Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Find more of his stuff at his Twitter feed.

I have two children. One is nearly four. One is nearly one. I'm not having any more. No way. That's it. And you know why? BECAUSE LITTLE KIDS RUIN YOUR FOOTBALL WATCHING.

I don't get these people who have 900 kids, like those asshole Duggar weirdos. Having little kids means your life is bound and gagged until they are old enough to tend to their own business. Every baby you have puts that eventual freedom off another few years. It prolongs your sentence. Oh, how I yearn for the day when my kids are old enough to go piss off to the mall with their retard friends for three hours while I watch the game. Or the day I can accompany them to a REAL movie, where people get shot and fucking killed. Or the day I can take them to a restaurant and not have to feed them. Got a little kid? Here's how the trip to the restaurant goes:

1. Walk in at 5PM.

2. Sit down, order shit before the hostess can even get away.

3. Try feeding the kid the food you brought with you. The kid hates everything. And doesn't know why you brought them to this fucked up place with lots of kitsch on the wall and other people talking and drinking from salted glasses.

4. Get water. The kid knocks over the water glass before you can leap to move it out of the kid's way.

5. Order $8 worth of food for the kid. They eat none of it.

6. Your food comes. You ask for a bill. You walk around with the kid for five minutes while the wife eats as fast as humanly possible. "Look, kid! This is where they make the tortillas! You want a free ball of dough? It's like Play Doh! Here, squeeze it! Isn't that fun? No? Why are you crying? SHIT." You hand the kid to your wife, and take as much time to eat as you possibly can until you get the GLARE from her that tells you your moment of eating in peace is fucking OVER.

7. Leave. Total time at restaurant: 13 minutes.

That's dinner out with a kid. As long as the kid is awake, everything is this way. This is why I have no issue with the NFL moving their start times for playoff games later and later. If that shit is on during the afternoon, you're fucking ruined. Even if I had a DVR (and I don't, so go fuck your aunt if you do), it would still drive me insane to put off watching a game until nightfall when I know the shit is unfolding RIGHT NOW, AS WE SPEAK. I'd fucking die. So, instead, I have to spend all week building up brownie points to watch them games, only to get the GLARE one hour into the game as the kids are going out of their goddamn minds and I'm the lazy prick sitting there watching TV.

I look into my future, and I see a Golden Age of Unfettered Football Watching. I see my kids with their own laptops, sequestered in their rooms, trading emails with likely sexual predators while I enjoy my games in peace. Nice. Or better yet, maybe one of them will cotton to the game and join me. That would be cool. I mean, if they don't, whatever. That's fine, too. Just so long as they take care to not interrupt the relationship between the TV and I. I can't wait for that day to arrive. I love the NFL playoffs. But I can't wait to watch the playoffs ten or twenty years from now. Alone and drunk. That will be fantastic.

Are you childless? In college? Unmarried? Savor these playoffs, people. Enjoy being able to watch the games in full, without any type of loved one distracting you. Appreciate what you have. Cherish the relationship you have with your TV. Spend the time now to get to know one another. To connect on a deeper level. Because, at some point, the kids will come between you two. And you'll find yourself in the midst of a one or two-decade stretch of distracted football viewing. Of distracted everything. So tragic.

The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And, like every year, we switch to PICKING the games. Because why the fuck not.

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Five Throwgasms

Cowboys 28, Eagles 20: Teams with a chance to sweep another team 3-0 in a single season are 12-7. Except the Cowboys are 0-2 when offered such an opportunity, including as recently as 2007. WHAT'S IT ALL MEAN? Fuck if I know. Cowboys win.

