Q Report; Vikings Versus Saints Riot Hailed “Worst Sports Disaster In History”.
CC: All.
[9-10-10] New Orleans, Louisiana.
Over 100,000 people are dead and at least twice that number hospitalized or missing after tragedy struck the Superdome during the final quarter of the NFL season opener between the Minnesota Vikings and New Orleans Saints. Accounts of the game are difficult to obtain without the express written consent of the NFL. The NFL has instantly suppressed the footage, deeming it “too grim for humanity to bear witnessing a second time.". Distributors of various cable companies have deleted DVR recordings of the game and only Direct TV subscribers who fled their homes hold any uncontaminated footage of the event. Information of the tragedy is scattered and confused due to thousands of conflicting digital streams being fed to YouTube and Twitter.
What can be confirmed is that no sports disaster in history can come near the staggering numbers of fatalities and victims that are no doubt entrenched and armed in and around New Orleans. Steven Seagal, a local law official and Hollywood star, has taken out a blood oath against anyone knowingly harboring or abeiting anyone who attended the game statting for the Associated Press:
"What happened inside of that dome needs to be contained and then eliminated. Those responsible for this tragedy deserve nothing less than eternal torture and then damnation. I vow to apprehend, and then beat the tar out of, anyone who attended, performed in, or assistited with this game and the resulting bloodshed. If you surrender now, I can offer you my word that I will petition for only as much torture a day as is reasonable."
I had been assigned the game as a finalle to a piece I’ve been collaborating with Bret Farve called; “The Silver Fox; Brett Farve Takes All III”. It is a tell-all videography of the life of The Viking King Brett Farve. Obviously the New Orleans game would be a fitting finale and the whole of the footage could be sold to a conglomerate to be edited into a swashbuckling epic of Norse proportions. It would herald TVK Farve as The Greatest Player ever. The film demanded his own trophy be minted in a solid gold 1/6 replica of TVK Farve vanquishing a host of saints into an unholy abyss. It would be called "The Viking King Brett Farve Ass Kicking Award" and would go to the player who was The Best.
The preliminary designs about the trophy were disseminated to a number of underground fundamentalists I like to get a rise out of late at night. It’s a funny thing about fundamentalists; they don’t find anything funny. Not even replicas of stylized warfare between Sport Gods.
Jeremiah Wright, Pat Roberstson, and The Ghost of Billy Graham Jr. immediately disapproved with the force of a billion zealots and swiftly mounted an invasion force for the Superdome. They would come dressed as every venerated saint in the NIV approved martyrology. They would come armed with the weapons they were martyred by. Saint James the Less with his club. Saint Simon with his saw. Saint Jude with his axe. The list adds up fast when you have a whole host at your disposal. The saints were in the game, but what they had not bargained for was the counterpart.
The footage was also leaked to the Minnesotan Vampyres, Witches, and Pagans Party. Spearheaded by Jonathon 'The Impaler' Sharkey, an agent since the late 80’s, the group had garnered some real momentum with the trends of young girls and old nerds towards throwing away the real world for made up creatures. More importantly they were being funded by Bill Gate’s Black-Ops department, which meant they had both the time and resource to armor and outfit a ridiculously cool looking Vampire-Viking Horde for the express purpose of defending the Viking King from faux-apostle violence.
The NFL, NSA, and TNT were kept in the dark about the real event, and I would say this alone was the main contributing factor to the failing of the plan. The real intention was to ferret out the weak and crazy, feed them vast quantities of mood-altering drugs, and create social change through watching a game. What actually transpired can only be called absolute horror. This is not what I bargained for when I signed the Adventurers Contract and got my blade. This is savagery parading as hilarity. Which is not to say that watching Pat Robertson getting his hand chopped off by a 16 year old vampire girl was not something else. He was poorly playing Saint Gabriel and had a trumpet that concealed a shotgun. Of course the saints had to bring guns and ruin it all.
The tailgating was like something they put on postage stamps in Gary Larson’s hell. Bible Belts and Black Belts all playing Conway Twitty and AFI at maxed out volumes. A cacophony of screams and vulgarities. Catharsis unknown till now. So many hot dogs. So very many drugs. The CIA brought the drugs, and those men know how to experiment. Ever since they learned what acid can do they have been tainting water supplies across the globe to find if their actions can in any way alter the course of events for US. The concoction they were selling for $10 or naked flesh was a bioluminescent hallucinogenic algae/fungi that could live off itself inside of you. When history hands you Glenn Beck dressed as Saint Michael you have to raise the bar.
