What Odell Beckham Jr.‘s latest victim needs to do now

Mark Barron must lie on his back on the field, and hold a microwave burrito in his hands until it warms to a semi-edible consistency. Then, he’s got to eat it in front of everyone while saying “You know, it’s not that bad, really.”

Mark Barron should keep running the wrong direction and throw his helmet through the nearest wormhole he can find and see if it comes back from that parallel universe as a trucker hat that didn’t just have its soul destroyed on a football field.

Mark Barron has to go to his home village and sacrifice a water buffalo with a machete and split the meats among the households equally on the vernal equinox.

Mark Barron has to go to Jared. When he gets there, he has to slap Jared as hard as he can. Fuck Jared.

Mark Barron has to lay down in the middle of the field and start paying his bills like your grandmother does. He will bring out a card table with wobbly aluminum legs and a folding chair with a wheezy built-in cushion. He will take every bill and spread them out on the table and tab up the month on an old Texas Instruments calculator. No, not the kind you could play Snake on. Like, an old calculator. He will pay them all with checks, frowning and knitting his brow, and he will mail all of them with stamps. This will take about an hour. He may bring out a standard-def TV to watch Wheel of Fortune on the field while he does it, probably off a dangerously overloaded power strip.

Mark Barron has to put everything he owns in a shopping cart and wander through a nuclear winter until he rediscovers the nature of struggle and existence.

Mark Barron must give up his roster spot to Marc Maron, who plays zone coverage by pacing around the backfield and muttering, “what’s wrong with me? Fuck!”

Mark Barron’s got to lay on that field until the stadium disintegrates and the earth around him erodes and he’s left perched on a mountaintop like a tired condor.

Mark Barron’s got to roll off that field and into the tunnels under Dallas and ask for forgiveness from the giant cowboy worm that really rules the state of Texas. His name is Marty, and he saw that play even though worms don’t have true compound eyes. A crime to the soul like that is felt by all creatures great and small.

Mark Barron has to upload his face into NBA 2K15 and let Beno Udrih dunk on him every play for a whole game.

Mark Barron has to spray paint his name on a snowy mountainside and then watch it slide away in an avalanche and think about what that all means.

Mark Barron has to write his darkest secrets on a piece of paper and put that paper in a bottle and throw it in the Gulf of Mexico and when a nude and surprisingly hydrodynamic Jerry Jones surfaces with it clenched in his teeth like an otter with a fish he can’t tell anyone about what happened.

Mark Barron has to go on International House Hunters and refuse all three houses, not even the attractive 3/2 condo in Kowloon that would have been perfect for him in his family in their new life in Hong Kong. Like the wind or sorrow, he no longer has or understands the concept of home.

Mark Barron has to find ODB’s car in the parking lot. Then he has to pop the hood and pee into the engine block until his bladder is empty. Then he’s gotta take out seven or eight large reverse mortgages in ODB’s name. He’s got to ruin Beckham’s credit and pee in his car’s engine to make this right. He has to.