Unloose the Deuce! (feature-length film version)

Unloose the Deuce!

Archdiocese of New Orleans Announces Deuce Vigil

Our Deuce, who art in limbo,
Hallowed be thy knees.
Thy first carry come.
Thy first down be done.
On turf as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily Deuce.
And forgive us our coaches,
as we forgive those who know not your signature down nor distance.
And lead us not into closed holes along the line of scrimmage,
but deliver us from third and one. Amen.

A Prayer for the Deuce-olution

In response to the call . . .

Deliver us, oh Deuce, from any coach who knows not your signature down nor your signature distance. Deliver us, oh Deuce, from every loss of yardage on 3rd and 1. Deliver us, oh Deuce, from every miner of gold, and grant us victory in our day. In your long awaited crossing of the line of scrimmage, keep us free from injury and protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for Golden Jerry Romig to bellow “1st Down Saints!” as you carry overpowered 49ers downfield.

As seen on Sesame Street

Because Little Tuna refused to acknowledge the wisdom of Berto's oracle, here's a signpost observed this weekend on Sesame Street. It's meaning cannot be more clear:

Can't Harsh My Mellow

Ya heard, Riding-the-Pine Nuts? This weekend, this coming out party for a sickle cell defense, this statement game, this dismantling of South Park lampoons. Even your shittiness, oh Mr. Pine Nuts, even your shittiness can't harsh this mellow.

Defend New Orleans (and other observations)

In lieu of post-game analysis and grades that other Who Dats handle with far more discretion, I'm going with a list of observations to move from gin-induced, game 2 headache to week 3:

* Friday, Sept. 12: After Chef's full-time employer safely closed its facilities to protect the interests of all its valued employees from the tornadic threats of Ike, Chef retreated to a bunker on Bienville Street, Liuzza's, for a fish bowl or four of amber, a Frenchuletta, and the ice-filled tile-backed toilet trough. Not a bad way to start a NFL weekend.

* Saturday, Sept. 13: A late invite to a family birthday celebration for a 22-year-old nephew resulted in a cochon plate, double-stuffed potato, and cracklins at Cochon. More important was the opportunity to visit the restaurant's handsomely appointed men's room, where just to the left of the wash basin I found a framed photo of the Defender of New Orleans setting off the Dome on September 25, 2006. The Defender had signed it thusly: "Cochon! Defend New Orleans! Steve Gleason #37" Defend New Orleans indeed. Never mind Fed-Ex field. Steps have been taken.

* Sunday, Sept. 14: On second thought, cuban black beans with smoked sausage, cilantro chicken tacos, and habanero cheese stuffed sausages may not be the best meal to serve with the heartburn that a team coached by the slowly fattening-Sean Payton provides.

* Monday, Sept. 15: See Sunday, Sept. 14, especially "heartburn."

We dub thee "Cafe 641 East"

In response to our worthy colleague's appearance at FedEx field on Sunday, Cafe 641 interrupts its regularly scheduled program to bring you live coverage of the Upper Terrace Chef knighting of one Nola Chick.

"Nola Chick, you have presented your tailgate for dubbing of Cafe worthiness through your Who Dat vigil and perserverance, evidenced this very Sunday by your faithful roast of all Redskins. Please accept this charge with solemn conviction:

Right mindful of your prowess in the stands, and responsive to the wishes of your Who Dat peers, we are minded to dub your tailgate venture "Cafe 641 East." Know that to wear the belt and chain of an Upper Terrace Chef is to hold a sacred trust; that the obligations of Chefdom will demand your efforts every moment of your life.

A Chef of the Upper Terrace must be respectful of only one religion, always offending the faith of another.

A Chef of the Upper Terrace must disrespect all those who are weak or defenseless, whether because of age, infirmity, poverty, offensive suckery, or defensive lapse, and be steadfast in offending them.

A Chef of the Upper Terrace must love her kingdom and her province, and fulfill most faithfully her feudal duties to #s 23, 51, 26, and in moments of crisis #19.

