Minnesota, we have a problem. A hideously bearded one, in fact:
The bad news: if the above man remains the leader of the Minnesota Vikings into the playoffs, we're doomed to watch our favorite team's season end in the worst possible way- almost certainly to a second round loss to the Green Bay Packers.
The good news: we have the ability to do something about it.
Now, I'm not necessarily saying that if you happen to spot Brad Childress, Minnesota Vikings head football coach, crossing the road whilst cruising the cities, you should plow into him like a hooker on Grand Theft Auto. I'm also not necessarily saying that were you to do such a thing you would find a lofty check in the mail from yours truly the next morning.
Just take note that I'm not not necessarily saying both of those things either.
Yes, it's true that from my isolated perch in Damascus where I've been unable to actually see any Viking games (despite the fat, Syrian, barely-English-speaking dude I saw not long ago wearing a Minnesota sweater, Minnesota sports teams aren't exactly in vogue here) I'm hardly qualified to make football judgements. I am, however, qualified to say this: Brad Childress is a soul-devouring, lollipop-stealing, fetus-eating succubus, only pretending to be an almost overwhelmingly unattractive, balding, incompetent football coach.
Believe it or not, I'm not basing that statement on the fact that I've watched this man slowly prey on the hope of Minnesotan fans for 3 years and counting now. Rather, I'm basing it on a very different experience. I never told anyone but Luke and Chris Beddor this, but the night before we left for our travels I had a dream in which I stumbled into a man in an airport- a man who apparantly knew all about my crew's plans to travel Asia over the next year. That man then went on to predict that, not only would the four of us make it all the way to China as planned, but we would make it by relying on each other. Foolishly, I believed that man.
One month later, the four of us found ourselves scattered across continents, the trip a resolute failure. Do I even need to give you the name of this this sage purveyor of predictions, the man at the center of the implosion of a trip that on paper looked like it couldn't possibly fail?
I doubt you need it, but here's a hint: he's also the man who drafted Tarvaris Jackson. And his name is Brad.
Of course the idea that Brad Childress cursed our trip is ridiculous and I fully expect you to want to mock me for saying so. But before you do, I implore you to take a look at these two pictures I took in Turkey, only weeks after Brad Childress infested that dream and made that fatal prediction:
This first picture I already posted, with the caption, "no way that black sheep could be anything but the physical manifestation of pure evil ". I stand by that statement, though I'll admit that this picture alone isn't enough to prove that we were cursed. It's definitely a little creepy though, to see an obvious minion of satan leading an army of unknowing followers to, no doubt, destroy some small Turkish village and feast on the blood of every women or child in it's path. A little too reminiscent of Brad Childress' tyrannic rule as the leader of a team of violent, testesterone-driven, probably steroid-consuming giants if you ask me.
And then there's this shot I took in Istanbul, where things go beyond mere creepy. I swear that when I took this picture, I was just snapping a shot of a single cat frolicking on a dumpster. There was no other cat in the frame. I repeat: there was no other cat in the frame, let alone not one that existed only in shadow form and with the freakiest eyes I've ever seen. If ever there were unnassailable evidence that evil is afoot around us, besides Brad Childress apparant ability to convince otherwise intelligent, discerning people, like Vikings owner Zygi Wilf, that he deserves to get paid millions of dollars to make Minnesotans want to throw themselves off of small-to-medium sized buildings, than this picture is it.
Now, of course you can argue that, while some evil force might have indeed derailed our plans and in the process sunk the trip of a lifetime, there's no reason that we should attribute that evil to a Minnesota football coach and his messed up facial hair. But do you really want to take that risk? Just remember, everytime a child sheds a tear, Brad Childress' beard grows a little bit thicker, and everytime a bank collapses or a nation is invaded or Tiger Woods bangs another stripper, Brad Childress grows a little bit closer to his dream of seeing the world collapse into complete anarchy.
So with that in mind, let's return to the scenario we started with: next time you're driving down the road and suddenly see this dude...
...ambling through your headlights, all I'm suggesting is that you take a second to think about it, collect yourself, and do what you gotta do. For the dignity of the great state of Minnesota, if nothing else.
Ask yourself, WWJD?
Answer: He would run over Brad Childress.
(Or at least wrestle him to the ground and shave that unholy thing he calls a beard.)
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