Cardinals 39, Packers 30: No way in hell I pick against the Cardinals when there's always a chance that Kurt Warner will slaughter a calf for God's glory and be transformed, once more, into '99 Warner, setting the fucking Earth aflame for four weeks straight. I don't give a shit if Boldin or Rodgers-Cromartie aren't playing. If '99 Warner materializes on the field Sunday, Green Bay has no fucking chance. ‘99 Warner can get off atomically precise passes forty yards downfield with seven defenders hanging off of his dick. He can ejaculate through a Froot Loop and not hit the sides of it. He can also turn water into Booker's. There's nothing else like it. I swear, I've never seen a QB play better than when '99 Warner strikes. Ever. Not Brady. Not Manning. No one. He's unstoppable when he's feeling that shit.

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Four Throwgasms

Patriots 35, Ravens 27: I don't like teams that can't defend the pass going up against Randy Moss. And the return of Fred Taylor is annoyingly well-timed for New England. Shit, I picked all four home teams this weekend. I'm a HUGE pussy.

In other Boston smarty-pants news, the Sports Fella is most displeased with not getting proper credit for breaking Tom Brady's rib injury. Welcome to Jay Glazer's world, Billy Pageviews. The millions ESPN will throw at you to re-up this year will be there to soothe your troubled soul.

An appendix to the top of this week's Jamboroo: I take great care to amass as much good will with my wife as I possibly can before the NFL season comes around. But let me tell you husbands out there: it's never enough. I've gotten into those situations with the Mrs. where I try and one-up her in terms of who does the most shit as a parent. You can never win this battle with a lady. Ever.

YOU: Well, I cook.

HER: Well, I clean.

YOU: Well, I get up to help feed the kid.

HER: Well, I do, too.

YOU: Well, I make more money.

HER: Well, I EJECTED THE CHILD FROM MY BIRTH CANAL IS AN EXTREMELY PAINFUL, TWELVE-HOUR ORDEAL. YOU HEARTLESS DICK.

And there's nothing that can counter that. Women always say men couldn't bear the pain of childbirth. You know what? FUCK THAT. I'd birth a kid if I could, if only for the purposes of winning an argument. I know it's unbearably painful. I say it's worth it. And, since men can't ever know what going through birth is like (except for that one creepy pregnant guy from a while back), you ladies can emphasize the pain level all you like. "Oh, it was horrible! Imagine if I hit you in the balls with a hammer 800 times. YOU'D NEVER SURVIVE IT." Really? I'll be the judge of deciding if that's a match. BRING. IT. ON. Stick a fetus up my ass and I'll let that bastard gestate until I'm a goddamn paragon of selfless virtue for doing so.

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Three Throwgasms

Bengals 14, Jets 7: Roger Goodell said this week he was pissed about teams laying down at the end of the regular season once they have their playoff berths secure. He proposed some kind of draft pick docking system to prevent it. This is stupid. How would you enforce it? What if Billy Belichick decides to sit all his starters with nagging injuries? Would you fine him then? Take away his cameras? Slap his dick out of a cougar's mouth? I THINK NOT.

Even worse, a team could do what the Bengals did last Sunday Night, where they play their starters in a purported effort to play hard, only you knew damn well none of those players out there REALLY gave a shit about losing to the Jets. Even when the starters play, if there isn't a sense of urgency, you're still left with an uninspired game.

I think the Bengals, even with their starters in, WANTED to lose the other night. Beat the Jets, and they'd have to face Houston. The Bengals offense has been shit for the second half of the year. Why face Matt Schaub, Andre Johnson, and the ironically-named Arian Foster when you can pack it in and lose to the Jets, knowing you go into your playoff game against a rookie QB, and knowing that the Jets had to throw everything they had at you in order to win? I'd take folding to the Jets any day of the week. MY PSYCHOLOGICAL INSIGHT INTO HOW A TEAM WORKS IS FAULTLESS, AND ALL BUT INFALLIBLE. MY SYSTEM WORKS!

