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"Vikings, Dat Who!"

Those three little words have haunted me ever since January 3, 1988. I was just a young lass, cheering on the Saints in their first playoff game. The team got off to a great start, but fizzled fast. My dad convinced me to hold on to hope. He believed the Saints could pull off a comeback victory against the Vikings, despite going down 20 points at the half. But the ass whoopin' didn't let up. The Saints lost the game 44-10. The last thing I remembered, before running to my bedroom for a good cry, was a sign being hoisted over the head of some jack-hole. It read: "Vikings, Dat Who!" It was a direct jab at the throat of all us Saints fans and our beloved "Who Dat" saying. Needless to say, I took it personally.

So here we are, more than 20 years later. I'm a little older, a little wiser, a lot crazier, and definitely more capable of high-octane, booze-induced rage. Today, I can safely say I want nothing more than for the Saints to do the football equivalent of Elin Nordegren beating the crap out of Tiger Woods with a golf club, forcing him to crash his SUV and ruin his life. I want their boat sex party, hooker-tainted blood.

It's no offense to any Viking in particular. I loathe them all quite equally. You see I just can't stomach the thought of them coming into our house, silencing our fans and spoiling our Super Bowl run...again. No one wants a repeat of 1988. Do you remember 1988? I mean do we really want to relive the era of pleated, acid-washed jeans, no Prozac, and these dudes?


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