Hello, you beautiful reprobates! It is I, your beloved spiritual-leader-cum-figurehead-for-social-control!

It’s almost draft time, and when you open any sports website or (god forbid) turn on ESPN, you can feel the crackling tension build from the Draft Industrial Complex. Draftniks face pressure on so many fronts at this point:

1. Editorial pressure to come up with molten Hot Taeks so that people keep reading the newest revision of the mock draft you started in October of last year

2. Constantly jumping at every false story and rumor planted by every agent and general manager worth his salt.  Obviously, the access-whores like Adam Schefter know the score and dutifully pass along every tidbit without thinking, but the local beat reporters be like:

  3. The internal tension that builds from 4+ months of living inside an echo chamber of meaningless speculation on an event where a team’s success or failure has historically come down to random chance.

To say nothing of the unhinged mania of a quarterback-needy general manager. To borrow from Dr. Thompson:

[H]is knuckles will be white from inner tension and his pants will be crusted with semen from constantly jacking off when he can’t find a rape victim. He will stagger and babble when questioned. He will not respect your badge. The [GM] fears nothing. He will attack, for no reason, with every weapon at his command-including yours.

Ok, so maybe it doesn’t track precisely, but you get the sense.

But seriously- picture someone like Chris Ballard of the Colts. Sitting at 4, one of this draft’s top QBs will fall to you. But it all starts to work on your head, dreams that someone will trade up with Arizona and scoop the One Guy Who Will Save Your Job out from under you. Next thing you know, your pulling a Trubisky and trading two thirds and a fourth to head off some other team that probably never called. You’ve traded two chances to draft potential starters because you got scared of looking like a chump.

I imagine it’s like one of those Desperation Poops that you’ve held inside for 45 minutes of a meeting- you’re waddling down the corridor toward the bathroom at high speed, asscheeks clenched, breath rhythmic and shallow in an unconscious imitation of a woman in childbirth. Bathroom door, stall door, seat in sight and suddenly…

Well, you know what happened next. Ryan Leaf, all over the back of the toilet.

Hm. Lost the metaphor there. Whatever.

Frankly, I think the tension of not having a QB going into the draft is part of why the Packers were able to get a decent haul for Aaron Rodgers, even though I guess that’s pretty good after 1. the market was reduced to a single team and 2. Russell scared everyone off giant trades for old QBs. Joe Douglas doesn’t want that pressure. He’s 46 going on 75 with angina and a troublesome prostate. So you make the deal now to ensure you are not the schmuck left with Zach Fucking Wilson as your starting quarterback/constant reminder of how bad you fucked up two years ago.

WHAT’S ON TONIGHT:

Bourbon. You get a little bourbon in ya and it doesn’t matter what game you’re watching.