadly, it's not to be. We must suffer these fools, although I do not intend to do so gladly.
An infestation of black-clad hillbillies and toothless rubes is about to come swarming down out of a motley collection of mountain shanties and trailers, defying all laws of nature, good taste and genetics. They emerge, Gollum-like, from their putrid fever swamp, the NFL's leper colony, Pittsburgh, each sputtering that illiterate patois that gives us such linguistic gems as "arn beer" and "yinz."
This is our darkest hour. Not since the nightmare of Baltimore's disgusting and, frankly, illegal march to the Super Bowl in 2000 have Cleveland Browns fans been under such intense siege.
We need a Churchill to emerge, with calm yet stern words to steady us through these harrowing times.
Me, I've fled into temporary exile among the islands. My reasons are legion, not the least of which is to escape the locust-like infestation of these vulgar, half-wit Stiller fans that plague the nation.
Yet no matter where I flee, these slothful morons are everywhere. I live not far from Detroit and the barbarians literally are at the gate.
Even in exile, it was evident I would have to share it with an ugly contingent of obnoxious Steeler fans (then again, is there any other sort?). They aimlessly wandered the streets in their tattered Benny Turdburgler No. 7 jerseys, eyes vacant, knuckles dragging, their low mono-brows giving them a distinct Neanderthal look. And that was just the women. A few of them carried faded yellow towels, for what disgusting, insidious purpose I daren't imagine.
A voyage of the damned, indeed.
Who are these people, and why are they allowed out in public? Aren't there decency laws? Judging by the clean, secretion-free condition of some of their paraphernalia, clearly some of these waterheads were merely on the bandwagon and not actual fans of this congenitally disgusting team. These are the same mental defectives who extolled the longevity of:
2. The Third Reich.
Obviously, these mercenary "fans" are the lowest form of scum, nothing more than vagabond narcissists who carpet-bag from one NFL team to the next. I'm sure the conscience-free mouth breathers than make up Steeler Nation welcome these douche bags with open arms. And my God, they're everywhere.
The only immediate solace upon which I can pin my hopes is a deluge of Cuban cigars and absinthe. This steaming tropical heat and the obvious disdain the locals have for visiting yanquis are enough to break a man, but the crude vices of the Caribbean can surely carry me through to at least the Pro Bowl, no? Maybe the draft, or even free agency. We shall see. I intend to live like a colonial viceroy until the money runs out, and at my rate of gambling, that could be some time this afternoon.
EDITOR'S NOTE: At this point, the column degenerated into a mishmash of confusing gibberish and nonsense. Apparently, the author took inappropriate advantage of a free-drink hour and ended up on a nocturnal rampage in San Juan. Reports are sketchy, and the details are inappropriate for a family-oriented publication such as this. And our lawyers advised us to withhold public comment until the statute of limitations expires some time in 2029. In the meantime, the narrative continues in a more lucid fashion, so to speak, upon the author's return to Detroit.
This is disgusting and, frankly, almost unbearable. I can't open a newspaper nor watch local television without being overcome with waves of nausea because of the Detroit media's sycophantic fawning over the Steelers and native son Jerome Bettis. Motown's public display of man-love makes Brokeback Mountain seem like a 1965 government instruction filmstrip for novice shepherds.. The scribes are penning peans, odes and sonnets extolling the virtues of everything Black and Gold. The sheer volume of this toadying and bootlicking is rarely seen outside of state-controlled media, and it's oafish enough to make the lowliest Grubb street hack blush.
We're just hours away from this grotesque display at Ford Field. A billion people around the globe will be exposed to the noxious site of Bill Cowher's jaw, Jerome Bettis' gut and Ben Whatshisname's dirty beard. That triumvirate of embarrassing physical deformities will represent America on Sunday. This pathetic crew looks more at home lurking in a bus station that on a football field.
I've had enough. I'm donning my No. 19 jersey and taking a nap during which visions of Charlie Frye stepping on the throat of Troy Polamalu's neck will dance in my head. And upon waking, I'm getting into the absinthe and cigars until this waking nightmare of black and gold fades into green bliss.
Former Ohio newspaper reporter and editor Bill Shea writes the Doc Gonzo column each week for The OBR. He will be spending Super Bowl weekend betting heavily as possible against the Steelers, which he feels is the moral, ethical and humane thing to do. If Pittsburgh should defy all natural law and win, you'll find him slumped over the bar at Detroit's Greektown Casino. A Seattle victory likely will prompt the same result. Visit his uncensored blog, at your own risk, at www.livejournal.com/users/docgonzo19. He can be reached at email@example.com.