Once upon a time, a site called The Black Table had a regular feature entitled Waxing Off, in which women gathered in an online roundtable to discuss issues of the day, and also to make fun of Will Leitch's shoes. And so we got to thinking: With so many great female sports bloggers out there, why not import the idea here? It's just crazy enough to work. So behold: The latest edition of Deadspin's Waxing Off. We found six terrific female writers who were willing to pen short pieces on this week's off-beat topic: Which NFL quarterback makes your skin crawl? Hey, they can't all be dreamboats like Jon Kitna. Some NFL quarterbacks are downright disgusting. Our team of writers deconstruct the most cringeworthy candidates among current NFL signal-callers, and as always, no holds are barred. Enjoy! By the way, if you'd like to be part of the Waxing Off writing staff, email myself at Rick@Deadspin.com, or Mr. Daulerio at AJD@Deadspin.com.Head Chick In Charge: Dear Michael, First of all, you need to come get your shit out of my house. I mean, you left so long ago, but all your shit is still here! How is that even possible?! I can't believe you had the nerve to call me collect and ask me to wait outside the gates for you when you get out and kick it like we used to. Hanging out all day — going to Lenox Square and The Cheesecake Factory and Magic City. I was just so heated at your insensitivity I had to hang up without saying a word. Look, I know you can't actually come collect your baggage right now. I'm just frustrated. I can't stand your memory. And I can't move on. Honestly, I haven't enjoyed football as much since you left. I'm a shell of my former self. I used to be a sports fan down for the home team. And my homerism was the foundation that allowed me to be genuinely enthused for everything sports. TO and Brett Favre are the icing, but you were the cake! Now I'm resigned to halfheartedly cheer for my interim team du jour while my Falcons die a slow death. Fortunately, I won't have to see it because it will be blacked out (remember all those season tickets you used to sell, sigh). So I'm just focused on trying to get back right. I can't deal with you right now. You need to know I've been messing with other dudes while you've been locked up. Byron, Joey, Chris, DJ... But, shit, I know they're not you. None of them are as exciting as you. They are limp dicked, minute man, stand in the pocket non-scrambling motherfuckers. Some dude named Matt is trying to kick it to me now, but I'm not really trying to hear that noise. So, no. To answer your question, we can't spend the day together when you get out. I just can't afford to look forward to seeing you again. Play with somebody else's emotions. I can't fuck with you as long as you are doing dumb shit. Shit. Here's twenty bucks for your commissary account and a King Magazine. Take care of yourself. The HCIC is currently collaborating with Stephen A. Smith on a follow up to his investigative opus – "Segregation in Fantasy Football: Why
Deadspin Readers White People Refuse to Invite Black People Into Their Leagues Even When Asked Nicely." My spirit was almost broken when a plea for a FF slot in the first edition of Waxing Off went ignored. I'm recovering, thanks for asking. ————- J-Money: I can't stand Matt Leinart because his rise and fail reminds me of my own collection of suck. In high school, he was Cali's prep player of the year. I graduated at the top(ish) of my class and could've easily gotten a job at the cleanest bait shop in town. We both headed to college, where Matt snagged the Heisman and a National title and I made out with a guy who went on to play a corpse on CSI. But then we went pro and things went to shit. Now he spends his Sundays standing on the sidelines, casually smearing his eyeblack so it looks like he managed to accomplish something other than making it four quarters without getting a paper cut. I waste most days working at a shoe store, trying to convince a terrified teenager that — despite what her mother says — her bunions weren't caused by premarital sex. There's no way to unfuck my own life and I can't do anything about Matt's but snicker. By now he's supposed to have a Super Bowl ring and an action figure. He got halfway there, but they didn't even cast him as a full-sized McFarlane and the only thing as prominent as his name on the package is a label that says "Choking Hazard". Truer words, toymaker … Maybe Kurt Warner will take Matt under his 37-year-old wing — assuming he can raise one arm that high without splintering his bones — and lead him on a journey that would begin with two sets of footprints on the sideline but would merge to one when Kurt started to carry him. Maybe he shouldn't have rushed to the NFL, opting instead for some Warner-like arena experience. Although if Matty had been exported to the Amsterdam Admirals, he would've seen more red lights than Michael J. Fox playing "Operation". Maybe he should just try to find Jesus, preferably on a 15-yard slant route. Or maybe he just needs a new pair of shoes. J-Money is a freelance writer and minimumwagelance retail associate. More of her words can be found on her blog, The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy, and at Playing the Field. ————- Samantha Benton: The quarterback who draws my instant and everlasting ire? Brady effing Quinn. Sure, he may not have served a prison term for racketeering, dated Paris Hilton, or fathered an illegitimate child (that we know of...shudder) but Brady Quinn is of that rare age and stage in his career where he not only sucks for behavior already exhibited but also - and to a possibly greater extent - the many years of jackassery he has left before he bids us farewell. At the tender age of 23, he has the textbook traits to be despised in an elite athlete: the super-classy bar brawl complete with homophobic slurs, the money grubbing holdout, and my pet peeve: a low chin-to-neck ratio. Spending a day with this guy would be like waking up in a frat house of horrors. No matter where you run, you can't escape the pleather couches and backwards baseball caps. Currently the only thing that makes me feel better about Brady Quinn's existence is that it seems as if he's receiving some instant karma in life. Ok, I admit that I felt a twinge of pain for him when he was passed during the draft. However, any lingering goodwill faded when he refused to show up and dance with the team that brought him. And you know what they say about a woman scorned. For a guy who studied politics and finance in college, his record of alienation and ingratitude are just spot-on tactics for that senate race you know he's already contemplating. So for now, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the