Big Daddy Drew's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo previews the upcoming weekend of the NFL every, well, every Thursday afternoon.

There are three football games left in the NFL season, but this week, championship week, always feels like the last real week of the season. It's the last doubleheader. It's the last weekend of multiple games. And, since the NFL insists on having that tortuous, stupid fucking bye week in between the title games and the Super Bowl, next week feels like the beginning of the offseason, with a three-hour Super Bowl oasis the following Sunday. And even that game feels like an awards show with a game tacked on. It's your last chance to see football unadorned until eight months from now.

So I get excited around this time. VERY excited. Highly aroused. Sure, football law states that at least one of the championship games will, without fail, suck. That's guaranteed. But that doesn't stop me from hoping that both games will be epic battles that feel as if they've already been archived by NFL Films with a Harry Kalas narration ready in the can. It's the giddy sense of anticipation that precedes the games that makes them so much fun, regardless of whether or not the game in question pays off the way you'd like.

Why, it's exactly like trying to dial phone sex.

It won't surprise you to know that I spent a great deal of my adolescence (yes, yes, adolescence. That's the ticket) trying to figure out how to dial a 1-800 phone sex number without having to give a credit card number (I didn't have one) or dial a 1-900 number, which would show up on my parents' phone records (as would a 1-800 number, but I didn't think this was true at the time). Any sane person knows this is not possible. But when you're a 16-year-old with a raging hard-on, logic is discarded and pure determination takes hold. There's a real sense of urgency there to have the best orgasm you possibly can. It's a real must-cum situation. You will do ANYTHING.

My strategy back then was not very good. I had no database of numbers to speak of except for what I saw on late night phone sex ads on TV (which I also masturbated to. It's the lightning round of jerking off). But those were mainly 1-900 numbers. So I spent a lot of time trying to figure out dirty word combinations on the touch-tone phone. Three-and four-letter words were crucial in this game. I always tried to involve useful words like "fuck" "cunt" and "tits", and more. You'd be surprised how many different permutations you get just from that simple vocabulary:

1-800-HOT-TITS

1-800-WET-TITS

1-800-WET-CUNT

1-800-BIG-TITS

1-800-HOT-FUCK

1-800-TIT-CUNT

Sometimes, in a moment of revelation, I'd figure out a Ph.D-level combination, like 1-800-PUSSY4U, or I'd throw caution to the wind and venture boldly into eight-digit combos, like 1-800-HOT4SEX. But, just as often, I would forget what combinations I had tried before (I didn't write any of this down, lest a paper trail be left), and try 1-800-HOT-TITS or some other number that I had forgotten did not work. When you dialed these numbers, one of two things happened:

1. The number would be out of service. When you dial a number that's out of service, the phone company punishes you by blasting that doo-doo-DOO signal into your ear at 500 decibels. I nearly pulled my dick off every time that happened. You can literally hear your own eardrum being blown apart. Phone companies are evil, horrible people.

2. You get a ring.

Now, a ring is something to get excited about. Nothing says breathless anticipation quite like a ring. Whether you're calling for phone sex, or trying to get through to a call-in show, or calling to ask someone on a date or some shit like that, your fucking heart starts inflating the second you hear that ring. Someone's gonna pick that phone up, and either something awesome will happen, or something will go terribly awry. BUT WHICH WILL IT BE?

Actually, neither. Because whenever I got a ring on one of those phone sex numbers, despite the fact that my erection would grow by a foot, the phone was never answered by a real, live phone sex operator. Hell, no. This was but Step One in a long, convoluted process that would inevitably leave me with a wrenched back, a limp dick and a greater sense of self-loathing. Instead of an operator, I'd get a pre-recorded message:

HEY, BABY. OOOH, STICK IT IN MY MOUTH AND MAKE ME TASTE IT! YOU'RE JUST A FEW STEPS AWAY FROM REAL PLEASURE!

