96 Questions: Who is Your Vegas Dream Team?

If you’re a serious Vikings fan than this title needs no explanation. This is an older one that B Rob asked around the locker room back in the good old days when Xavier Rhodes was awesome, Captain Munnerlyn was solid, the defense was 2nd to none, and we had Alex Boone, who if nothing else, was great entertainment on 96 questions. PLUS WE STILL HAD B ROB DOING 96 QUESTIONS (RIP to the show).

I went down a bit of YouTube rabbit hole today and decided to answer this question myself using the current roster, because who better to pick a Vegas Dream Team of Vikings players than someone who knows them all intimately*.

So let’s dive in.

  1. Kirk Cousins.

Settle down. Settle the fuck down and let me explain. Every group needs a Dad for two reasons. First, Dad isn’t going to drink too much, Dad is going to get you home, Dad will keep you out of trouble, Dad will force feed you water and saltines while you puke in the toilet, Dad will take care of you. Next, when you were in your 20’s did you ever go out to the bars with your parents or maybe with a friend and their parents? The parents bankroll the entire night. That is Kirk’s job. He’s been getting PAID the last few years, so he’s funding this trip. He’s buying our way into all the clubs, getting us the nicest suites, and renting the hottest cars. Thanks Dad.

2. Everson Griffen.

It’s good to have a wild card in your group, someone borderline crazy, a risk taker. Everson is going to take you to the places that are just a little bit too sketchy for the average person. These are the places where the phrase “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” was invented. They are also the places where you have the time of your life. Griffen’s going to make you experiment, he’s going to push the boundaries, he’s the guy that gets you a night that resembles The Hangover. He’s also a giant freak of nature. Griff is the body guard, and the enforcer. He is the ultimate Vegas Swiss Army Knife.

3. Mike Hughes.

Cool, calm, collected, and a ladies man, that is Mike Hughes. Now the three C’s sound like a Dad trait but they aren’t. He’s still drinking, he’s still gambling, and he’s still sticking Dad’s dollar bills in places your actual Dad hasn’t seen in years, but he can handle the pressure of any situation. The guys got ice in his veins (Love you D-Lo) and a resting heart beat so low even that “nurse” on stage is concerned. He’s the ultimate glue guy, and he can adapt to and have fun in any situation. Mike is the guy who makes a group of goons actually look cool. He’s the hot girl less attractive girls try to hang around. If Kirk’s money isn’t getting us into that club, than the shear coolness of Mike Hughes is.

What a motley crew.

*Has never met any of the players.

My 2020 Masters Debacle

We all remember the 2019 Masters. If you live under that overpass on my way to work maybe you don’t, so hold on to your nuts and let me fill you in.

My god. If Eldrick Tont Woods celebrating in the red and black doesn’t rev your engine, raise your pulse, or put a little sweat on your brow, you may need your hormones checked.

The 2019 Masters was one of the greatest sporting events I have ever witnessed. Tiger snapping a major drought that spanned a decade plus shocked me. I never thought he could return to that level of golf. Once he did though, my thought was immediately on to the next major, and on to number 18. Now, the next major is the 2020 Masters, and I have recently been informed that I am going to be at a wedding, across the country, on April 11th. Let that sink in. I will be attending a wedding on April 11th, and flying home on April 12th. I can feel your frustration.

Normally I love weddings. Mostly because I like cake and alcohol, and I like it even more when it’s free and there is a lot of it. I also fucking love Shout (replays Wedding Crashers scene in memory). It’s honestly exhilarating. But never before has a wedding interfered with my ability to watch Tiger Woods in the Masters.

When Tiger is charging up the leaderboad I will be walking down the aisle trying to find a place to sit. When Tiger is being interviewed after a great Saturday round, I will be making awkward small talk with family. When Tiger is putting to win the Masters I will be strapped in to a tin can 40,000 feet in the air that hopefully isn’t the really shitty 737 Max tin can. Not even double fisting free beer during a conga line (also exhilarating) could save this plane wreck of a weekend. Now maybe I could get a choppy ass stream of some of the Saturday round depending on the schedule of events, but my broke ass is going to be flying Spirit Sunday and even if those should be out of service airplanes had wifi, it would be so slow I’d get Tiger induced blue balls. I’d miss the money shot, you know, the one where he busts it in the hole.

