Here's your daily link to Dave McKenna's brilliant "Cranky Redskins Fan's Guide to Dan Snyder," which we'll be posting until Dan Snyder's dumbass libel suit chokes on a crab puff at a cocktail party. (For those of you keeping track, this is "We Are All Dave McKenna CV.")
Today: the third installment of "The Snydering," our satirical, non-libelous Dan Snyder serial group fiction. For more about "The Snydering" and how to play, please read this explanation.
Part I: Our narrator arrives at Dan Snyder's mansion for a Spring Bacchanal and Cornhole Tournament and is greeted by Tony Wyllie.
Part II: The party password triggers a series of disturbing flashbacks for Dan Snyder, the last of which involves heavy man-on-man action between him and Tony Wyllie.
Part III: The Fetid Breath of the Bligle, by Berk:
I walked in the direction Snyder indicated towards the merry sounds of a cocktail party. Snyder's Xanadu could easily host thousands, but I was told that tonight's soiree would be relatively small. I took my time winding my way through the labyrinthine house towards the back. I'm not an expert in interior design, but it seemed like Mr. Snyder had more than a prudent number of mounted animal heads (many of them with ladies underwear hanging from the antlers in a most undignified manner). There were also fireplaces in every room glowing a startling purple, which cast an eerie glow.
It was a result of the darkness that I hardly noticed the small tuxedoed man standing at attention next an oak double-door. The little man grinned broadly, but said nothing. "Is this the way to the cornholing?" I asked.
"What is the password?" He said, with a deep rasping voice I didn't expect.
"G.M." I repeated.
"Right this way, sir. You'll find the evening's entertainment at the bottom of the stairs." He pulled the door open and bowed his head slightly as I passed and I thought I heard him wish me luck. He closed the door behind me.
The stairway was stone floored and seemed to belong to an old castle. It was illuminated incongruously by flickering halogen lights. I reached the bottom to realize that I was now outside in an enclosed courtyard with twenty foot high brick walls. I saw no other guests, but I could hear noises coming from above my head. Unsure of what to do I walked forward to see if I had to walk up an outside staircase. I couldn't find a way up. I heard a clinking noise like that of someone making a toast, followed by a loud round of applause.
As I walked back towards the mansion, I found my way blocked by a metal gate.
"Mr. Cooke, is it?" I heard from above me. I now saw about a hundred well-dressed people atop the wall surrounding the courtyard.
"Yes, that's me. What's going on?"
"Mr. Cooke," I saw that Snyder was the one addressing me, "You may be wondering what you are doing down there."
"It was a thought." I said, trying to draw a laugh and receiving none.
"I've called this little meeting of the owners association," The crowd made a loud noise at that word, it sounded like "screw". Snyder continued, "And some of our closest friends, to showcase some of the potential replacement meat if the players continue to complain about their poor... wittle... head owies." That crowd sneered in unison (a bizarre sound).
"Look, I was good in high school, but I'm hardly an adequate replacement for the talented individuals who play in the NFL." I said. The party goers began pelting me with hors d'oeuvres for a few minutes. I must admit, the crab puff that went straight into my agape mouth was delicious.
"You think I expect you to play, Mr. Cooke? Hardly. I expect you to die." He turned away from me. "Ladies and gentleman, as you know, I've been working to eliminate the need for NFL meat for years. This year, I began collecting blood, brain and tissue samples from Redskins to begin the final stages of my program. May I present to you, the ultimate football player. Fast as a lion, strong as a bear, with the sharp eyes of an eagle and with the heart and football IQ of an NFL player. RELEASE THE BLIGLE"
In front of me was the single strangest creature I had ever seen. Snider called out to one of the guests, "Mel, call it."
Another man wearing a patent leather police cap (or so it appeared from a distance), said, "At 7 foot 4 with a 34 inch vertical, this prospect is a freak of nature in every sense of the words. I think this pick could really turn the Redskins organization around. Look for the Bligle to dominate at the point of attack, and let us all pray that it never attempts to destroy the human race."
Half the crowd started chanting "Bli-gle. Bli-gle." The other half started chanting "Kill! Kill!" The Bligle, darkly furred, and with a long beakish nose strode towards me, sniffing the air hungrily. Its yellow eyes stayed fixed on mine as I contemplated all of the mistakes in my life that led me to that point. I thought about running, but what was the point. I decided to stand my ground and die proudly.
I could smell the fetid breath of the creature as it hovered over me. It reached out for my chest and I braced for the end. I was surprised to feel not a fatal blow, but a fairly gentle caress of my chest. I looked up and saw the creature wink at me. I backed away quickly but slipped on a pile of mini quiche and skidded to the ground. As I stumbled, I saw the Bligle lunge at me and I shut my eyes. The next thing I heard was a ripping noise and the smacking sound of lips. I didn't feel any pain. I looked down to see the Bligle grabbing the quiche (and a good portion of the earth underneath it) and stuffing it into its mouth.
"GOD DAMNIT!" I heard from overhead. "I told those idiots not to use Haynesworth! I told them! I toooold them!"
Looking over, I saw the short tuxedoed man from earlier standing by the now-open gate to the house. I rushed over...
Thanks to everyone who submitted entries for "The Snydering." Please keep them coming. They don't have to be long. The story is yours to run with from here. Anything goes. Anything at all. Submit entries for Part IV of "The Snydering" to email@example.com.