Sometimes, I'd just jerk it to this message and call it a night. Other nights, I'd try and get further. If they asked or a credit card number, I'd just mash a random long number into the keypad in the hopes I'd punched in a real one by accident. Never happened. But, more often than not, I'd select an option on the main menu that connected me to ANOTHER phone sex line. Another dial tone. Another chance at Zork Sex with a real, live female ex-convict in India trying to make ends meet. Instead:

HEY, BABY. OOOH, STICK IT IN MY MOUTH AND MAKE ME TASTE IT! YOU'RE JUST A FEW STEPS AWAY FROM REAL PLEASURE!

Ever click on a link on a page of links only to be brought to another page of links? Yep, it was just like that. I would sit there for a fucking hour, hoping the next ring would fulfill its promise. Never happened. Then, I would do one of two things:

1. Give up and jerk off

2. Damn it all and dial a 1-900 number

Once or twice I dialed the 1-900 number, knowing full well the charges would appear on my parents' phone bill. I didn't even care. Such was my lust for hot action that I was willing to face the consequences despite knowing exactly what kind of embarrassment that all entailed. But it was almost worth it to get that ring and have a REAL chick pick up on the other end.

Girl: Hello?

Holy shit! Holy shit, it's a real chick! What do I do? Talk, you idiot! Fucking talk!

Me: Oh. Hi.

Girl: What's your name?

Make up a name! Something clever!

Me: Uh. Harvey.

Girl: Hi, Harvey. I'm Alexis.

Me: Uh. Hi, Alexis.

Girl: Where are you calling from, Harvey?

Me: Uh. Minneapolis.

Girl: Ooh! I bet it's cold out there. Isn't it?

Me: Uh...

Girl: Do you play sports, Harvey?

Me: Yeah. I play football.

Girl: What do you play?

Oh, my God. LIE! LIE LIKE YOU'VE NEVER LIED BEFORE! YOU'RE PART OF THE FANTASY TOO!

Me: I'm the starting middle linebacker.

Girl: What are you wearing, Harvey?

Me: Uh. Like. A t-shirt. And, uh, boxers.

Girl: Oh. I was hoping you'd be wearing one of those jockey strap things. Those are hot.

Oh my god, she's flirting with me! Oh my God! ASK HER THE MONEY QUESTION!!

Me: Well, what are YOU wearing?

(cut to 70 seconds later)

Me: Please... please call me, "Big Boy"

Girl: Give it to me, BIG BOY

Me: UNNNGGGHHHH!!!!!! (spurt)

(hangs up)

Was that worth $37.99 and an hour of scolding from my father? Well, at the time it was. Looking back, trying to dial phone sex wasn't the smartest thing in the world. And the end result was never all that great. But that moment of anticipation, that moment where you hope and pray that everything turns out just like you fantasized, only BETTER... That's something I remember. Something incredibly, horribly pathetic that I, for some bizarre reason, remember fondly. As I said, I have issues.

So perhaps Sunday's games won't be all that great. Maybe they'll suck a big fat donkey dick. That's almost beside the point. It's having a huge game to look forward to, to talk about, to get crazy excited about and picture in your head, that's the real fun anyway. Shit, it's the reason I watch football to begin with. It's the joy of the football season itself. So there you go. Championship games and phone sex. Will you find a more tortured analogy than that? Fuck and no.

Playoff Game Picks and Predictions

All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And I'm boldly forging ahead and making picks.

The Championship Games And Phone Sex AnticipationS

Five Throwgasms

Patriots 63, Chargers 14. This sounds odd, but I'm willing to wager that going 16-0 has made the Pats a LESS cocky team than if they had gone 15-1 or 14-2. You go 14-2, you're great. But you're not special. You're not trying to become the team by which all other teams will be measured. So you can relax a bit. Let your guard up. Take Jessica Simpson to Mexico over the weekend and bang the hair dye right out of her. But if you go 17-0, you probably have a fairly deep appreciation of just how fragile this whole winning streak is, and just how hard it is to keep it going. You probably become obsessed with finishing off the task, to the point where you refuse to shave, or shower, or comb your hair. You probably start talking to lamps and what not. (You see, Simmons? I too can make wild assumptions about the collective mindset of an entire team!)

