CindyLou
Monday, March 2nd, 2009, 12:44 PM
Once upon a time, not so long ago and not too far away, a young wanderer and sorcerer's apprentice from the East, Pioli, made his way West to find his fortune.
At the confluence of the mighty rivers Kansas and Missouri, athwart that gateway to burnt-end sandwiches and the rolling yellow plains, Pioli did plant the flag of his ambitions.
"Here shall I build my castle," he said. And he wished hard to the heavens that his dreams might come true.
Upon hearing this, the distant spirit of the ancient wizard Belichick appeared to him from the clouds. "I have just the Cassel you need," said the sorcerer. "Hit me back when you get this."
And they did conference several days and nights in utmost secret upon the matter until agreement was reached.
To outward appearance, it was a deal too good to be true. As such, the younger magician was sore perturbed.
"But what of Goodell," said Pioli, "and his legion of cranky scribes and inky underlings? What of the Electronic Opiners and the Talking Haircuts? To hear these inquisitive henchmen tell it, they are the Guardians of the Game. Will we not rouse their suspicions of Old-Boyism and insider back-scratchery?"
"They are as trolls and garden gnomes to me, and too busy hoeing their own row. With my winning ways I have bewitched them all into indifference," said the hooded magus Belichick. "An .824 record in the playoffs these past nine seasons shuts a lot of mouths and eyes and ears. And also, we'll announce on a Saturday, when everyone's at the mall and no one's online."
"However can I repay you?" asked the grateful apprentice.
"Someday, and that day may never come, I'll call upon you to do a service for me," whispered the aging necromancer, disappearing in a puff of sulfured smoke.
So Pioli and the People of the Plains rejoiced at their new fortune and their gilded future, and downloaded photos of the Brady/Bundchen wedding in great numbers to augur what might lie ahead for them all.
But in the midnight hours of his soul, Pioli sometimes grew restless, tossing and turning with worry at the devilish bargain he had made. Had the Hooded One gotten the better of him?
And in those dark, not-so-happily-ever-after moments, the Great Howling Husky of the Old Skool, Calhoun, ran hunched and rabid through the moonlit forests to comfort him by roaring, "Not a dime back! Not a dime back!"
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