What a True Saints Fan Looks like on the Inside

5 02 2010

I caught some flack in the comment section earlier this week for not posting enough about the fact that the Saints are in the Superbowl.  I thought to myself, how much is there really to say about the fact that the Saints are in the Superbowl, and why would that be interesting to anyone outside of Louisiana?

Then someone sent me this story, about a woman who accidentally swallowed her fleur de lis earring (thinking she was swallowing a vitamin from her bedside table) and ended up with this sure to be iconic x-ray:

This is apparently not fake.  Here’s the text of the news story by reporter Jan Vise:

A New Orleans woman spent a night in the emergency room after accidentally injesting a piece of fleur de lis jewelry.

Daniel Rickard says he and his wife Florellen take several vitamins every evening before going to bed.   In the darkened bedroom, his wife accidentally scooped up one of her Saints earrings along with the vitamins off the night stand.

“And when she tossed them down with a glass of water, one of them got stuck in her throat,” he said.

The couple called 911, and were advised to go to the hospital.

According to Rickard, his wife spent the next 8 hours in the East Jeff ER.

He says when doctors tried to retrieve it from his wife’s throat, the jewelry got pushed down even further into her stomach, required an even more extensive extraction procedure.

The doctors eventually got it out, and his wife is doing well, though now has some scratches in her throat.

“So far, she’s going to be all right…if the Saints win on Sunday night, she’ll be just perfect,” he said.

He also says the NFL has not taken issue with the X-Ray image featuring the fleur de lis, as it does not contain the phrase “Who Dat” on it.

Haha- I love that little dig at the end. Her throat may be torn up, but she’s a celebrity for the weekend!

And speaking of weekends, DC is bracing for a monster, snowpocalypse blizzard right now, so I already stocked up on beer, chips and velveeta for Sunday in case stores are closed.  I may not swallow my earrings, but that doesn’t make me any less of a fan!

Happy weekend, people, and GEAUX SAINTS!

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5 responses

5 02 2010
new orleanian

I think New Orleans may explode this weekend. Along with the king cakes, full line-up of Mardi Gras parades, Mardi Gras Balls…..and of course, the SUPERBOWL. I haven’t seen one person today in New Orleans not wearing Saints apparel. People have black and gold pompoms and face-paint at work. Monday was declared a holiday by most of the local universities to prepare for the massive amount of whiskey that will be consumed. I’m actually slightly scared of venturing to the Quarter Sunday night for fear of complete mayhem.

Last weekend you couldn’t find a man without a dress on as hundreds of men paraded from the Superdome to the Quarter to honor the late Buddy Diliberto’s pledge to wear one if the Saints ever made it to the Super Bowl.

WHO DAT!

5 02 2010
DC's oto-san

( I am certainly no DC Rambler but here is my amateur revised faustian take on the Saints Super Bowl game. The Buddy D reference for those not from New Orleans is to a legendary, now deceased, sportscaster from New Orleans, Buddy Diliberto. Buddy D is famous for his love for the Saints, his lisp, his struggles with the English language and his promise to wear a dress to the Super Bowl if the Saints ever made it. This week there was a parade in Buddy Ds honor where all the men wore dresses)

Devil Meets His Match

I returned home after the Saints win over the Vikings and was too excited to sleep. I finally dozed off around three a.m., still smiling. If its possible to smile in one’s sleep, I am sure I was snoozing away with an ear to ear grin.

I was awakened when I thought I heard a knock at my front door. I grabbed the aluminum bat I keep under my bed and held it behind my back as I went to investigate. As I peered through the front door and saw a rather dapper looking man in what looked to be a very expensive Italian suit carrying a shiny briefcase. “Can I come in for a minute?” he purred in a smooth but creepy voice.

Uhh, I dont think so, I am thinking to myself. Is it ever a good idea to let a stranger into your house at 3 a.m.? “I am sorry” I tell the guy, “but its almost three in the morning and I have no idea who you are or what your business is”.

“You know who I am” the guy tells me. “We met at Fat Harry’s in New Orleans thirty years ago. We made a deal and I am here to collect”.

Okay, now this deal had turned very strange. I had no idea who this guy was and even if I did owe him money from thirty years ago, showing up on my doorstep in the middle of the night was more than just a little weird. I tightened my grip on my Louisville Slugger and eased it out a little from behind my back so he could see it and I responded, “You best hit the road Jack, before batting practice starts”.

I cant believe I even said that. I can count on “no” fingers the number of bat fights I have been in during my life. I must be watching too much TV. With that I flipped off the front porch light and headed to my study to call the police.

As I am walking through my kitchen I notice a cold draft of air that chilled me to the bone and a foul odor that strangely smelled like a mixture of embalming fluid, rotten eggs and Old Spice. I look up and there Mr. Italian suit is is sitting at my kitchen table! I liked to jump out of my skin. I raise the bat and ask the guy how he got into the house. If he values his shiny, white teeth he better have a good answer.

“I am the devil” he announces, “surely you remember our deal”. I did not remember the deal, but I knew he was not lying about being the devil. He seethed evil despite his smooth talking ways. I could feel it. I could smell it.

“I have no deal with you” I firmly announce to him. Then I hold my arms up and make a cross as I yell, “Begone demon or I shall smite you”.