That's why I find it hard to believe the Patriots would come out flat and complacent against a Charger team that's just happy to have already proven people wrong. They shot their load in Indy. And now they get to go to Foxboro and get destroyed. I hope that's not the case, but I'm not optimistic.

Let us now turn our attention to Rodney Harrison. I've seen me a lot of dirty players in my time: Erik Williams, Bill Romanowski, any Bronco o-lineman, Hines Ward, Steve Wisniewski, Kevin Gogan, Chuck Cecil, etc. Basically, any player john Madden has ever slobbered over. But at least those assholes were all unapologetically dirty. Rodney Harrison is one of those fuckhead dirty players that tries and act all sportsmanlike after trying to make wine with your testicles in a fumble pile. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to grow my fingernails extra long and gouge you in the earhole when you weren't looking! My bad!" "Oh, was that your ankle I was stomping on? My good man, I thought I was simply replacing a divot in the turf!" What a fuckhead. If you're gonna be dirty, just be dirty. Don't pull this "Who, me?" shit.

And I hate this, "I'm not dirty. I just play hard" excuse. That's the "No, YOU'RE the asshole" technique. "Oh, I'm not dirty! I just put BB's under my knuckle tape and punch people after the play because I WANT it more than they do." Whatever. Harrison's a dick.

One note on Tom Brady: You're gonna hear a lot about Tom Brady and his "sixth sense" in the pocket this weekend. Announcers like to have you think that QB's have some kind of mystical power that allows them to "feel the rush". What they don't tell you is that there is a 350-lb. o-lineman two feet away from the QB yelling, "HOLY FUCK! LOOK THE FUCK OUT!" whenever a rusher gets by him. That tends to help.

Finally, we come to Marmalard. Christmas Ape has done a bang-up job demonstrating Philip Rivers' unreal douchiness over the course of the year. But the yelling at Indy fans really puts the cherry on the sundae. A QB is supposed to be the cool, calm, collected leader the team takes its cues from. But this asshole, WHO WASN'T EVEN ON THE FIELD FOR THE WINNING SCORE, spent the last few moments of the game not celebrating with teammates, but bragging about the win to a bunch of fatass Indy fans in the stands. What. A. Douche.

Giants 24, Packers 23. Simmons brought this point up a while back, and it can't be denied: The Super Bowl everyone wants (in this case, Pats-Packers) is rarely the Super Bowl everyone gets. And so it is here. If the Giants win, I think we'll all feel somewhat grateful. Because the collective Favre-Brady dicksucking that would ensue otherwise would be one you could hear all the way from Arizona. Gregg Easterbrook has already busted out his cum snifter.

The Championship Games And Phone Sex Anticipation

One Throwgasm

Temple at Saint Louis

Last Week: 1-3 (3-1 vs. the spread) - Wow, I'm both disgusted and impressed with myself.

Overall: 4-4 (5-3 vs. the spread) - 5-3 vs. the spread? Suck on that, Brandon Lang!

Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall

"When The Levee Breaks" by Led Zeppelin. The editor who works next door to my office had a copy of "Hammer of the Gods" lying around the other day, so I picked it up and quickly scanned it for the mud shark story. In the book, Zeppelin's road manager disputes the story that John Bonham stuck a shark inside a groupie. The book quotes him:

The true shark story was that it wasn't even a shark. It was a red snapper and the chick happened to be a fucking redheaded broad with a ginger pussy. And that is the truth. Bonzo was in the room, but I did it. Mark Stein [of Vanilla Fudge] filmed the whole thing. And she loved it. It was like, "You'd like a bit of fucking, eh? Let's see how your red snapper likes this red snapper!" That was it. It was the nose of the fish, and that girl must have cum 20 times. But it was nothing malicious or harmful, no way! No one was ever hurt.

