There are, as il Poeta taught us, nine rings to Hell.
The first ring is limbo, for the unbaptized and virtuous pagans, so that's basically Marty Mornhinweg. The next seven rings belong to: the carnal malefactors, the gluttons, the greedy, the angry and furious (just a thought for y'all), the heretics, the violent in the seventh and the eighth ring goes to the fraudulent. The ninth ring - the darkest, the coldest, the most harrowing, lorded over by Satan himself - is reserved for traitors of a cosmic level.
But go deeper one might find something rancid. A power so evil that even Old Scratch recoils in fright. The traitorous recoil, the fraudulent speak truthfully of their fear, the heretics repent, the angry are made meek and the deviant swears celibacy if only some power would save them. But there is no hope, no salvation in these depths. The horrors placed here predate the arrival of the Great Adversary. It will still be there when he is judged and all strife ends on earth, but the evil will remain here, here to remain forever. Forever. It shall eat at the soul, speak in chattering whispers and clawing at the minds of men, urging them to unspeakable horrors lest they retreat into the peace and safety of a new dark age.
But we were talking about the Lions. Actually, for that matter, why do you want to talk about the Lions? How do you even begin to write a recap for this unholy mess replete with Jeff Tripplette and Andy Reid and all manner of scum and villainy we have exposed in America's attempt to corrupt that Green and Pleasant Land? Where can we even begin when darkness set upon Wembley Stadium and watched the Lions collapse in ways that we've all seen before, yet at once also seem new, fresh and unique in how it has consumed us?
That's the true brilliance of this 2015 NFL season for the Detroit Lions. Each week there's a new way to find disappointment, anger, rage and strife. These Lions don't lose in just one fashion but in creative form each week. Like a maestro they understand that such art cannot rest upon repetition. The fall to stagnation is a cardinal sin. There must be new life in each composition. New disappointment and failure in each heap of compost.
But how do you begin writing about such artwork when the English language fails you?
Yeah, let's just go with that.