Big Daddy Drew's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo previews the upcoming weekend of the NFL every, well, every Thursday afternoon.
Say, who's up for an afternoon of gridiron and playful stammering? Yes, the NFL heads to England this week in Roger Goodell's first attempt to force American football down the throats of the international viewing public. I could spurt clotted cream onto a fresh scone, I'm so fucking excited.
I'm quite certain this exhibition is karmic payback for David Beckham landing on our shores over the summer. It's an unspoken rule between us and the rest of the world: we let them have soccer, they let us have football. Anytime that détente is broken, a debt must be recouped. That Beckham shit represented way too much gayness foisted upon us. Some sort of super-macho, FUCK YEAH retaliatory gesture on our end was vitally necessary. And when we Americans strike back, we strike back HARD.
That's right, you English lasses. Joey Porter's heading your way. Hope you know how to properly prepare a rape kit for your local constable. I "spoke" with Joey's manager, who sent me Joey's plan for the trip. It was written in chicken blood on a piece of cloth torn from a schoolgirl's uniform. Here now, is the full transcription:
7:30AM - Arrive at Gatwick Airport. Wonder how it became day again so fucking quickly. Get to the bottom of how the British control, like, the weather and shit.
8:00AM - Cab to hotel.
8:01AM - The steering wheel's on the left-hand side? You play a joke on Joey Porter, you get fucking killed, ultra-white English man.
9:00AM - Head to pub. Get into three-hour fight with Francis Begbie.
12:01PM - Head to other pub. Patron asks for fag. Explain to patron that Joey Porter ain't no gay pimp. Beat patron to death with giant black cock.
1:00PM - Head to practice. Tell the congregated media the Dolphins will "send Eli Manning back into his momma's Louisiana red snapper." Should help add dash of color to inevitable two-touchdown loss and one-tackle performance.
4:00PM - Taunt Buckingham Palace guards.
5:00PM - Nap, which, due to jet lag, turns into full night's sleep.
8:00AM - Wake up, forgetting now in London. Punch wall in frustration after failing to proper find socket adapter for blood-stained table saw.
9:00AM - Team breakfast. Would enjoy blood sausage more if made with human blood.
10:00AM - Visit Tower of London. Take copious notes.
12:00PM - Noodles at Wagamama.
1:00PM - Practice. Freak out on Jesse Chatman during seven-on-sevens and injure the last living skill position player the Dolphins have left. Glare at Cam Cameron before he has a chance to get mad.
4:00PM - High tea and cucumber finger sandwiches with the Queen. Ask for Kate Middleton's number in order to find her and grope her fanny.
6:00PM - NFL-sponsored pep rally featuring Arctic Monkeys. Demand T.I. be flown in for a set. Get rejected. Shoot Arctic Monkeys dead in cold blood.
7:00PM - Meat pie. Joey Porter likes meat pies.
8:00PM - Make signature drank in hotel sink: two parts gin, two parts urine, two bay leaves, one part melted strawberry ice cream.
9:00PM - Drink drank.
11:00PM - Try to cut the line at Fabric. Get turned away by bouncer. Bite down on bouncer's carotid artery until movement ceases.
2:00AM - Grab a bitch. Do Joey's thing.
12:00PM - Wake up. Chronicle evening in leather-bound journal.
2:00PM - Hit Hyde Park. Look for couples fucking in the bushes to scare. Find one. Leap in front of them mid-coitus and shout out, "JOEY PORTER'S GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!" Walk away giggling.
6:00PM - Take field against Giants at Wembley. Scan crowd for fat-bottomed girls.
6:02PM - Down 21-0.
9:00PM - Spend press conference explaining how the best team didn't win. Be escorted back to USA in Hannibal Lecter mask.
All games in the Jambaroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Steelers at Bengals: What's amazing about the Bengals is the fact that, for once, they finally draft the right quarterback and groom him successfully, yet they still can't help but fuck up everything else around him. And now Chad Johnson might be traded. You know who I blame? The NFL competition committee. Give Chad a chance to prance around the end zone after a TD and you've got yourself a happy camper. But now, Johnson has no outlet for his creativity. You can't starve an artist like that. We have officially entered Chad's Blue Period. He may pierce his taint just to fill the empty hole in his heart.
