Warning to New Orleans Saints: You better not have any bounties on my boy, Robert Griffin III, this weekend in the Superdome.
I know my new rookie Redskin quarterback makes a gatrillion dollars. He's a little cocky, yes. And I know your entire coaching staff is either on probation or out for the season. We all heard your genuine promises to Roger Goddess that your franchise would not have set up any more bounties against opposing players. And I know Mike Vilma is winning his legal battle to get reinstated before his year suspension is up for spearheading your team's bounty program. He's got a chance and I'm rooting for him.
But can any of us really trust that you've really cleaned up your football franchise? If one of your linebackers gets a chance to clean RGIII's clock on a blind side blitz, and that player knows you've promised him $10,000 if he knocks RGIII out of the game, do you really think he's going to think to himself: "I better lighten up on this rookie hot dog quarterback?"
10K jack is 10K jack, dude. Which is why I'm skeptical, wary and unsure about you guys.
All I know for sure is that if anyone on your team hurts my new Washington, D.C., installment of real hope and change, I'll catch the next plane to New Orleans and go drinking and carrying on all night on Bourbon Street like no one ever has. Don't touch my guy, my lifeblood, the reason I get up in the morning. He's going to take my horrific Redskin franchise back to the Promised Land of Super Bowl jewelry and bragging rights to levy against the planet, specifically Giants fans. You touch my guy and I will write bad things about the New Orleans community. I'll throw stones at the Superdome. I'll refuse to listen to jazz music unless at a wedding or something where it would be impolite not to. I'll talk down about Cajun food. I'll pretend I'm Forrest Gump and ride on a boat alongside New Orleans screaming "I can whip anyone in New Orleans in ping pong."
RGIII means more to me than my wife, kids and whether Medicare will still exist when I retire. He means more to me than Paul Ryan, Chris Christie, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama and, of course, Joe Biden. RGIII means more to me than CNN anchor Erin Burnett. Lie. She's a bombshell. The only thing more important than a successful, Super Bowl winning quarterback is a gorgeous woman on my HDTV flat screen at night as I unwind from a long day at work writing curious blogs about stuff like this.
Go ahead, make my day, as Clint Eastwood would say to a chair. Go ahead and try to hurt RGIII, the coolest, most articulate, most athletic quarterback to enter the draft since Andrew Luck. Knock him around, get a few late hits. What are penalties to you guys? Your outfit turned team sanctions to an art form. Penalties upon penalties become less meaningful; the sting diminishes. I get it.
Hey Drew Brees, my guys on the Skins would never try to hurt you. They're too classy and well-behaved. They get it. They care. They know how to play the game the right way. Tell your teammates they better not get it wrong. You were the coolest breeze in the NFL for several seasons. But there's a new sheriff in town: RGIII Breeze, the new Big Easy. Don't mess with him or you will make it very hard on yourselves. Consider yourselves bounty hunted.