“Begone demon?” he laughs. “You are going to smite me? Where did you learn to talk like that?’ he asks. “Have you been watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns or something? No one says ‘smite’ anymore and theatening me with the sign of the cross does not change our deal.”

Now I am a bit worried and think I better try something else. I thought for a second about kicking his rear end, I mean the guy is what, five or six thousand years old (he has to be at least that old to wear old spice). But this guy apparently can walk through walls and looks like he is in pretty good shape. Its funny how your mind works, here I am about to lose my soul and I am wondering if the devil works out. Brute force will probably not work and I really do not want to risk getting stomped by a guy older than Moses anyway. I will have to rely on my wits which at times have served me well. So I pull up a chair and put on my game face. “Okay, Bellszebub or whatever you call yourself. What is the deal you say we have?”

“Thats Beelzebub, Prince of Darkness” he replied indignantly and over the next five minutes my unwanted houseguest tells me a story where one night when I was 17 years old doing some underage drinking at Fat Harry’s. It was after yet another Saints loss when he claimed I invoked him. “Invoke” I laugh, “it seems like you are the one watching too much “Buffy” satanbreath. Why would I invoke you?”.

“You invoked me” he responded” when you announced to your friend that you would sell your soul if you could get laid and the Saints would make the Super Bowl”. Chills went up my spine which I gamely tried to hide. Although I had no recollection of invoking him, selling my soul at age 17 to get laid and to have the Saints go to the Super Bowl certainly sounded like something I would do. First of all, at 17 you are not that worried about your immortal soul. Secondly, the chances of me getting laid and the Saints going to the Super Bowl probably seemed so remote to me at the time that I might have risked a deal like that.

“Show me the contract Lucy-fer. I never made such a deal. If its in writing I will honor it”. This was a calculated gamble on my part. Most times at that age when I was in Fat Harry’s I would have been way too loaded to write. And when I saw the hint of a frown on him I knew he had no written deal.

“Its an oral contract” he said with a retreating tone. “Prove it horned toad” I responded feeling I was starting to get his goat a bit. So out of nowhere he produces a grainy video of me and some of my drinking buddies chugging beer at Fat Harry’s. We all had Saint’s hats on and looked bummed out so it must have been after another heartbreaking Saint’s loss. As I look closely at the video I exclaim (without thinking I would be acknowledging it was me in the tape), “What in God’s name am I wearing?”. “Bell bottoms with a paisley shirt” he laughed, “and lets leave God out of it, he cant help you. We have a deal.”

Sure enough as the video rolls on I invoke the devil offering my soul if me and the Saints could get lucky. Damn it, I thought, this doesnt look good. Thinking quickly I tell him I never have gotten laid and there is no deal. “Do you want to see that tape?” he snickers. “There are not many tapes and you will not see Paris Hilton in any of them, but if you like I can pull them up.”

Rats. The whole concept of burning in hell for eternity is starting to sink in. It would be way too ironic for me, the ultimate Saints fan, to go to hell. “The Saints haven’t won the Super Bowl” I argue back. “Our deal had nothing to do with them winning, just getting there”, he replied. “I held up my end by sending the twelth guy into the huddle and telling Favre only he could make that throw. Now pay up”.

At that moment I dropped to my knees and prayed. I needed an angel and I needed one bad. I am praying out loud while my guest is cackling at me when the doorbell rings again. I rushed to the door and saw a warm, white glow that made me feel immediately at peace. My angel was there. He didn’t look like any angel, he looked like … well … he looked like Buddy D.

My angel marches right in and tells the guy to get lost. “There is no contwact” my angel declares. “Go back to hell pondscum” he tells the devil.

“Contwact?”, the devil and I say at the same time. “Thats what I said” my Buddy D angel replied, “Contwact. Now begone before I dwop a house on you”. Contwact? Dwop a house? It really was Buddy D. It had to be.

Buddy goes on to say that there can be no “contwact” because I was a minor, because I was intoxicated and lacked capacity and because the statute of limitations to sue on a contract is ten years.

When I saw the evil grin on the devil’s face turn into a grimace, I knew I had him, thanks to Buddy D. “Get lost creton”, Buddy told him, “you have no power here”. Now I know how Dorothy felt when Glenda went all gangsta on the wicked witch from the west.

With that the devil was gone and my eternal life spared. What a night. The saints get to the super bowl; I get a reprieve on an ill conceived bet; and Buddy D pays me a ghost from Christmas past type visit. “Thanks Buddy” I say, “Why dont you stick around. We can order out some Deanie’s seafood, drink a few Barqs and watch the replay”.

“No can do” Buddy replied. “I have some shopping to do”.

“Oh right”, I answered, those NFC champion T-shirts are going fast.

“No T-shirt for me” Buddy said with a grin. “I am going dress hunting”.

5 02 2010
districtramblings

hahaha, Huzzah! well-written and clearly based on a true story.

6 02 2010
DC's oto-san

7 02 2010
NOVASaint

We had a Snowpocalypse party in my neighborhood and I was sporting my new Saints NFC Champs shirt. Looks to me like most folks were rooting for us. I’m expecting the best later today!!

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