Packers at Broncos: The Broncos and Rockies are both playing at home on Monday night. With both stadiums filled to capacity, competition for local oxygen will be fucking fierce. Hope you brought a six-pack of Perri-Air to the game with you, people of Denver. President Skroob isn't one to share.
Redskins at Patriots: We've had our fun with Pats fans this week. And Lord knows I hate them so. But, as much I want to despise everything that has to do with the Patriots, I can't bring myself to cheer against Randy Moss. The '98 Moss is back, and the long toss to him is once again the most exciting play in football. I don't have it in me to hate him, especially when he's catching 50-yard passes with his fucking elbow. Carlos Rogers, you're not going to have a good day.
Giants at Dolphins: The New York Times reported recently that the head of the NFL's overseas operations would like to see each team play one game overseas once a year somewhere down the line, with maybe even a British player or two joining the league (no mouthguard required!). But, if the NFL truly wanted to grow their brand overseas, there's only one way to do it, and that is to move a team abroad, or put an expansion team there. Man U and countless other soccer clubs of international renown have toured the States. Has it made a difference? Not really.
You have to give people abroad a stake in a team of their own. Ninety percent of the excitement of sports is derived from atmosphere. If you go to England and watch a soccer game there, it's 10 times more fun than watching it here because everyone over there is so fucking passionate about it. You can't help but go with the flow. Same with football here. It's the reason some people get excited about the Olympics every four years: Because so many other people also decide to get excited about them. No, you don't give a shit about figure skating at any other time. But that's kind of the point. It's what makes it special.
Put the sport in its proper atmosphere, and it flourishes. If you just trot it out to varying international locales with no rhyme or reason, no one gives a shit. If the NFL won't put a team permanently in England, it'll never be anything more than a passing fancy.
Which is fine with me. Keep those pasty British hands off my NFL, Goodell. I don't give a shit how Irish you may look.
Lions at Bears
Colts at Panthers
Texans at Chargers
Eagles at Vikings
Raiders at Titans
Browns at Rams
Bills at Jets
Jaguars at Bucs
Saints at Niners
Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
"Thunderstruck", by AC/DC. Watch the video for "Thunderstruck" and tell me you don't see the future model for all NFL stadia in the next decade. Just a wall of luxury boxes, people. Only head-banging will not be tolerated. This YouTube clip also contains the old "MTV Exclusive" icon in the video credits. That'll take you back.
Judging by the YouTube search, "Thunderstruck" has the distinct honor of being the second worst covered song in the history of amateur guitar playing, next to "Stairway to Heaven." We all know how badass fingerboarding is, people. But please, leave it to the drunken Aussie midget in the schoolboy outfit. Only Angus can pull that shit off.
Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up
"When The Night Comes," by Joe Cocker. I liked putting this song on and then pretending I was in a Michelob ad. If there were ever a song designed for karaoke, this is the one. You could totally impress people the your "Cocker rasp." To this day, it still blows my mind that Joe Cocker is British.
Lest I get too far away from football here at the Jamboroo, and last week certainly went overboard, I'm introducing a brand new item to the column, and here it is.
Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
Each week, I'll single out a player for cruel, vicious scorn and berate him or her for bringing down fantasy teams all across the nation. This week, that player is:
Marc Bulger. Fuck you, Marc Bulger. Oh, I expect players like Joey Porter to go right into the shitter the second they sign a contract extension. But you? I thought you were different, man. Instead, you're just another West Fuckin' Virginia Lottery winner like Jack Whittaker: cashing in, groping strangers, buying meth for your niece and all that other shit. Oh sure, you say you're from Pennsylvania. But you're conduct has been strictly hillbilly all year long. You and your pussy ribs make me sick, Bulger. I hope Leonard Little joins your carpool, you underachieving bastard.