You'll never order red snapper in a restaurant again. At Silky Garrard's, maybe. But not at a restaurant.

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"Unbelievable," by EMF. Scubert Dip, anyone? I'm a sucker for any song that finds a way to sample Andrew Dice Clay. Someone in 9th grade told me once, "You know what EMF stands for? Ecstasy Mother Fucker." I thought that was the most subversive, awesomest thing ever. I was an easy mark like that.

Note the extra floppy bicycle hat in this video, a fashion staple of the Eurotrash Club MTV set back then. Wubba wubba wubba.

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

Patrick Crayton and the Cowboys' o-line. Jesus, what the fuck happened to you people? If Romo was rusty from being in Mexico, you assholes must have been in fucking Bali. Learn to catch. Learn to block. And protect my boy ROMO from defenses and tabloid scrutiny, you pricks.

Five Potential Key Injuries

• LaDainian Tomlinson (knee)

• Eli Manning (shock)

• Philip Rivers (just kidding. He can die in a fire for all anyone cares)

• Osi Umenyiora (exhaustion (NSFW))

• Terrell Owens (guts mashed)

Actual Wild Card Of The Week

Each week until all Wild Card teams are eliminated, I'll be picking an actual Wild Card of the week. This week's is Francis Begbie.

The Championship Games And Phone Sex Anticipation

That lassie got glassed, and no cunt leaves here till we find out what cunt did it!!!!

Gametime Snack Of The Week

The Championship Games And Phone Sex Anticipation

Pringles. It's a little disturbing to open a can of Pringles and see a stack of chips that are all exactly the same shape. And then you take a stack of ten and cram them in your mouth, and suddenly that's not such a big concern anymore.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

The Championship Games And Phone Sex Anticipation

Budweiser. I'm baffled by the current Budweiser ad campaign. Are they really trying to convince me that Budweiser is actually good beer? "Cloudy beers hide imperfections!" Really? Well then, I better pour this Chimay right down the toilet! Great American Lager, my ass. It's fucking Bud. Know why I drink Bud? BECAUSE IT'S FUCKING THERE.

What really fucks me up about those ads is the fact that they hired Rob Riggle to star in them, and he doesn't tell any fucking jokes. Is that itself some sort of joke? You're fucked, Budweiser.

(NOTE: When I was in England ten years ago, certain Americanophile (?) Brits would order nothing but Budweiser at the pub, and pay a huge premium for it. I'm as proud an American as the next person, but that's just stupid.)

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Colts Fans

The Championship Games And Phone Sex Anticipation

The Hard Way. "Why don't you go tie your dick in a knot?" How about that James Woods? The guy sits in on a test run for 9/11 hijackers, gets stalked by Sean Young, makes my favorite guest appearance on the Simpsons ever ("A jittery Eskimo firefighter?") and plays a complete asshole in every movie he's ever made. What a badass. You know he scored 1580 on his SAT back when the SAT was actually challenging? Or that he's a volunteer LAPD officer? I wish he'd call ME Big Boy!

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote

"Now for my favorite part of the show... What does that say? Talk to the audience?! Ugghhh, this is always death."

Halftime Masturbation Kit

• For the guys: Movie star Anna Faris. You might remember Anna from Lost In Translation, where she played a character inspired by Cameron Diaz. In other words, she played an idiot. I'm pretty sure Cameron Diaz would lose a Tic Tac Toe match to an orangutan.

• For the gals: "Lost" star Josh Holloway. Look at the alignment of his nipples. It may be a clue to the secret behind the Dharma Initiative! And Cool Water? Does that mean his character will drown soon? Who's this Davidoff fellow? Is he with the Others? Is this picture a flash-forward? Or is it a flashback? Or is it a flash-forward to a moment when he's flashing back? So many layers to this puzzle...

Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week

WE HEAR... that Tom Brady will retire at the end of the year. Did you hear that? It's totally true!

Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend

"Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you! Who's next?"

-Clarence

Enjoy the games, everyone.