Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies: On Myths, Morons, Free Speech, Football, and Assorted Absurdities (19 page)

Oh, wait—yes, I do. It’s a douchebag move.

Speaking of which, my favorite part of your entire rant is the following: “If it is his goal to slide into a post-punter career as a presumptuous and accusatory football analyst, then he has set himself up quite nicely.” Let’s replace
punter
with
tight end
and see how that reads. Oooh, it reads quite nicely. I like it. At least I had the grace to do it in 140 characters or fewer, not like this meandering shitstorm that you felt compelled to vomit out at someone you’ve never met, don’t know the first thing about,
and likely might enjoy talking to if you ever ran into him at a bar (someone who has written a meandering shitstorm of his own in rebuttal).

So, Nate Jackson, while I respect your right to free speech (as apparently you don’t respect mine), I also respect my right to tell you to go jam a tackling dummy up your ass sideways for being a snake-tongued, shit-talking Internet tough-guy asshole who is so far out of touch with reality that you have no idea just how privileged we are to play this game for ridiculous amounts of money.

You’re not the only one who can craft a sentence, my friend.

Sincerely,

Chris Kluwe

Punter

PS: I respect all four of the people I called douchebags (Manning, Brees, Mankins, and Jackson). That’s why I used the word
douchebag
instead of
asshole
or
fuckwit.
Someone acting like a douchebag can still be redeemed; generally, it’s a momentary lapse of judgment. There’s no hope for asshole fuckwits.

PPS: tl; dr—U mad, bro?

T
he universe has two absolute laws, and they’re so wonderfully opposed to each other, it can only prove that if there is a God, he/she/it possesses a sense of humor (and probably plays with Schrödinger’s cat). You see, you can’t get to law number two without following law number one, but you can’t follow law number two if you follow law number one. Catch-One and -Two!

Law one: Kill or be killed.

Law one is evolution, plain and simple. From the moment the very first organisms arose in the nutrient-rich soup of Earth, life has intertwined with death at every turn. Life is movement—proteins interacting with one another, DNA folding in on itself, cells fighting cells, cells helping cells, cells splitting into other cells, individuals creating larger and larger groupings in order to acquire more resources so as to continue the constant frenetic
motion of information dispersion, but always by competing with everything else. One takes while another must go without; one feeds while another starves; one lives while another dies.

Death is stasis. No more movement, no more cooperation, no more competition, no more information passed along to further generations. Finality. End of the road, no refunds, do not pass Go.

At first, who would die was determined by physical attributes. Who was stronger, faster, more durable, more apt to survive long enough to continue the information chain. Who best fit the environment.

Eventually, this led to dinosaurs (quick side note: What is the eternal fascination with dinosaurs? Every single child is instantly enthralled by them, my own included. Why? Is it because they’re big? Is it because every children’s book has pictures of them? Honestly, I have no idea). The dinos did all right for a while, couple hundred million years or so. They evolved wings, they evolved big snarly teeth, they evolved armor plating and multiple brains—but in response to their environment; they never made their environment fit them. Thus, when a big ol’ asteroid hit and the environment changed, the result was predictable.

The dinosaurs died.

Kill or be killed, and they didn’t know how to kill a changing environment.

That opened the door for us—humanity. We started out small, couple trillion furry critters wandering the now freezing wreckage of the Mesozoic era, gifted by a giant space rock with a chance to take over the Earth. Our ancestors evolved to fit the environment—once again the fastest, strongest, and, now, warmest, survived. Their information continued.

Somewhere along the line, though, that information picked up a tiny yet species-transforming change.

Somewhere along the line, we learned to alter our environment.

It started off slow: simple tools and shelter, protection from the elements and predators. Over time, though (and we’re talking geologic time here, measured in the thousands of years), we got better and better at it. Crude spears became lances, which became bows, which became slings and swords and guns. Caves and rock piles became mud huts, which became wooden longhouses, which became skyscrapers. Information begat more information, the chain letter thriving and flourishing, because now we had a chance to make the world do what we wanted it to do instead of the other way around.