Five Potential Key Injuries
• Ronnie Brown (knee)
• Jay Cutler (hair)
• Tarvaris Jackson (who cares as long as he can't play)
• Jason Campbell (Joe Gibbs)
• Sage Rosenfels (Simon & Garfunkel jokes)
This Week's Suicide Pick
Last week's suicide pool pick of Washington was correct. Off the board now are Washington, Chicago, Seattle, Denver, Dallas, Green Bay and New England (Record for the year: 5-2). We once again pick a both a suicide pool team and an actual way of committing suicide. This week's pick: Cleveland (holy shit I just picked Cleveland), and shooting yourself in the mouth with a fucking flare gun. Now that is spectacular. Not only does it echo the end of Dead Calm, where Billy Zane eats it with a flare gun, but it also alerts people within a 1,000 yard radius that you are totally dead.
This is like sticking a flashlight in your mouth, only cooler.
Gametime Snack Of The Week
Bugles. What, exactly, is a Bugle? What's it made of? Who knows? Perhaps the answers lie in the amazing Chinese Bugles Fan Club. Here in America, Bugles are just bizarre horn-shaped snacks. Fuck 'em. Especially the chili cheese ones. That's just wrong. But in China, Bugles have a mysticism all their own. Winged nymphs take flight in the hopes of spreading Bugles all across the Glorious Republic. There's even a message board on the site, so that the Chinese proletariat can join together in support of the Bugle manifesto, whatever that may be.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Red Dog. I'm not entirely certain they sell Red Dog anymore. In fact, I'm pretty sure they don't. And that's too bad, because Red Dog is one tough, rugged beer. You throw a bulldog in a commercial and give him Tommy Lee Jones' voice, well shit, it don't get no manlier than that. Red Dog beer was the spiritual brother of Big Dogs t-shirts. Remember Big Dogs? If you can't run with the Big Dogs, stay off the motherfuckin' porch! So, so true. You can still buy Big Dogs t-shirts today. You can even buy kids' tees. Because nothing's more badass than buying your kid a Transformutts t-shirt.
I was annoyed the first time I drank Red Dog because the beer itself was not red. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was just MGD in a different bottle. I firmly believe that if you name your beer Red anything, the beer itself should be red. Otherwise, the thrill is gone.
Sunday Afternoon Film Of The Week For Rams Fans
Revenge of the Nerds. You just can't make a movie like this anymore. You can't have a character like Takashi dress up as an Indian and bang a gong, thereby hitting two stereotypes in a single character. You can't have the main nerd throw on a Darth Vader mask and tongue-rape a cheerleader, then have her end up enjoying it. You can't pan down for bush. You can't design a javelin that works with Lamar's limp-wristed throwing style. And that is a goddamn shame. We need more movies like this, by golly!
That said, the nerd rap scene didn't age very well. When I was 10, this was one of the awesomest scenes in the history of the cinema. Now it's more dated than a Rick Reilly joke. A damn shame.
One last thing: those California wildfires? I blame Fireball. Fireball! Fireball! Fireball!
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Your cable television is experiencing difficulties. Please do not panic. Resist the temptation to read or talk to loved ones. Do not attempt sexual relations, as years of TV radiation have left your genitals withered and useless."
Halftime Masturbation Kit
• For the guys: British FHM model Emily Scott. British tabloids are infamous for having naked women on their inside pages. I wish we in America would adopt a similar custom. If every man started the day off with some tits, he'd be far more unlikely to do evil things.
• For the gals: Hunky manbeef Ryan Reynolds. Some of you ladies have complained about the quality of men I select for the ol' HMK. Well, then help a brutha out. Just send me a goddamn email or something telling me who you want. I don't know who does it for you and who doesn't, for shit's sake. It's not my fault I'm so darn heterosexual. Point me in the right direction. If you ask for Ashton Kutcher, I'll put a bounty on your head.
Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week
WE HEAR... that Terrell Owens has gone back to being a cancer in the team clubhouse ever since finding out "Viva Laughlin" was cancelled.
Three Questions Sideline Reporters Should Ask But Won't
• "Randy, can you help get my cat of that tree over there?"
• "Mr. Easterbrook, do you have the entire series of Left Behind books committed to memory?"
• "Brett! Oh, thank God you're back! When you're off for a week, King starts huffing gas!"
Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend
"AHAHAHAHAHA and the quarterback is TOAST!"
-Theo (Side note: what the fuck ever happened to the guy who played him? I fucking loved that guy. "Whoa ho ho! Looks like the police have themselves an RV!")
Enjoy the games, everyone.