Wedding advice: Know when the majors are.

I’d miss the birth of my child to watch him win number 18 when that day comes.

On to San Francisco

New Orleans scared me. Seattle scares me. Green Bay makes me nervous. San Francisco? I’m not afraid (turns on Eminem). Does Jimmy G’s handsome ass scare me at quarterback? No. Does Kyle Shanahan’s slightly less handsome ass keep me up at night? Nope. The Vikings have to travel to California in the middle of a Minnesota winter (sucks for them) and play a 49ers team full of guys who probably drink kombucha and make their own granola. Meanwhile, Everson Griffen is in the north woods hunting white tail deer with his bare hands, and Anthony Barr is slamming back a 30 rack of PBR while taking a break from pulling Muskies through 8 inches of ice in 0 degree weather.

I don’t care how warm your weather is, or how good your granola may be, Minnesota has the edge here. It’s the playoffs, it time for physical football, and the Vikings will physically dominate the 49ers. I mean Raheem Mostert is 5′ 10″ 205 lbs (I remember 8th grade), Linval Joseph might literally eat him.

San Francisco certainly has talent, but Minnesota just played one of their best overall games of the season, against a Super Bowl contender, and seems to be peaking at the perfect time.

Joe Dirt may have been a janitor for a California radio station but Kirk Dirt is the custodian for the Minnesota Viking offense, and he looks ready to take out his broom and sweep the San Francisco 49ers out of the playoffs and back to their surfboards at Ocean Beach.

Skol. Kombucha stinks.

Oh my god.

Wow! Did not see that coming. I was pessimistic about this game, and why wouldn’t I be. Minnesota has a nasty habit of not showing up for big games, and the Saints are always a tough win (feels physical pain after writing that). The Saints didn’t play the game I expected (credit to the Vikes), maybe no one had an extra $10,000 to throw around (gumbo sales are down?), or maybe they didn’t feel the need to try and take out Kirk Dirt. Either way, they looked off. Minnesota however, finally looked on. The defense looked good, at times incredible (dims lights, turns of replays of Hunter and Griffen, grabs lotion), Rhodes looked better than just a traffic cone, and the offense was clicking, thanks in large part to Chef Cook. It was the perfect game for an underdog road team. The Vikings were even kind enough to not stray too far from their identity and give us a few heart attacks. I may never forgive Cook for his “fumble” returned for a TD. But thanks to the softest damn hands in the world (looking at you Rudy) they ate a W? got a W? They won.

If I’m Zimmer and the boys I’m hitting Bourbon Street, and I’m hitting it hard, and once Kirk is a little loose (3 white claws or 2 Bud Heavys) I’m finding a 2nd line, marching down to Cam Jordans house, and I’m having Kirk take a loose Joe Dirt right on his Saints themed welcome mat.

What a game.

T minus 13 hours

I would rather watch Tom Brady and Bill Belichick win a 7th Super Bowl than watch the New Orleans Saints win another one. I despise the Saints (not you Teddy) just as much as I despise the Packers. JUST AS MUCH. I don’t care how likable Drew Brees supposedly is, watching him win physically pains me. Don’t even get me started about Sean Payton *cough* douche *cough*. Because of this, Vikings vs Saint on January 5th is my Super Bowl. If the Vikings win I’ll be piss drunk for two days wearing horns on my head downing Jose shots like it’s some sort of Scandinavian Cinco De Mayo. Honestly if they lose I may do the same thing, add tears.

I’m realistic, this team (probably?) can’t make a run. There are just too many glaring holes. So I plan on making this upcoming Sunday, Super Bowl Sunday, because knocking the Saints out of the playoffs would feel about as good as the first time you learned how to…you know.. take a long shower, which I assume is about how good it feels to hoist that Trophy that shall not be named (I’d rather scream “Voldemort” in Godric’s Hollow).

Even though I’m doubtful, I am a fan. So let’s see if Kirt Dirt can turn up the Def Leppard, get off his sister (turns out it wasn’t his sister), and drop a couple of Boeing Bombs to Diggs and Thielen in the end zone.

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