Glory be to Kali

Someday someone will learn. And from then on Devin Hester will be no more than a talisman, an ancient cursed relic standing, waiting behind the wedge of blockers for a kick that will never come. Until then he's going to keep running them right up your ass.

Although if he's going to keep catching bombs between over and under'ed double coverage, defensive coordinators are going to have to start leaving sacrifices of virgins and bulls of magnificent carriage for the omnipotent Kali. Oh, and his celestial sidekick, the Great Neckbeard.

The defense was not so transcendent, but Alex Brown seemed to slither and storm through the Saints' line like some sort of snakey hurricane. Maybe, in all this talk of Mark Anderson and Tommie Harris, he finally said to himself, in the darkness before his nightly slumber, "Why not me? Wherein shall my name be proclaimed to the very heights?" And finally the gods responded: "Make some fucking plays, Alex!" And so he did.

Today the offseason begins. There are playoffs this year, so I'm told, but they'll be dominated by some team from, I think, Vermont. Pot-smoking hippies and bloody communists, for all I know. Meanwhile I'll be building a new altar to Kali, wondering what we'll have to give up for McNabb, and hoping against hope that we don't let Lance Briggs go without some sort of compensation in the form of draft picks or some undiscovered magnificent linebacker. Just like Briggs. Or we could, you know, try and keep him. Just a thought.