Why It's Totally OK To Be Really Excited About Justin Hunter

Browsing through other SBNation websites is something I really enjoy. There are some incredibly talented guys writing for various sites all around the network and I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the fact that the writers at Field Gulls, AKA our friends from the land of rain, Starbucks, and Kurt Cobain, consistently entertain the hell out of me.

One of my favorite columns I've ever read is entitled "The Drunkard's Player Profiles: An Analysis Of The Seahawks' Players As Told By The Most Fascinating Drunk Guy In The Bar." Inside, you'll find a short narrative at the beginning that sets the stage, and then an incredibly eloquently crafted essay about a given Seahawks player. There isn't a lot of reading content out there on the internet that I would actually pay to read, but after perusing the ten or so posts focused on elevating NFL players from athlete-status to mythic-figure-status, I'm sold.

Here's the long and the short of it, I'm not half the writer that author of the series, Mr. Craig Johnstone, is, but I'm going to give it a whirl here today and I figured that it would be exceedingly appropriate if I broke down what made Randy Moss Justin Hunter so special.

Whatchu know about Tennessee football? About Mannings and Neylands? About titles and men without peer? Of droves, 100,000 strong, decked out in their finest Saturday garbage-man-safety orange, all amassed to back their band of altruistic, bleeding-heart, good-samaritan warriors?

Let me tell you what you know, you don't know nothing, Jack.

"But Daniel, I've been a Vols fan all my life, and my name's not Jack! You're not even from 'round these parts!"

Quick, what's the difference between your crappy opinion and a finely crafted Peruvian rug? I freakin' asked for a finely crafted Peruvian rug for Christmas and I didn't end up getting it.

But you wanna know why that is? You know exactly why it is that I know that you know nothing? Because you know nothing of the dude with the two ones on his chest. Ol' Double Hockey Sticks. The Freak From Virginia Beach. If you don't know, now you know, casual fan, I'm talkin' about Justin Hunter.

This wasn't Ruston Webster's first rodeo. Sitting on his illustrious golden throne high above the clouds. He'd been here before, but sometimes even veterans are prone to moments of amazement when they see something truly spectacular. This was one of those moments. He envisioned a new breed of half man, half beast to torment the opposition. Dude was six feet, four inches of football grabbing, route running, Trojan killing, girl stealing, force of nature. There comes a point in every general manager's career where he knows that this dude has got it. I think. That would make sense I guess because how the hell else do you explain stuff like Tom Brady and Richard Sherman and Tim Shaw oh God why literally anyone else, coming out of God-knows-where to assert their dominance on the rest of the league like that? Scouting? Nah, eff that, I'm sticking with epiphany. Channeling his inner Rex "Sex Cannon" Grossman, Ruston decided that, pardon his French, ""F--k it, I'm going deep." All the marbles.

Ruston took a long drag off of a Newport 100, and muttered under his breath, "Now you know we really out here."