Friday, April 27, 2012

Colonel Kurtz's Take on the NFL Draft

I see past the bullshit now.  I see past the lies, the deceit and the games.  I see up the tallest mountains and down to the bottoms of oceans.  I see all the way into space, and I can tell you there’s nothing there.   I’ve seen more horrible nightmares than Tim Burton and more loving embraces than Nicolas Sparks.  And I’ve seen the NFL draft.

I’m past the point of caring about the nothingness that the suits in Bristol have been telling me are important.  Their timid, phony logic no longer holds water. I’m done with all their trite, tired thoughts on things that are inconsequential.  I’m even done with Bud Light.

The trivial whereabouts of where people work and play no longer has relevance in my life.  I’m out there, in the ether.  And I’m not wearing pants.

For too long I thought the NFL draft meant something.  For too long I would hold boys in high regard well before they ever accomplished a thing.  And were far from earning the money they deserved.   But as I said, I’m past that now. 

No longer will I say “I think that was a good pick” or “Jesus Christ, why can’t the Browns ever not fuck up!”  But those thoughts no longer intrigue me. 

No what occupies my mind could be filled with a thousand books for a thousand years.  Each book longer than the last.  Growing and building and crescendoing into a monolith of human thought, ideology and introspection.

The mere mention of a draft should be held with such disdain and animosity that it is shamed and sponged out of existence.  But instead for several months the talking heads fill our ears with their nonsense.  Shouting out the benefits of a Right Guard over a Defensive Tackle.  These thoughts aren’t just pointless; they are literally halting the progress of human advancement.

In the course of battle men are capable of such atrocities that it’s impossible to believe in humanity.  But in those same battles men have the ability to demonstrate such love and sweetness that it would give Bambi diabetes.  It is walking those same lines that we as a people should be marching on.  Constantly on the abyss; walking along the razor’s edge, always wary of the slightest misstep.

But there I sat last night on my couch.  Tucked under several blankets watching small men talk about small things; and inside I felt dead and disgusting.  Inside I could feel the maggots slowly eating away at my soul, without question, only to do and die.  But why? 

For far too long I never realized the utter uselessness of last night’s charade called entertainment.  I would watch as Todd McShay and Mel Kiper Jr. traded barbs with one another, and I know now that neither knows anything.  They talk without knowing why; they talk because silence is worse; and they talk because Disney will cripple their children if they do not speak.  But even they know they are wrong. 

How can one man judge another man.  Who are you to decide the fate of another human being?  To place in judgment all of your own fears and concerns is not only wrong, but also short sighted. 

Everyone loved Ryan Leaf; everyone hated Tom Brady.  Again the razors edge is the only thing separating the haves from the have not’s

We need to get past the opinions of others.  If possible we need to get past the opinions in ourselves.  It is only then that we can be free.  Free of worry, free of insecurity, and most importantly free of ESPN.

It is when we put too much faith in our overlords that we become disillusioned and must pull ourselves back from the brink of destruction.  NFL draft coverage isn’t news, it’s here say and conjecture.  But maybe that’s what news is anyway.  Maybe that’s the way it’s always been.

ESPN is on the brink of leading us all over the edge.  Like a pack of lemmings we all follow blindly, obediently to what they want us to know.  For two months no one has played a professional football game, and still they dominate the Worldwide Leader’s morning headlines. 

Worldwide Leader; how did I ever allow myself to kneel before an empire that has an even more ominous name than any James Bond villain.  Was I always that naïve?

It’s the lies that bother me.  The lie perpetuated by everyone.  How could they possibly know who will be what in five years.  We laugh at fortune tellers but praise a draft expert.  It’s the lies that will make a man sick.  It’s the lies that make a man question the truth.  And it’s the lies that eventually lead to a revolution.

Last night was no different.  Three quarterbacks were selected in the first 10 picks and yet everyone thinks at least one will be a major bust.  Trades up and down the first round, are any of them sound? Last night I watched grown men talk about other men’s asses as a sign of good stock.  And everyone else just nodded their head, like it was a completely normal thing to notice.  It was like watching a slave auction combined with a county fair.  Andrew Luck won the Blue ribbon; will he be first to the slaughter?  I saw men talk about running 40 times like it actually meant something important, and talked with equal enthusiasm about their number of reps.  For years we’ve known those things don’t matter and yet we still bring them up.  And I saw Suzy Kolber ask questions like “Are you excited?”  Of course their fucking excited, they just made several million dollars you dumb idiot!

The horror… the horror.

But there is one thing I do know.

Watching Apocalypse Now and the draft at the same time, while trying to get over a cold makes my writing incredibly dark.

Let’s Go Fletcher Cox!

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