early humiliations and bad press that he's experienced have given him pause. But just in case, I'll keep praying that Derek Anderson fends off injuries and interceptions this year to keep Quinn on the bench and out of my sight. Sammy lives in Portland, OR where she spends her time judging the city's sports bars and contributing to thingsaboutportlandthatsuck.com. She is anxiously awaiting tomorrow's Oregon State/Penn State game. ————- Ciara Todd: Antonio Romo. Pretty Tony. The one quarterback that I would resurrect Lavar Arrington's career for, just to see him knock another Cowboys QB the hell out. No, he doesn't have herpes or kill dogs and no, he doesn't have any illegitimate babies (at least, that we know of) and of course, he doesn't look like he's straight off the short bus when he gets mad (Eli, I'm talking to you) but his on the field play and off the field antics all warrant dismissal. For one, Romo and Bristol Palin's baby-daddy look like they're related and that's a problem. If Levi Johnston lays pipe, then Romo lays bricks. Two straight NFC playoffs losses says that more than anything. And since he definitely has a knack for disappearing at the wrong time, I can't help but think that he'll leave me in the city alone to fend for myself. In more ways than one, he'll drop the ball. He'll let things slip through the cracks and unfortunately he can't hold on to things too long. Plus, any dude who dates a chick who let Johnny Knoxville smash is questionable at best. A great improviser on the field equals a great liar and liars can't be trusted. At the end of a conversation, I'll look as dead as Jerry Jones, I swear. He's on a team with a player who likes to throw one dollar bills at a bouncing ass. Romo throws away games when the ball bounces out of his hands. Guilty by association. To top it off, he's too pretty. I bet you he checks the mirror more than he checks defenses. He and T.O. probably pop each other's pimples at night while Jason Witten re-locks Marion Barber's hair. He's not on a quasi-homo level like Tom Brady, but he's close. The real reason: Any dude who is chased by Brian Dawkins in a Pepsi commercial is someone who I cannot associate with. Eagles pride trumps all. Ciara is a college student in Philadelphia who was once bossed around by Daulerio during their Philadelphia magazine days. The former author of a blog called Athletes and Procreation, she is now working on a blog about sports and racism. ————- Tara Crawford: Brett Favre is like that ex-boyfriend who just can't let it go. He was your first love! You dated for years! Your love was that perfect, idyllic thing they talk about in movies where you run through the daisies and make each other mix tapes and it's just magic. Then one day... Brett dumps you. It's time to move on, he says, and while he doesn't feel you've pushed him away, you haven't exactly encouraged him to stay. So you and Brett go your separate ways. It's painful at first – you go through all the stages, burning that old football jersey of his that you never gave back and ripping all the guts out of those mix tapes before acceptance sets in and you start feeling ready to date again. You find yourself a nice new boyfriend – Ben Stiller, for instance. He's not quite the same and you'll never get that euphoric rush of young love back but things are going well enough and you're happy. And just then – just when you're finally feeling settled again and ready to start anew – wouldn't you know it, Brett comes running back. He says he was "guilty of leaving you early," and that he wants another chance. When you turn him down he calls all your friends and tells them that he really wants to move on with his life but you just won't let him and everyone starts to think you're a creepy stalker. Finally after what seems like forever, Brett finds a new girlfriend. She's kind of skanky and they don't really seem all that compatible, but hell, at least he's off your back. He was such a pain in the ass that it's tough to remember the good times anymore but you do your best. After all, you've got Ben Stiller. And his hair gel. Tara Crawford is an aspiring writer currently working as a production artist. She has been a die-hard fan of the New York Mets since her father took her to her first game in 1989, which they lost 14-4. When not rooting on her team she can be found whittling away her hours online and/or indulging mildly manic obsessions with Anderson Cooper, Tim Gunn, and "Lost." ————- Bay Area Claire: Dear Eli, This is last minute, but I must cancel our rendezvous. I gave myself too much credit. I am undeniably shallow. It’s not “what’s inside that counts.” I judge books by their covers. I would tell you this in person, but the way your monotonous words crawl out of your mouth drives me insane. For a moment, I couldn’t look past the Super Bowl ring—I figured spending time with you would be pleasant. Then I looked up and your pasty face shocked me back to reality. I know, every quarterback has his flaws. Ben Roethlisberger almost died because he wasn’t wearing a motorcycle helmet. Brady Quinn’s shirtless image was used to promote a gay dating website. Lindsay Lohan called Kyle Orton “super hot” (she thinks Samantha Ronson is attractive, so Orton loses points). Brett Favre is indecisive. Oh, and Michael Vick engaged in activities that killed dogs. There’s a difference between their flaws and yours. Ever read that bumper sticker that said, “I may be fat, but you’re ugly, and I can lose weight!”? Well… Mr. Manning, there’s another thing that irks me. It’s time for you to stop stepping into your brother’s spotlight. The juxtaposition just makes you look even more goofy and mundane. Stop piggybacking on your brother as he walks the fame pathway. The commercials are no longer funny, they’re borderline creepy. Oreo licking contest? Not funny. Just confusing and uncomfortable. Sure, you have some solo commercials, but I can count the number of commercials that are memorable on your NFL MVP awards. Yes genius, I know you were never the NFL MVP. C’mon, let’s be real. I’m not doubting your abilities. You did lead your team to a championship, but if you had a helmet (or brown paper bag) covering that mug and barked commands at me, I may follow (and enjoy the hell out of it). Elisha, let’s just stop before this gets as unpleasant as your forced smile. Elisha. Wow. Your full first name deserves its own good-bye letter, so I’ll stop. Good luck this season—football is all you have going for you. — Bay Area Claire Bay Area Claire can be found obsessing over the inconsistencies of the Philadelphia Phillies and San Francisco Giants. Jump aboard her train of thought at Bleacher Report, where she moonlights as a columnist.