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D-Day, Minus 6

2004-04-19_xx_8:03 a.m.


From the desk of S.W. Profit, gonzo journalist and rabid football fan...

I awake in a cold sweat or possibly a warm one; the desert tends to cause such outbursts of perspiration for no apparent reason. Pulling aside the black out shades that adorn every possible window opening in my hide-out, I find myself squinting into the harsh glare of an unyielding sun. What sort of unseen force has jarred my soul from it's endless hibernation? It can't possibly be August already? Or could it? When one lacks communication with the outside world, it is nearly impossible to keep track of time in a place where the sun shines 365 days a year... Have all the drugs, bottles of rum and unending heat finally taken there toll and thrust me into a perpetual state of peodi like hallucinations?

Ahhh, but checking the calendar hanging from the wall, curled and cracked from the lack of moisture in my desert oasis hideaway, I see that this is not ordinary outburst of heat induced hysteria. The black X's started early in February and there are now but six days left before the day circled in thick red, the color of fresh blood.

Blood sweat and tears, these are the things I haven't felt since sometime in December as the underdog Panthers came up a game short of my predicted dark horse rise to pro football history. This of course left me fleeced of nearly every cent on my person, as the saying goes, "almost" only counts with horse-shoes and hand grenades. So my self-induced hibernation from all things sporting and evil is finally coming to an end. I awake from my hazy slumber just in time for playoffs of hockey and pro b-ball in nature and of course THE DRAFT.

The last great event in the pro ball off season, that will hopefully hold this junkie over until the crushes of summer begin to fade and the training camp schedules enter into their final death blows.

Alas, I'm already starting to get ahead of myself. I haven't even glimpsed at what sort of team my accursed cardinals will field this year and if Denny Green really will be the savior these transplanted desert birds have been praying for since the days of Neil Lomax and Stump Mitchell.

For now, my stash of drugs and rum is running dangerously low and as every dweller of this state will tell you; there is no such thing as too much ice in the desert. With a foul curse the great white shark roars to life and the snow birds flee for their summer havens, scattering in the wind before me as the mad prophet from the desert once again descends upon an unsuspecting city.

D-day minus six, can you feel it baby? I would say that I would see you all in hell, but shit man, I already live here.

Sincerely,

S.W. Profit.

**editors note:

Festivities start at 0900 April 24th. The mad prophet will be awake as early as 0800 and will have the kitchen full stocked. Any and all requests to provide gainful assistance in preparing the days meal will be honored. Based on the lack of available funds and the editors steadfast refusal to provide a line of credit, all cash donations will be accepted. BYOB is still in effect.

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