Detroit, MI – In a turn of events capturing both the urgent and the indecipherable, Detroit Lions supporters convened an extraordinary meeting this week to resolve a vexing ambiguity troubling the fanbase: determining precisely which ‘Johnson’ had been the subject of their collective cursing over the years.
What began as an attempt at bonding turned into an organizational dilemma. Fans packed into the Dimly Lit Basement Tavern on Thursday, fueled by both warm spirits and a burning desire for clarity. The meeting, convened by the unofficial Lions’ fan group “Blue Roar for More,” sought to examine their shared history of attributing various failings to a Johnson, the common surname among some of Detroit’s most pivotal players.
According to self-appointed fan historian Garry Beengood, the misunderstanding originates from a deep-seated tradition of multi-generational grumbling. “Folks often found that cursing a ‘Johnson’ was cathartic. But over time, they forgot which one,” Beengood explained with a furrowed brow. His words were backed by a statistical analysis from the non-profit ‘Random Vexation Research Society’ suggesting nearly 82% of anguished murmurs at Lions games involve Johnsons, thus justifying years of impassioned obscenities.
The meeting, held with an air of solemnity, featured a procedural review of Lions history by means of a hand-drawn flowchart titled “Chronology of Johnsons.” Former players Calvin Johnson and Kerryon Johnson featured prominently in the discussion, though surprisingly many attendees were not certain if their exasperation traced back to a player, coach, or the legendary stadium hot dog vendor rumored to share the last name.
This confusion only deepened during a vote, when 27% of attendees unexpectedly christened one unique option, “Mrs. Johnson from work.” Mrs. Johnson, once rumored to organize the annual staff picnic, appears to loom large in the collective psyche, an official survey dispatched to Lions headquarters confirmed. However, her precise connection to team losses remained speculative.
As tempers flared and snacks dwindled, the Lions’ management released an unprecedented statement. In a rare moment of interaction with their support base, the team pledged to outfit future players with unique identifiers. A spokesperson declared the new policy would, “eliminate surname confusion once and for all,” rendering each player’s jersey a different shade of cobalt and optionally adorned with holographic emojis showing their position’s historical success rate.
Looking spurred yet perplexed, the fans exited the meeting without a concrete resolution. Although their debate left the question tantalizingly incomplete, the group concluded their gathering in characteristic Detroit fashion: bonding over a shared disappointment they could hardly define.
As one devotee expressed while departing into the chilled night air: “In the end, maybe it wasn’t ever about which Johnson at all. Maybe it’s us all along.” And thus, the enigma persists in perpetuity—an emblem of camaraderie stitched into the legacy of a conspicuously ordinary yet inexplicable team chronicle.
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