I tried some of it in the locker room as Brett Farve girded his loins and ate sunflower seeds. The Silver Fox was looking weak and scared. He was taking massive pulls from a nutrient shake and then vomiting it into a bucket regularly emptied by his trainers. He knew that all eyes would rest on him, and how he performed before a crowd of drug crazed lunatics armed to the teeth with medieval weaponry and the righteous zeal of the entirely delusional. He knew that the show needed a climax though. Something that The Superbowl could no longer offer him. Something so absurdly awesome that time would remember him, if not as the Greatest Football Player Ever, then at least as the Greatest Viking King Ever. It’s easy to be the greatest of something when you make it up. It is how I have remained The Greatest Swordsman Alive for so long. Here is the best of the locker room transcript.
[Begin Transcript]
[Sounds of vomiting.]
Q: It went in green, but it’s coming out red.
BF: Don’t you think I see that?
Q: Would you like a Tums?
BF: Of course I would!
Q: Here, here. Take my last 10.
[Sounds of loud crunching.]
BF: Oh that’s like… [chew] that’s like chalk man… it’s like eating just a lot of fruit flavored [spit] chalk.
Q: Yeah. Yeah, but it will settle your stomach.
[Sounds of vomiting]
Q: Or you’ll just do that.
BF: It LOOKS like a lot of fruit flavored chalk.
Q: You’re right. Let me take a picture here. Gonna make that my wallpaper.
BF: We’re going to die tonight, aren’t we?
Q: Nah!! No. Nah. No, we’re going to make history tonight. We’re going to finish the film.
BF: For reals?
Q: Oh yes. Just this last footage of you beating The Saints and then you yelling; “I’m going back to Wisconsin where I’m loved!”
BF: I don’t even like Wisconsin!
Q: Don’t say that Brett. It worries me when you talk like that.
BF: It smells like cow! All of it smells like cow! Cow shit, oh balls, oh I’m going to die!
Q: Why did we bother training you then? Why did we bother making the statue? Why did we bother recording you killing that elk with the spear?
BF: That was Jared you burn-out!
Q: Hey, Jared, come over here.
[Sounds of Jared Allen spanking Brett Farve hard.]
BF: OOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW! That hurt!JA: You love it.
Q: Go easy on him, Jared, he’s vomiting red.
JA: Is that why it smells like puke over here?
BF: And fruit. I also smell fruit.
Q: Did YOU kill an elk with a spear?
JA: F yes I did. Weren’t you there?
Q: Gods. I must have been. It was, perhaps, one of my time clones.
BF: There aren’t time clones!!
JA: I’ve got to go have myself rubbed. B.F.F.F.V. you sexy man. I’m talking to you Brett.
BF: You go on.
Q: Are you blushing?
BF: Yes.
Q: So you’ve never killed an elk with a spear?
BF: I’ve only killed the people you told me to Q.
Q: And that footage is NOT going in the movie, if we can just get this footage.
BF: You promise?
Q: I promise.
BF: Do you think this is going to be a good movie?
Q: I bet Rotten Tomatoes will give us 85%.
BF: That’s good!
Q: I know kitten. I know.
[End Transcript.]
Everyone got past security and seated through a simple process of giving the security the day off to watch the game. The tailgating had resulted in everyone getting either hammered with light beer, or tripping balls off of experimental government funded future-drugs. On a triple blind level, I hoped that the satellite images would be enough to stand for what I hoped to accomplish as a member of society. I hoped that it would be everything The Guild Council agreed it should be; a summer blockbuster that could fund an escape in self sustained pleasure submarines. Everyone got passed security and they sat down and watched the game. That, I think more than anything, was the weird part.
Groupthink took over for a long while there and everyone, Viking and Saint, Pagan and Christian, Lunatic and Fanatic, all sat down together and ate hot dogs while the Vikings played the Saints for the first time since their playoff game. The Saints began roughing up Farve, as they had before, but after the first couple he was retired to the bench while Peterson tried his best. It was a good game before the gun fight. The score was, by quarter Q1: S:10 V:7, Q2: S:13 V:10, Q3: V:22 S:20.
