On Tuesday, November 7, 1995, Horace Aeiouaey, Jr. captured the rage of Browns fans everywhere in his column "The Cynics' Clinic" on the Opinion page of The Evening Leader, St. Marys, Ohio's daily newspaper, declaring... |
Art Modell Must Die |
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We here at the Clinic, good Scouts ever, immutably mindful of and unswervingly obediant to the dozen ideals of the Boy Scout Law, cannot forget that the first two such ideals are "Trustworthy" and "Loyal." Trustworthy and loyal. Fans of the Cleveland Browns could not be better described by any two other words. But the beast, the blinkered dumb hellhound, the ravening brutish appetite named Arthur Modell, owner of the Cleveland Browns, has no comprehension of the terms. They are a blank slate to his nerveless shark eye, a cold void vainly endeavoring to suck life from the stony vacuous pit which would house the Modell soul, if such a thing existed. The unthinking has done the unthinkable: the monster Modell wants to move the Browns. That screaming Martian hurricane Modell, of course, has every technical right to commit this misdeed, this abomination. Adolf Schickelgruber, Vlad the Impaler and Pontius Pilate, other technical humans, also enjoyed rights, technically. We personally have endured the sudden, premature demise of parents, the inevitable but nonetheless poignant fading of grandparents, and the grueling, painful, debilitating, fatal malignancy of spouse. We are no stranger to loss. But the above were ministrations of Heaven, whose mysterious mercies are inscrutable. This, this vile act, this audacious crime, the very idea of which must offend the most forgiving of saints, Moving the Browns, has been thrust into us, however, from another direction. This is an evil the like of which has not been seen for two millenia. This act of avarice, treachery and deceit virtually denies the existence of a merciful God. It is inconceivable that the Creator of the physical universe could condone such a heinous exception to His otherwise orderly physical and moral laws. This deed, Moving the Browns, then, must be supernatural. To call the viper Modell a mere bastard or son-of-a-bitch would be to bestow a compliment: it would imply humanity where there is obviously none. Therefore, the hissing Janus Modell, and hence his dastardly plot, can not be of this Creation. It is a war waged from Beyond, Death versus Life, That Which Is Not pitted against we weak mortals, and we here at the Clinic are prepared to fight without quarter. There is no precedent to follow in our struggle against the Void, no Marquis of Queensbury hands above Modell's belt. There are no rules here. Art Modell must die. Ever since there appeared a television set in the Aeiouaey living room fathers and sons have bonded there, over four decades every autumn Sunday, through a common fanaticism for the Cleveland Browns. No more. From NFL championships, Jim Brown, the Cardiac Kids, the Dawg Pound, we were trusting and loyal, cheering. Four-hour drives to games, thousands of dollars of licensed merchandise bought - The Fumble, sweet Jesus - we were there, trusting and loyal, suffering. Not enough for the jackal Modell. We let the ogre Modell fire the greatest coach of all time, thereby dooming us all with the Super Bowl curse. We let the vainglorious vacuum Modell jerk around players (Eric Metcalf, "all-purpose back?" Local boy Bernie Kosar of the "diminished skills?" Trade Clay Matthews!?). Not enough for Artless Modell. Judas Modell has extruded his extorted thirty pieces of silver up to fifty million dollars. "Let them eat cake," he says of the Cleveland Browns fans, as he steals the cake and eats it, too. Art Modell must die. But not merely die, either. Assassination would be sweet, but wouldn't begin to be a balanced vengeance on the scales of justice. The alien Modell's death must be slow, painful, humiliating. A public flaying, one whipstroke from every betrayed fan, lasting months, even after the last recognizable morsel of flesh had been atomized, televised nationally, would be nice. A naked Model, with fifty million dollars stuffed up his orifice, dragged on a rope through the streets of Cleveland by an angry mob, until every last bone has been ground to dust to be driven over by betrayed Browns fans for eternity, would be a start. Can fifty million dollars buy trust or loyalty, Owner? Can it buy safety? We begin our crusade for health today, to ensure outliving the serpent Modell, so we may annually make pilgrimage, whenever in the future, wherever it may be, at whatever cost, to drink a case of beer and urinate on his grave. Art Modell, Rot in Hell. DISCLAIMER THE ABOVE ARTICLE IS CONSIDERED BY THIS WEBSITE TO BE SATIRICAL IN NATURE AND INTENT AND, AT WORST, A VENTING OF PASSION IN FANTASY. NEITHER "BOTKINLAND" THE WEBSITE NOR ANYONE AFFILIATED WITH "BOTKINLAND" ENDORSES PHYSICAL VIOLENCE AGAINST ANYONE IN GENERAL OR MR. MODELL IN PARTICULAR, ALTHOUGH WE DO BELIEVE THAT BY HIS ACTIONS MR. MODELL HAS FORFEITED ANY LEGITIMATE CLAIM TO OUR RESPECT. THIS WEBSITE IS NOT AFFILIATED WITH THE EVENING LEADER. THE ABOVE ARTICLE APPEARS ON THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT THE KNOWLEDGE, CONSENT OR PERMISSION OF ANYONE ASSOCIATED WITH OR REPRESENTING THE EVENING LEADER. HAVE A NICE DAY. |
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