There's nothing to fix with this Week 17 problem. Week 17 of the NFL season usually sucks. Big fucking deal. After that, you get to the playoffs, and the playoffs are AWESOME. If a lousy Week 17 is the tradeoff for a great playoffs, I have no issue with it. No one remembers what happens in Week 17, just as they don't remember what happens in the preseason. And that's because the playoffs own so fucking hard. The aggressively retarded Inside the BCS Twitter feed would have you believe this one lame week of the NFL season totally justifies how college football does its business. BULLSHIT. Complete bullshit. Like college football has any more fucking integrity. I'd rather have a meaningless ending to the regular season and a solid postseason instead of the other way around (and the end of the college regular season sometimes isn't even that great, like this year). Who won the Orange Bowl this year? Iowa? Who fucking cares? No one will remember that shit five minutes from now, except a bunch of assholes in a cornfield. Fucking BCS cunts. You want to keep your retarded system? By all means, go right ahead. But don't try telling me it's somehow superior to the postseason system deployed by every other sport. I hope your assholes get filled with boiling oil, you smug pricks. DIE. GET PARKINSON'S, START SHAKING, AND FUCKING DIE.

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Two Throwgasms

None. I'm going to miss all the terrible games each week. You never know when one of them was going to surprise you. Also, no more flipping between games. That's all over for another eight months. Guhhhhhh. I feel cold. Hold me close.

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

One Throwgasm

None.

2008 Playoff Picks Record: 6-5 (7-4 vs. the spread)

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

"Rusty Cage, " by Soundgarden. I'm gonna break my rusty CAAAAAAAAAAGE, AND RUN…. It was announced last week that Soundgarden is getting back together. Thank God for that. Anything to prevent Chris Cornell from recording with Timbaland again. He was on the verge of becoming the male Fergie. Fun fact about Chris Cornell: the godfather to one of his kids is Chester Bennington of Linkin Park. I think less of the man for this.

I was in dipshit prep school when "Superunknown" blew up all over the place. The first video off that album was "Spoonman," and I remember taking spoons from the cafeteria, going back to my dorm room, putting on the song, and then spooning along to Artis the Spoonman's solo. You can only imagine what this looked like. A fat, douchey prep schooler trying to re-enact a spooning solo by banging a bunch of kitchen utensils together. I would have had more dignity if the spoons had been up my ass.

Also, it's nice to have Kim Thayil back in the spotlight. I support all long-bearded guitarists. Thayil. Jim Martin of Faith No More. Billy Gibbons. Thayil looks like Chong. That can only portend good things.

Embarrassing Song I Bought Last Week That Will Not Fire You Up

"Forever," by Chris Brown. I have no excuse for this. At all. Every night, after we finish dinner, my wife and kids and I all dance together to this song. You've never seen anything whiter. It's by far the best part of my day, but hopefully it's never caught on film.

This is a big wedding song now, obviously. I went to a wedding on Saturday, and the band played "Livin' On A Prayer". That might be the very worst song any wedding band can ever play. There are certain songs that are harmed exponentially when performed by any wedding band. That song is one of them. Any hip hop song, too. "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica also qualifies, and I worked at a wedding where that actually happened. I'll never be the same. Motown songs, of course, are the least affected.

Open Mailbag Tuesdays
Got something you want displayed for show and tell in the Deadspin Tuesday Mailbag? Don't know what to do with all your toenail clippings? Email me any question or observation you like.

Playoff Recipe Of The Week!
It's the playoffs. Time to get cooking. Every week, I'mma post a recipe. This one isn't all that germane to watching football. It's not a recipe for wings or nachos or anything (chili recipe will post in the Super Bowl Jamboroo. I'm experimenting with fennel seed this year). It's just a good, cheap dinner recipe. I call it CHICKEN ON THE RAG. Just kidding. I don't call it that. That would be horrible. Here's what you'll need:

1 pack of boneless, skinless chicken thighs (eight thighs, give or take)
1 pack fresh sage leaves
1 pack shredded mozzarella cheese
1 tsp liquid smoke
2 cans diced tomatoes (regular, not that shit where they throw in basil or whatever old herbs are lying around the packaging plant)
1 box fettuccine nests or whatever pasta you like
Salt
Pepper
Olive oil
Grated parm cheese

Put the two cans of tomatoes in a pot and put it on low heat. Add the liquid smoke.