Now we had a chance to forge our own path, and the earth opened before us.

Evolution brought us to intelligence, the ability to look behind the curtain and watch the machinery churning away. Intelligence has brought us to a point where we can alter evolution, alter our environment, choose how we want to live and survive as a species. We don’t have to kill or be killed anymore, and, in fact, if we have any hope of surviving as a whole, we have to stop.

Why should we stop? Well, if we persist in treating one another as competitors for resources instead of as additional cells in the organism that is humanity, we’ll never alter our environment enough to survive a nuclear war, a biological plague, runaway pollution, another meteor impact. We’ll be too busy fighting each other when we should be working together; too busy screaming the benefits of selfishness while the big picture curls up and burns. We will be a malignant cancer eating away at its host.

Every time we let blind evolution take control of our actions, we forfeit our right to intelligence. Every time we say, “Oh, only the strong should survive, that’s the way the world works,” we ignore the steps out of the wilderness that our ancestors took. Every time we resort to violence, physical or mental, economical or social, we stay firmly on the path to self-annihilation. Every time we refuse to take advantage of all the information that’s been passed down to us through the incredibly long years, we turn our backs on survival.

Our environment now is what we make it. We have the tools to do so, and we use them all the time, knowingly or not. Our environment is ideas, memes, cultures—everything that creates a society. The information we pass on is no longer about the strongest, the fastest, the warmest; it’s about the popular, the overpopulated, the conflicting imperatives of faith and doubt, education and ignorance. If we don’t alter our environment knowingly, recognizing the consequences, then we’ve placed ourselves back in the palm of law one, and sooner or later we’ll be wandering the Mesozoic, wondering what that big rock was.

How are we choosing to evolve? What do we value? Do we even ask these questions of ourselves as a societal whole? Are we capable of recognizing the amazing boon law one, in all its blind indifference, has given us? Can we alter our information, our chain letter, enough to survive, not in generational terms, but in geological terms?

Law two: If you want to live, ignore law one.

Think for yourself.

This piece was originally printed in the
Pioneer Press.

A
pril 23, 2005. The first day of the NFL draft. All across the country, hundreds of anxious young men wait eagerly in front of their televisions, eyes locked onto the ticker-tape scroll feverishly racing across the bottom of the screen, ears straining to make out the next name announced, hearts pounding as time drips by, molasses-syrupy slow.

Some of these eyes light up with excitement and glee as the commissioner declares, “And with the [fill-in-the-blank] pick, the [one of thirty-two NFL teams] select—” Screams fill the air, backs are slapped, kisses bestowed upon teary-eyed mothers; all is right in the world and we’re movin’ on up to the East Side.

Others—well, others aren’t so lucky. Slowly, the party balloons
sink down from their once-ebullient positions against the ceiling as the guacamole grows warm and rancid. Guests and family members exchange awkward glances, mouth empty platitudes: “They’ll definitely call your name tomorrow,” or “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time,” until suddenly there is no more time, and you’re not even Mr. Irrelevant.

If you’re lucky, you then begin the lonely road of the undrafted free agent, hoping a team will call you up and at least give you a chance in training camp, at least give you one step on that green field with all its pageantry and flash that now seems so far away. Signing bonus? Here’s two grand, kid, and, oh, aren’t you glad to see it because hopefully it’ll pay the rent for a month or two while you desperately try to prove your worth to unsmiling men in mirrored glasses, their busy hands constantly timing, testing, summing up your entirety on brown clipboards filled with neat rows of numbers, and here comes the Grim Reaper to collect your playbook.

Some don’t even get that option. The phone never rings, the channel switches over to the evening news (filled with the grinning faces of fresh new millionaires), and the dream is over, stillborn on the vine. Oh, you’ll keep working hard at it, maybe even get a lucky break if someone goes down to an injury early on and they need a body and somehow you can make the most of that tiniest of opportunities, but don’t kid yourself, kid, it’s the longest of long shots.

