I'm a man who enjoys the simple things in life. A good silk jogging suit. Rhinestone glasses and intravenous viagra. But one of my absolute favorite things to do is dress down little weasels who think they know more about football than me. I'm Al Davis. That's right. Ask your great grandmothers who rolled through their towns taking names and they'll tell you it was me, Al Davis.
In my day when you thought a guy was senile you handled it with honor. You snuck him away in the middle of the night, gave him some electroshock therapy and a bit of the old Chinese Water Torture, and the next day he was back at his high stress job, scouring the FBI's most wanted list for new long snapping talent. But after a few of my offseason moves this year I have been hearing about a lot of yellow journalists and internet homosexuals calling me senile and attacking the Oakland Raiders. Let me tell you something. The Raiders are beyond reproach. The greatest franchise in the history of professional sports was created by God himself and given to mankind as an apology for the mosquito. Remember that next time you criticize me, Al Davis.
It all started when I brought back Art Shell as head coach. People said that he was the only one who would take the job, but that's not true. He was the only one who would accept being paid in vouchers for delicious hot wings at local Hooters restaurants. Art Shell is a real Raider. He's old school. He understands how to deal with players. When a player talks back to you the best thing to do is call his mother vile names. If that doesn't work you use violence. That's how you build a winner. The last time I fired Art Shell I made a big mistake. I went on to hire a series of coaches who wanted to earn a competitive wage. I learned my lesson. I may be omnipresent, but I'm still human.
Then people started flapping their gums when we made the decision to hire Tom Walsh as our offensive coordinator. Just because he had been out of football longer than Saturday Night Live has been on the air and was running a bed and breakfast when we called him they think the guy doesn't know football. Let me tell you something. I####uy can get splooge stains out of a California king-size comforter, trim a hedge into the shape of an elephant, and bake peach cobbler for 30 all in the same day, by God I think he can draw up some plays to get Randy Belitnikoff the ball. Sure, we've had to teach him some things about the "modern NFL." We've had to remind him that the goal posts are in the back of the end zone now, but that's beside the point. It reminds me of when I hired John Madden a few years ago. I had to discipline him repeatedly for eating on the sidelines. Every time I looked down there Madden was stuffing his face with turducken. One time I went into the locker room at halftime and he was roasting a pig in there. He'd stapled pork chops to the body and stuffed a Big Mac in its mouth instead of an apple. But we dealt with the situation like men. We dealt with it like Raiders. And now John Madden is a hall of famer, taking his place along great Raiders of the past like Abraham Lincoln, Jean-Paul Sartre, and the great Aztec ruler Cuitlahuac.
And last but not least, everyone's been busting my balls about signing Jeff George the other day. I had no intention of signing Jeff George. I was content to go into the season with our current quarterback roster of Jeff Hostetler, Dan Marino, Vince Leinart and Jean-Claude Van Damme. But then I heard a story that made me rethink my whole philosophy on our season. Two weeks ago Jeff George is sitting around his house in Georgia when his 19 year old Slovenian mail order bride asks him to open a jar of pickles that was being a real ####. This Jeff George tries to open the jar and shatters it in his hand. The man's right arm is so strong he shattered a whole jar of Vlasic dills like it was made of balsa wood. If that's not the mark o####reat quarterback then by God I don't know what is. He can throw the ball far people. And by far, I mean damn far.
So I say this to the Raider Nation, the most loyal, bloodthirsty, and sexually attractive group of fans in America. As your sovereign Lord and master, I command you never to doubt me. I was there when they built the pyramids. I was there at the moment Ken Stabler was conceived when his mother decided to tangle with a bolt of lightening. The glory days of the Raiders are returning. I just heard from a scout that there's a guy who was just arrested here in Oakland for nearly kicking a man's head clean off. If things go well, Sebastian Janikowski might be getting traded.
Joshua Hoskins is the son of Ukrainian immigrants who came to this country hoping to be illegally hired at Wal-Mart. He was smuggled across the border in a furry Russian hat, and as a result, has debilitating phobias of confined spaces, and furry Russian hats.
He was raised in what he affectionatel y refers to as "the arm pit of California," the fertile agricultural and teenage pregnancy hot spot known as the San Joaquin Valley. His hometown is located near Fresno, the booming metropolis that has given the world giant talents William Saroyan and Kevin Federline (represent K-Fed!!!). He now lives in San Diego.
His writing style has been called "visionary," "enraptured," "#### yo' damn pants funny," and "just plain rude." Read on and decide for yourself, if you aren't a total wussy.