Put a skillet on medium heat and add the oil (couple tablespoons is fine). Sprinkle the thighs with salt and pepper. Using a cutting board, lay out a chicken thigh flat, with the side that isn't smooth facing up at you. Take three sage leaves and lay them in the center of the thigh. Take a handful of cheese and place it in the center of the thigh. Roll the thigh up and place it in the center of the skillet, seam side down. Repeat with all the thighs until the skillet is full. You may have to do it in two batches, which is fine. (Warning: you'll get some spatter.) Wait until the chicken is brown on one side, usually five to ten minutes, then flip it and brown the other side. The thighs may unroll when you do this. Don't worry about it. Once each thigh is brown on both sides, transfer it to the pot of tomatoes. Do this until all the thighs are in the pot. Submerge the thighs under the tomatoes best you can. Jack up the heat on the pot until the liquid starts to bubble. Turn it back down to low, cover, and simmer for 90 minutes. Stir occasionally. The chicken should come apart easily by the end.

Cook whatever number of servings of pasta you need for the table. Boil it one minute less than the cooking time indicated on the box. While boiling, take one ladleful of the pasta water and add it to the chicken pot. Drain the pasta. In the pot you just used for the pasta, ladle some of the juices from the chicken pot in. Return the pasta to the pasta pot, and finish it in the juices over low heat for a minute or two.

Serve the chicken over the pasta. Serve with grated parm and red wine. Fuck like bunnies afterwards.

Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
As always, after Week 17, if you have a beef with any fantasy player, it is YOU who deserve to die a slow, painful death for allowing yourself to join a league that holds its title matchup in Week 17. That's just idiotic. Next week, we'll drop the fantasy from this section and just go with the player who must die.

While we're wishing death on people, how about that Josh McDaniels? Peter King and others absolved McDaniels of blame for deactivating Tony Scheffler and Brandon Marshall prior to the team's playoff elimination. Media people always get off on a coach giving his players a taste of harsh and unnecessary discipline. They just looove it when those naughty players are taught a lesson. Well, fuck that. It's not some huge secret that Brandon Marshall is a bastard. Don't wait until the team's most important game to suspend him. It's such a fucking transparent ego trip, and it ruined not only the Broncos for this year, but poisoned next season as well. Josh McDaniels, you're a dipshit. I hope you get SuperAIDS.

Suicide Pick Of The Week
Last Jamboroo's suicide pick of San Diego was correct, making my suggestions for your pool 13-3 on the year. Sorry about the three wrong ones. Again, as we close down this section of the Jamboroo until next year, I remind you that joining a suicide pool is a complete waste of time and money. Never do it. You are shitting your money away. You have better odds of winning the grand prize on a scratch ticket. And you don't have to wait 17 weeks to fucking collect. Suicide pools are dumb.

Nazi Shark's Vegas Lock Of The Week
Lots of sports sites, to demonstrate the arbitrary nature of gambling, like to have animals like monkeys pick games to see if they can outwit their human counterparts. There's no reason we at Deadspin can't also get in on the fun. So we've asked National Socialist German Workers' Party member Rolf, who also happens to be a shark, to pick one game a week. Take it away, Nazi shark.

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

"This week, I like the Ravens getting 3.5 points against New England on the road. Julian Edelman, I'll see you off the coast of Martha's Vineyard this summer. Be sure to wear a red suit so I can see you."

2009 Nazi Shark Record: 8-8.

This Week's Pants Party Winner
Last week's Pants Party winner was Encore et toujours favori. He gets free rant space here:

This morning I made the mistake to mention to a chick I work with that I'm not doing anything on New Year's Eve . She made a face and thought it was a good idea to invite me to her place to "party" with her husband, kids and friends. I said no but then she insisted all day long. I managed to stay polite even though I really wanted to scream: "Look, woman, I know I'm a loser (we use that same exact word here in France. Thought it was interesting) and I don't need your pity!" People need to realize that all I always wanted for NYE is to get drunk on cheap wine and then masturbate while watching lesbian porn as the clock strikes midnight. THAT is a great way to celebrate.