Hey there, put the pills down, it’s not all doom and gloom. Most of the people getting drafted are in the same boat as you. All the preparation leading up to the draft, all the pro days and game film and endless interviews—only for a lucky few is it the golden ticket into the factory. Unless you get stuck in the chocolate pipe,
like JaMarcus Russell, or fall down the squirrel hole, like Ryan Leaf, a first- or second-round pick guarantees you at least three years in the league. You see, you’re someone’s
investment
, you’re someone’s
job
, and if you flame out, then it’s
his or her
livelihood on the line, and no one likes looking a fool. And if one team gets rid of you, well, you were a first-round pick, so you must have some sort of potential—hey, boys, let’s kick the tires on this one and see if he can work over here.

Third round? You’ll get two years to prove your case. They’ve put some money into you, but if you don’t pan out then, they’ll cut their losses and move on to the next guy (who just might be an undrafted free agent who’s working his ass off to make the team, and he
knows
this is his only chance). You’ve got a little leeway as a third-rounder, but it’s just enough rope to hang yourself. Use it wisely.

Fourth round or later? They like your potential but you’re going to have to
earn
your spot. You’ll have an advantage over the undrafted guys, but it’s not much; the depth chart will have your name higher than theirs for a day or two, but if you don’t bust your butt, it’s not going to stay that way. Save that signing bonus for a rainy day and don’t get sucked into the veteran’s lifestyle; they’ve got cash to burn because they’ve collected that game check, but until you suit up on Sunday, you’ve got nothing but hollow promises.

You see, what no one will tell you, what no one
can
tell you, is that the draft is a total crapshoot. You might run forty yards in a straight line like Usain Bolt; you might jump higher than Superman and knock college linemen around like bowling pins; you might have the world’s most impressive highlight reel that gets two million hits on YouTube a week. Conversely, you might bomb
your Pro Day, throw the ball backward during the Senior Bowl, or even spell your own name wrong on the Wonderlic Test.

It doesn’t matter. Sure, you might jump up to the first round or slide all the way out of the draft, but that isn’t what earns you your money. What earns you your money, the
only
thing that earns you your money, is suiting up on Sunday and showing you can play out on that field. That you have what it takes to be among the best of the best, day in and day out, year after year, and NO ONE knows who’s going to flash that talent. Oh, people can make a guess at it, but that’s all it is—a guess.

Me?

I was playing video games during the draft. What the hell do I know about football?

T
here is a question I get asked a lot, and I’m never sure how to answer it. It’s a fairly innocuous question, one I’m sure everyone is asked at one point or another, but I just don’t know what to say.

The question: Who is your hero?

And this is the part that confuses me, that makes me wonder if I’m missing some essential part of being human that everyone else has, because whenever other people are asked that question, they provide some well-known name and everyone somberly nods in understanding, but when I’m asked that question, my instinctive answer is
I don’t have one.
I usually don’t say that, though, because it seems terribly impolite, so I generally just pick a name at random that will make people smile and then go away.

Why do I say this? Because
I
want to be the very best, the one everyone else looks up to, the shining example of greatness.

I want to be the hero, and people tend to look at you funny when you say that to them.

But is this arrogant, is this wrong? Is it that absurd to want to be the best? It can be, if approached incorrectly. You see, my goal is to win but to do so with empathy and within the boundaries of the game. I want to win knowing we all had a fair chance but that my skills were superior. I want to know that it was
me
winning, not some drug, not some cheat, not some hack. I want to win because I enjoy the competition and the victory and being the best on the field, not because it leads to fame or prizes (though those can be a nice by-product, not gonna lie).

I want to win by building myself up, not by tearing someone else down.

I want to win because I made myself better, not because I made you worse.