NFL Must Bring Back Houston Oilers, Warren Moon, Slay Soviet-Funded Titans

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NFL Must Bring Back Houston Oilers, Warren Moon, Slay Soviet-Funded Titans

Call me antiquated.  The NFL must bring back the Oilers franchise, as well as their flagship quarterback, Warren Moon.  I don't mean the Tennessee Oilers; we know that was just a cheap political stunt from the get-go, like Snakes on a Plane and my last three relationships—strangely, all of which ended with Samuel L. Jackson grinning in my tear-streamed face.  

The only oil to be found in Tennessee is atop the head of Country Legend Conway Twitty, whose astounding coiffe shares an uncanny resemblance to that of the Wolfman, when said character is trying to impress his Jewish wife's extended family at an Outback steakhouse.  

So now what are we looking at, The Titans?  Please!  That they presently have an undefeated record makes this name even more appalling, because commentators and drunken slobs alike are speaking the name with reverence.  We need to keep and cherish good ole fashioned names, like the Yankees, the 49ers, the Jazz, and the Nokia Sugar Bowl.  

The Oilers was a perfectly suitable American (read: Amurr-ican) organization name.  The Titans are what America is supposed to be fighting against.  The Red Army, the Soviets...those SOBs were Titans, monolithic cretins that threatened to trample Western civilization like the film industry trampled Dolph Lundgren's career.  (I mean, pardon the aside, but Jesus Christ, Universal Soldier was an absolute abomination!  He's still wanted on felony charges in seven states for co-starring in that monstrosity.)

America is the underdog, the David, the City on a Hill overlooking a valley of despicable goons!  When we watch grown men in full body pads run into each other repeatedly on national television, dammit, we demand they do it under the auspices of our greatest traditions!  

Warren Moon.  We also need to bring that guy back.  Sure he's gotten three "DUIs" since he retired and "verbally assaulted a judge" and "beat and choked his wife senselessly before chasing her out of the house and grabbing onto her rear bumper as she drove away like the T-1000 unit."  But we all need perspective here, and judiciousness.  

We also need to look at these charges from Warren Moon's point of view: he's a narcissistic sociopath.  But the above is neither here nor there.  Far more importantly, the NFL is at this moment totally devoid of Louis Gossett, jr.-style mustaches.  You'd think someone would be fined for this, or at least put in the stocks in town square where the rabble can throw cream pies at him.  

I don't care if he's "52 years old" or "so drunk all the time he can't even pick up the phone without drunk-dialing Jaleel White of Family Matters fame."  The greatest, most crucial reason why we need this gentleman back is that there are no longer players that necessitate saying their full first and last name when referring to them.  This is a tragic loss.  

Think about it.  When do you ever say just Warren, or just Moon?  Never!  The latter might confuse someone because it more precisely signals the bright lunar orb that revolves around the earth, as well as serves as a romantic and distracting cliche to point at before kissing your high school sweetheart in the ear canal because it's too damned dark to see where her face begins.  

As to the former, who knows what your interlocutor might think of.  To me, the first name that comes to mind is "Warren G. Harding."  And my God, what a terrible president he was!  "Your presidency was a swollen turd!" is what I'd say to him if he were here right now.  It angers me just to think about him.  We need you back, Warren Moon!    

At this point you're wondering why I decided so forcefully to hammer in the foregoing ideas in an editorial.  Perhaps I wouldn't have resorted to this if NFL commissioner Roger Goodell had actually taken the time out of his busy day to read my threatening letters written on goat parchment and bordered with maroon lipstick.  

I suppose concessions must be made in an imperfect world, where criminals and hobos roam in the shadows of our Metropolis on High. 

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