By the fourth quarter it looked like the Vikings could hold it together to pull off a victory. It was such amazing football that no one wanted to interrupt it with a blood bath. Not even Ozzy Osbornes [Agent OO 00] “Crazy Train”, expected to elicit some sort of violence, merely united the factions in getting their respective faces rocked off. It seemed like Pat Robertson had fallen into the trap, and understanding and hope would reign for a century as the power players and their progeny worked together to unite and equalized cultural values in a bloodless coup of reason, tolerance, and personal freedom.
Brett Farve ruined everything by getting into the game in the fourth. The Saints had scored. [2:00 warning = S:27 V:22] This was the time, and the place. His time was now, and donning his horned helmet and smiling to the crowd, The Viking King Brett Farve took the field. He strode to the huddle, a pack of the best and brightest athletes ever to combat for money and power. They took formation and, as the world watched, Brett Farve took the snap. He faded back, The Saints leaping and tearing at the line with the force of unrighteous martyrs possessed. A single Saint broke through the line and Brett Farve threw over his shoulder. The pass was immediately intercepted. Brett Farve was struck in the chest with the force of a cannon ball. His head popped off like a daisy. Everyone went crazy.
Cries of horror united with screams of dismay. Cheers of righteous victory were a disjointed chorus played in syncopation with the feral howling of mad animals set free. Saw and Axe and Sword and Bow and Needle and Horn were raised to lips and hands and hearts and everyone set to swinging. Then the gunshots rang out, loud and terrible under the dome. Terror turned to chaos turned to light and sound, broken and fragmented by a thousand lives aligning against a thousand more underneath a home that had known too much tragedy already. Broken and scattered footage is all that remains. Suppressed and denied it serves as a grim testament to the utter savagery of it all. I submit the account in hopes that Brett Farve will not be traded, knowing full well that it will be. Such is the terrible clockwork of destiny.
The Viking King is Dead, All Hail The Viking King.
Willfuly Submitted,
Q.P. Quaddle
[BSG K00] DDS
[9-10-10] New Orleans, Louisiana.
Over 100,000 people are dead and at least twice that number hospitalized or missing after tragedy struck the Superdome during the final quarter of the NFL season opener between the Minnesota Vikings and New Orleans Saints. Accounts of the game are difficult to obtain without the express written consent of the NFL. The NFL has instantly suppressed the footage, deeming it “too grim for humanity to bear witnessing a second time.". Distributors of various cable companies have deleted DVR recordings of the game and only Direct TV subscribers who fled their homes hold any uncontaminated footage of the event. Information of the tragedy is scattered and confused due to thousands of conflicting digital streams being fed to YouTube and Twitter.
What can be confirmed is that no sports disaster in history can come near the staggering numbers of fatalities and victims that are no doubt entrenched and armed in and around New Orleans. Steven Seagal, a local law official and Hollywood star, has taken out a blood oath against anyone knowingly harboring or abeiting anyone who attended the game statting for the Associated Press:
"What happened inside of that dome needs to be contained and then eliminated. Those responsible for this tragedy deserve nothing less than eternal torture and then damnation. I vow to apprehend, and then beat the tar out of, anyone who attended, performed in, or assistited with this game and the resulting bloodshed. If you surrender now, I can offer you my word that I will petition for only as much torture a day as is reasonable."
I had been assigned the game as a finalle to a piece I’ve been collaborating with Bret Farve called; “The Silver Fox; Brett Farve Takes All III”. It is a tell-all videography of the life of The Viking King Brett Farve. Obviously the New Orleans game would be a fitting finale and the whole of the footage could be sold to a conglomerate to be edited into a swashbuckling epic of Norse proportions. It would herald TVK Farve as The Greatest Player ever. The film demanded his own trophy be minted in a solid gold 1/6 replica of TVK Farve vanquishing a host of saints into an unholy abyss. It would be called "The Viking King Brett Farve Ass Kicking Award" and would go to the player who was The Best.
The preliminary designs about the trophy were disseminated to a number of underground fundamentalists I like to get a rise out of late at night. It’s a funny thing about fundamentalists; they don’t find anything funny. Not even replicas of stylized warfare between Sport Gods.
