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The cat, who was mentally retarded, lolled his head a bit to the side, and made dry, coughing sounds, as the Professor continued.
"The little guys in the striped pants with the plastic on their heads, known as 'receivers,' run pell mell all directions, with no rhyme or reason to it; completely at random. They represent our ego."
"That's stupid," I thought. Denver's receivers are running carefully planned routes, that they've rehearsed thousands, maybe even millions of times, designed to be in the place where the ball is, and the defender isn't, and they don't represent the ego at all. They're much more representative of the human soul.
I decided to call my alcoholic friend, Hormone.
"I don't know what you and that professhor been drinkin'," hiccuped Hormone, but you're both whacked." I could hear the sound of him beating his dog in the background. "Denver's receivers far more accurately depict the working of the animal mind, as exshemplified by the muscles of the Tremulus Pius, located in the middle brain."
"You just made that up, you drunken, dog-beating FREAK!" I yelled, as loud as I could, scaring several of the rabbits. "You should be arrested, and held in contempt."
"No need to get pershonal," he slurred, moistly. "I'm jusht shayin' that if Man wantsh to find hizh place in the Univershe, he hash ta look at hizh own Animal INSTINCT."
So if Denver's receivers are representative of our instinct, then what does the Coaching Staff represent?
"That'sh shimple," grunted Hormone, slugging down another bottle of gin in as many minutes, "the coaching staff is shymbolic of your higher brain functions, shuch as morality, and reaszhon, HIC!"
"Are you calling me a Hick?" I demanded, defensive about living in the country.
"No, I'm hiccuping," he said, pausing to throw up for the fifth time since I'd called.
"What's all the yelling about?" asked my nephew, Lower, who was only three feet tall.
"We're talking about philosophy," I told him condescendingly, patting him on the head.
"Orwellian, or Pyromanian?" he asked, pretending to know something.
"If a tree falls in the woods," I answered, knowing Hormone would go crazy, which he did.
"I HATE that ----- rhetorical queshtion!" he bellowed, losing several teeth in the process, "I don't CARE if the damn tree fallzh; I don't need no tree; I gotta hit the can."
"But," postulated my stupid nephew, doing all he could to make me angry, "doesn't the interception Gannon just threw defy mortality, and give us a taste of that which is outside our reason?"
"Don't you want some candy or something?" I asked the fetid brat, even though he was 13.
"You know I've got a point, Uncle Drippy, and I want you to address it RIGHT NOW!" He jumped up and down, stomping his feet.
"You're acting childish," I reproached him, and then added in a sing-song voice, "Lower is a baby, Lower is a baby..."
"I am NOT!" he exploded, crying quite a bit, "you just won't acknowledge that the finite nature of Man's societal rules completely lack accountability for random acts, and the very nature of an expanding, infinite Universe! I want my mommy!"
The stupid kid had a point. Gannon's interception was a brash slap in the face of all those stoic professors, such as Professor Damnedidiot, who tries to define consciousness within the context of a solid running game; temporarily shifts the juxtaposition of human will onto solid refereeing; and isn't here to defend himself right now, so we'll delight in making fun of.
Not only that, but the score was already 21-0 in favor of Denver, with Oakland's offense looking suspiciously weak. I had no way of knowing whether it was, in fact, a speed defense overpowering an aging, and tired offense, as John Madden was saying, or if it was a case of Man's frustration with technology, as explained by Aldous Huxley. Either way, I was geting hungry.
Not to put too fine a point on it, Gannon lobbed a perfect pass in the direction of the referee, who didn't seem interested in catching it.
"Are you hungry?" I asked the annoying little brat, who stopped sobbing long enough to say "yes."
"Well, what are you hungry for?" I demanded impatiently, doing my best to scare the kid out of saying hot dogs, which give me a rash.
"How about macaroni and cheese?" he asked, growing three pimples right in front of my eyes.
"Fine," I grumbled, "see if the neighbors have got any."
And then those words of wisdom hit me.
"They get themselves into third and short, and then the penalty takes them right out of it!" said Al Michaels.
It was just like Man's inability to find his collective soul in a mechanized society! I was fascinated at what conclusion this would reach, when John Madden said, "they realize that this speed defense is too much for them, so they're throwing it; trying to stretch them a bit."
I couldn't believe it. Madden was dead on right. The only way for us to solve the riddle of the nature of Man is to first understand nature, itself! John's analogy had slammed into me like a strong safety pulverizing my ribs, as my stupid nephew was out in the street begging for food.
Now, Madden had never mentioned the need to attribute speed and agility to the behemoths on an offensive line, but did it really need to be said? It seemed to me that the POINT in all this is that life begins from pure energy. And the only way energy can become life is through WATER! So if you break life down to the very base chemicals and processes by which it begins, you have a blueprint, or defensive blocking scheme, that will flow with purity.
"So the Eastern philosophers were a lot closer to the truth?" asked Hormone, who I'd forgotten was still on the phone.
"Well, obviously," I answered, wishing I'd never called him, "but it's much more than that. It's not enough to simply flow like a river; you have to understand the NATURE of that river, and then you have to TRANSCEND it!"
I was excited, but I heard a pretty good ruckus outside, and wondered if those damn bikers were beating up my nephew again. It turned out that the kindly old widow down the street had given him a large pan of Apple Streudel, and a pack of wild dogs was trying to wrestle it away from him, removing his expensive tennis shoes in the process.
Being a good Uncle, I grabbed the Streudel, brought it inside, and yelled at him to get his shoes back.
As I munched on the Streudel, Denver had a three and out, and Plummer threw one away, down the sideline, making it 4th and 10. He might as well have, with 11:05 remaining in the half, and a three touchdown lead. What's he gonna do, throw interceptions?
"I can't believe he threw that away," squawked Hormone on the phone, and for the first time in minutes, I felt a profound disappointment ensue. Surely this great drunkard could see the wisdom in such a pedestrian act as punting into a 21 point lead, but then again, Hormone was lucky when he made it up the driveway, most nights.
A dazed and bleeding Lower stumbled into the room, and asked if there was any Streudel left. I handed him the pan, and a rusty knife to scrape it with.
"You know what seperates Man from the Animals?" he asked casually, licking the crumbs from the rusty knife.
"No, what?" I asked sarcastically, hardly able to wait for the pearl of wisdom cast before swine by my idiot nephew.
"The hope in the eyes of the players on the Raiders squad, even though they know they're outgunned, and outmatched."
"So Man's greatest tribute is his stupidity?" I asked, amazed.
"No," my nephew explained, "it's Man's ability to be stupid, even though he's been equipped with the ability to reason."
"So the nature of Man is to throw reason out the window, and live just like the animals?" I asked, as Gannon got sacked on a third and 22.
"That's it."
I would've punished the little brat, but he was right.
Dead right.
Thank God he doesn't coach the Raiders.
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