Her word must be dependable beyond doubt or question. She must never flee from the face of her foes, neither feathered nor painted for war. She must be generous with insult to all.

And, always and everywhere, she must be the champion of the black and the gold.

The Laws of the Society and the customs of the Who Dat Kingdom require that a Upper Terrace Chef be prow, as you have demonstrated you are upon the tailgate field; that a chef be profane, as you have shown yourself to be and as these noble gentleman and ladies attest.

Do you then desire to accept the burden of Upper Terrace Chefhood and swear fealty to the Crown? Please accept this scepter as symbol of your status and impale it on the closest Redskin.

Lost and Found

Ever the humanitarian, Reggie Bush visited the Tampa Bay Yuckaneers locker room yesterday after the game. He headed straight for the locker of Jermaine Phillips, kindly replacing a piece of clothing lost sometime in the fourth quarter.

Said Reggie: "One moment he's talking trash, next he's on my highlight reel." And then: "Yo Jermaine. I know you've got that Super Bowl ring and all, but I didn't know Geriatric Jello Garcia hooked his d-backs up with their own warmers. I looked all over for the one that you dropped at the 35-yard-line, but I didn't see it. Tell you what, to show there's no hard feelings, I got you a little gift out of my own locker. You keep it to remember what we shared for 1/2 second this afternoon:

Neither wind, nor rain, nor power outage . . .

Steps Have Been Taken Indeed

Deliver us, oh Deuce, from every swashbuckler, and grant us victory in our day. In your long awaited return, keep us free from injury and protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for Golden Jerry Romig to bellow “1st Down Saints!” as you carry overrated Buccaneers downfield on 3rd and 4.

Did I Miss Decadence . . .

. . . asked a Buccaneer Bruce-impersonating Jeff Garcia, after stepping off a very private jet this afternoon at Louis Armstrong International Airport. Informed that yes, not only had he missed the Southern Decadence festival, but that it was much scaled down this year due to a mandatory evacuation for Hurricane Gustav, Godiva Garcia replied, "But what am I going to do with this?

Fleur de Lis Levee Protection

While the Army Corps of Engineers struggles to find its ass from its eyeballs, Drewliverance has shown us the way. Get smart, Carl A. Strock.

Forget 100-year protection, Cat 5 protection, or any other semantic smokescreen. Give us what we want and so desperately need: Fleur de Lis Levees. It starts in the Gulf.

You see, Carl, that salt water can't fill our homes if it's standing at attention saluting #9 as he parts the sea and leads the team across the entire outer continental shelf. Get to work, Carl, and if you insist on stuffing our levees with newspaper, at least be smart enough to choose 1,000,000 copies of the Times-Picayune's NFL Preview section and its prophetic cover.

Get in My Belly!

Couldn't agree more with Dilly: Steps have been taken.

And those steps will guide Chef Who Dat & family home on Friday, aided by the peace of mind that is Rita Benson LeBlanc in a gold fleur de lis dress with black stockings.

Those steps will guide us onto Poydras with renewed purpose: a citizenship reclamation project.

Those steps will remind us how we do what we do: embody our New Orleans locality by letting it all hang out.

Those steps will remind us that we're hungry on Sundays whenever an offending swashbuckler enters our Sacredome.

Those steps will lead us to eat, to fill our stomachs, to nourish our bodies with the pirate carcass: Stuff It Up Their Buc-skins . . . Jeff's Not Quite Faine-mous Flabby Wings . . . Garcia's Geriatric Jello.

Forgot to evacuate with your Saints schedule? No worries. Chef K-Paul has you hooked up. We'll make it rain in the Cafe on Sunday with our very own 2008 Cafe 641 Snack Schedule. Pick yours up in Rows 41 and 42.

Say your prayers, Who Dats. The time is drawing near.

The Saints Are Coming

The New York Times described the crowd’s reaction as both “marvelous enthusiasm and magnificent provincialism.” Following the game, “each player was introduced to wild cheering and the crowd collectively sang ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Tears rolled.”

This after the team's second win of the season in week 11 in the closing moments, 1967.

Our tears will roll on Sept. 7, 2008.