Jeremiah Wright, Pat Roberstson, and The Ghost of Billy Graham Jr. immediately disapproved with the force of a billion zealots and swiftly mounted an invasion force for the Superdome. They would come dressed as every venerated saint in the NIV approved martyrology. They would come armed with the weapons they were martyred by. Saint James the Less with his club. Saint Simon with his saw. Saint Jude with his axe. The list adds up fast when you have a whole host at your disposal. The saints were in the game, but what they had not bargained for was the counterpart.
The footage was also leaked to the Minnesotan Vampyres, Witches, and Pagans Party. Spearheaded by Jonathon 'The Impaler' Sharkey, an agent since the late 80’s, the group had garnered some real momentum with the trends of young girls and old nerds towards throwing away the real world for made up creatures. More importantly they were being funded by Bill Gate’s Black-Ops department, which meant they had both the time and resource to armor and outfit a ridiculously cool looking Vampire-Viking Horde for the express purpose of defending the Viking King from faux-apostle violence.
The NFL, NSA, and TNT were kept in the dark about the real event, and I would say this alone was the main contributing factor to the failing of the plan. The real intention was to ferret out the weak and crazy, feed them vast quantities of mood-altering drugs, and create social change through watching a game. What actually transpired can only be called absolute horror. This is not what I bargained for when I signed the Adventurers Contract and got my blade. This is savagery parading as hilarity. Which is not to say that watching Pat Robertson getting his hand chopped off by a 16 year old vampire girl was not something else. He was poorly playing Saint Gabriel and had a trumpet that concealed a shotgun. Of course the saints had to bring guns and ruin it all.
The tailgating was like something they put on postage stamps in Gary Larson’s hell. Bible Belts and Black Belts all playing Conway Twitty and AFI at maxed out volumes. A cacophony of screams and vulgarities. Catharsis unknown till now. So many hot dogs. So very many drugs. The CIA brought the drugs, and those men know how to experiment. Ever since they learned what acid can do they have been tainting water supplies across the globe to find if their actions can in any way alter the course of events for US. The concoction they were selling for $10 or naked flesh was a bioluminescent hallucinogenic algae/fungi that could live off itself inside of you. When history hands you Glenn Beck dressed as Saint Michael you have to raise the bar.
I tried some of it in the locker room as Brett Farve girded his loins and ate sunflower seeds. The Silver Fox was looking weak and scared. He was taking massive pulls from a nutrient shake and then vomiting it into a bucket regularly emptied by his trainers. He knew that all eyes would rest on him, and how he performed before a crowd of drug crazed lunatics armed to the teeth with medieval weaponry and the righteous zeal of the entirely delusional. He knew that the show needed a climax though. Something that The Superbowl could no longer offer him. Something so absurdly awesome that time would remember him, if not as the Greatest Football Player Ever, then at least as the Greatest Viking King Ever. It’s easy to be the greatest of something when you make it up. It is how I have remained The Greatest Swordsman Alive for so long. Here is the best of the locker room transcript.
[Begin Transcript]
[Sounds of vomiting.]
Q: It went in green, but it’s coming out red.
BF: Don’t you think I see that?
Q: Would you like a Tums?
BF: Of course I would!
Q: Here, here. Take my last 10.
[Sounds of loud crunching.]
BF: Oh that’s like… [chew] that’s like chalk man… it’s like eating just a lot of fruit flavored [spit] chalk.
Q: Yeah. Yeah, but it will settle your stomach.
[Sounds of vomiting]
Q: Or you’ll just do that.
BF: It LOOKS like a lot of fruit flavored chalk.
Q: You’re right. Let me take a picture here. Gonna make that my wallpaper.
BF: We’re going to die tonight, aren’t we?
Q: Nah!! No. Nah. No, we’re going to make history tonight. We’re going to finish the film.
BF: For reals?
Q: Oh yes. Just this last footage of you beating The Saints and then you yelling; “I’m going back to Wisconsin where I’m loved!”
BF: I don’t even like Wisconsin!
Q: Don’t say that Brett. It worries me when you talk like that.
BF: It smells like cow! All of it smells like cow! Cow shit, oh balls, oh I’m going to die!
