And the game was crude and without season, played in glens of lucious grass, and parking was free.

And the earth brought forth herds of beasts: Lions, bears, and nomadic rams. The sky was filled with  eagles and ravens. And giants roamed the meadowlands.

And men of various tribes would huddle, and then smash an’ crash into other men and take their rock from them, and then run into the end of the glen, and there they would spike.

And so it was as it was meant to be, for a short time men from all walks of life…

Red and blue
Blue and white
White and black

…would set aside their differences and come together to rally ‘round a singular common cause: Us versus Them.

The plan was perfect in its imperfection, a game of yards not inches: Of men, by men, and for men.

Rules were few and straight forward, penalties were rare. There were no television cameras. No celebrities. And no yellow flags.

…but there were cheerleaders.

And the morning after, the sons of men would gather to retell their tales like stories told of old. And off to the side their womenfolk would roll their eyes. And snort.

Yes… this was America’s game. A game for a chosen people. It was not given for the world to enjoy.

On the seventh day, creation was complete. God rested. Men played football. And life was good.

But the Commissioner said:

“We can make it better.”

And the League brought forth commandments engraved on tablets of turf:

𝐗𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤
𝐗𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐦𝐩 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐩 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬
𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐧𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲

Nit-picking rules. Enough to drive a man back to his ex-wife (and you hafta have rules otherwise the game might be fun).

And to enforce said rules, the Commissioner declared:

“Let time stand still.”

And the League brought forth instant replay (followed by tedious booth review and endless analysis). In an effort to make the game perfect, the game was made intolerable.

But the Commissioner saw that it was good and further declared:

“Let there be celebrities…”

So, the League brought forth fantasy teams.

And it came to pass, that fans could root for their team or the other team, or another team against their team or multiple teams, or an odd allotment of players from various teams against players from the same team. Because you can’t spell Team without “me”.

“…and the casting of lots.”

For it is written: It doesn’t matter if you win or lose. Just so long as you cover the spread.

So, the Commissioner further ordered:

“Let the tribes go out into the world.”

And the League brought forth multi-culturalism, internationalism, diversity equity and inclusion. And America took its rightful place in the bleacher seats.

(After all, globalism worked so well for NASCAR, displacing dirt-tracking good ol’ boys with foreign car driving heathen. Yeah… the South lost again. They just ain’t figured it out yet.)

Then the Commissioner further conspired:

“Let there be pink pussyhats.”

And the League brought forth linebackers trimmed in pastel hues, boyish cheerleaders, and lady zebras. After all, why should a game of men and by men be just for men?

And looking over the emptying coliseums, the Commissioner saw that it was good. But still, something was missing…

“Let there be social justice.”

And the League brought forth anthem kneelers. And the anthem kneelers knelt on their nation’s flag. Then went forth onto foreign soil and knelt on their flag for all non-believers to bear witness.

But the Commissioner said nothing.

So, the faithful hung their heads in shame, as the people fractured again into partisan divisions:

Red against Blue
Blue against White
White against Black

Yet the Commissioner proclaimed:

”Let there be a holiday.”

So, the League brought forth the Super Bowl.

And around the world hoards of gentiles and philistines tuned into the self-indulgent  Game to End All Games to watch heretical commercials, halftime debauchery, and gluttonously consume deep-fried everything while drinking themselves into a sinful stupor.

The morning after, the hungover didn’t know who had won, or had played, or where their pants were.

Finally the Commissioner declared:

“It is finished.”

The game was now complete. But shall no longer be called football:

“Behold, the NFL!”

R is for Redskins
Juliet had it right. The Redskins by any other name would still be the Redskins. And would still be smelly.

Merry Christmas in the NFL
Merry Christmas in the NFL! Merry Christmas and we wish you well! Here’s a helmet, a whistle too, and cheerleader pictures autographed to you!