Q: Why did we bother training you then? Why did we bother making the statue? Why did we bother recording you killing that elk with the spear?
BF: That was Jared you burn-out!
Q: Hey, Jared, come over here.
[Sounds of Jared Allen spanking Brett Farve hard.]
BF: OOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW! That hurt!JA: You love it.
Q: Go easy on him, Jared, he’s vomiting red.
JA: Is that why it smells like puke over here?
BF: And fruit. I also smell fruit.
Q: Did YOU kill an elk with a spear?
JA: F yes I did. Weren’t you there?
Q: Gods. I must have been. It was, perhaps, one of my time clones.
BF: There aren’t time clones!!
JA: I’ve got to go have myself rubbed. B.F.F.F.V. you sexy man. I’m talking to you Brett.
BF: You go on.
Q: Are you blushing?
BF: Yes.
Q: So you’ve never killed an elk with a spear?
BF: I’ve only killed the people you told me to Q.
Q: And that footage is NOT going in the movie, if we can just get this footage.
BF: You promise?
Q: I promise.
BF: Do you think this is going to be a good movie?
Q: I bet Rotten Tomatoes will give us 85%.
BF: That’s good!
Q: I know kitten. I know.
[End Transcript.]
Everyone got past security and seated through a simple process of giving the security the day off to watch the game. The tailgating had resulted in everyone getting either hammered with light beer, or tripping balls off of experimental government funded future-drugs. On a triple blind level, I hoped that the satellite images would be enough to stand for what I hoped to accomplish as a member of society. I hoped that it would be everything The Guild Council agreed it should be; a summer blockbuster that could fund an escape in self sustained pleasure submarines. Everyone got passed security and they sat down and watched the game. That, I think more than anything, was the weird part.
Groupthink took over for a long while there and everyone, Viking and Saint, Pagan and Christian, Lunatic and Fanatic, all sat down together and ate hot dogs while the Vikings played the Saints for the first time since their playoff game. The Saints began roughing up Farve, as they had before, but after the first couple he was retired to the bench while Peterson tried his best. It was a good game before the gun fight. The score was, by quarter Q1: S:10 V:7, Q2: S:13 V:10, Q3: V:22 S:20.
By the fourth quarter it looked like the Vikings could hold it together to pull off a victory. It was such amazing football that no one wanted to interrupt it with a blood bath. Not even Ozzy Osbornes [Agent OO 00] “Crazy Train”, expected to elicit some sort of violence, merely united the factions in getting their respective faces rocked off. It seemed like Pat Robertson had fallen into the trap, and understanding and hope would reign for a century as the power players and their progeny worked together to unite and equalized cultural values in a bloodless coup of reason, tolerance, and personal freedom.
Brett Farve ruined everything by getting into the game in the fourth. The Saints had scored. [2:00 warning = S:27 V:22] This was the time, and the place. His time was now, and donning his horned helmet and smiling to the crowd, The Viking King Brett Farve took the field. He strode to the huddle, a pack of the best and brightest athletes ever to combat for money and power. They took formation and, as the world watched, Brett Farve took the snap. He faded back, The Saints leaping and tearing at the line with the force of unrighteous martyrs possessed. A single Saint broke through the line and Brett Farve threw over his shoulder. The pass was immediately intercepted. Brett Farve was struck in the chest with the force of a cannon ball. His head popped off like a daisy. Everyone went crazy.
Cries of horror united with screams of dismay. Cheers of righteous victory were a disjointed chorus played in syncopation with the feral howling of mad animals set free. Saw and Axe and Sword and Bow and Needle and Horn were raised to lips and hands and hearts and everyone set to swinging. Then the gunshots rang out, loud and terrible under the dome. Terror turned to chaos turned to light and sound, broken and fragmented by a thousand lives aligning against a thousand more underneath a home that had known too much tragedy already. Broken and scattered footage is all that remains. Suppressed and denied it serves as a grim testament to the utter savagery of it all. I submit the account in hopes that Brett Farve will not be traded, knowing full well that it will be. Such is the terrible clockwork of destiny.
The Viking King is Dead, All Hail The Viking King.
Willfuly Submitted,
Q.P. Quaddle
[BSG K00] DDS
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