Happy New Year, America.

This week's Pants Party winner was Philadelphia Beagles. Come and collect your rant prize, fella.

And your overall Pants Party winner for the entire season was Spartanmike1094 (Are there 1,093 other Spartanmike's registered at ESPN.com? That's harrowing.). SpartanMike, send me your address and you'll receive our grand prize: a copy of the Jon Krakauer book about Pat Tillman I already read and don't want anymore. PREPARE TO BE DEPRESSED!

Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Ed sends in this story I call POOPHANGER:

When you're tripping on mushrooms, climbing up five hundred feet on a trail no wider then a shoe box in the dark to the edge of a cliff sounds like a good idea. The moon looked like so cool or something. My brother in law, me and two other friends end up in a six by six space that was the top of this ridge in the pitch black night feet from certain death when the shrooms really start to kick in.

We were having fun until my bro in law starts to complain about stomach pains. He wanted to leave but we were way too blitzed to move so he just sat there uncomfortably squirming holding onto the trunk of a tree. I was sitting four feet away from him dangling my legs over the cliff when he decided he couldn't hold the mushroom infested contents of his bowels any longer. Since it was dark as hell and you were afraid to move for fear of falling he just dropped his drawers where he stood, said sorry and then released the hounds mere feet from me. In front of me was a deadly drop, behind me is a guy shitting his brains out. What would you do? I just had to sit there and take it.

The sound was like someone turned on a faucet full of pudding. The pile of slushy shit would have made an elephant proud. He wiped his ass with his boxers and we left the scene in a combination of horror and tears of laughter. We get back to my buddy who wasn't shrooming vehicle and the things battery is dead. Pre cell phone days so we end up walking to Tanners ice cream store\farm three miles away, my brother in law with shit all over him to find a pay phone so my sister can pick us up. He makes us swear not to tell her. We get in the car and the shit smell is barely covered by all four of us smoking cigarettes. It was the last time he did mushrooms.

And this one, from President Camacho. I call it, THE POOPCASE.

When I was in my early teens, my folks would send my brother and I to Colorado every summer to take a camping trip with a couple uncles, ostensibly because "the fresh air would do us good", but in reality because they just wanted to fucking get rid of us for a few weeks. These camping trips were serious, not like some RV bullshit where you sleep in a nice truck, and you have fresh showers and restrooms and such. We were in the middle of nowhere. The protocol for taking a shit was to dig a hole and bury any evidence of your ass fruit. I became amazingly proficient at this over the course of several summers, but one morning I must have still been groggy because my aim was WAY off. I misjudged the angle and shit all over my underwear, pants and boots. The boots where no big deal, I could just splash around in a creek and they'd be good to go, but the clothing provided a stiffer challenge. I couldn't just wander around the mountains for the next few days reeking of crap; I was convinced bears and cougars and shit could use that to stalk me. We were flying back home the next day, so I just changed clothes and shoved the offending garments into the bottom of my duffel bag, then promptly forgot about them.

On the flight back home, the airline lost my bag. They informed us they had tracked it to some other destination and would have it delivered to our house when it arrived back in Houston. I don't need to tell you that Houston in the middle of the summer is hot and ridiculously humid, so the condition of my compromised clothing was atrocious to say the least. My poor unsuspecting mother took my bag when it arrived and opened it, presumably to wash the clothes inside. Of course I hadn't mentioned anything about my accident, so she WAS NOT prepared for the horror that awaited her. The stench, once unleashed, was so bad it made my dog retch, and he ate his own shit on a regular basis. From that day forward I had to do my own laundry.

That reminds me of a story about my brother. When my brother was in boarding school (same one as mine), one of his dorm mates left early for Christmas vacation. Seizing the opportunity, my brother and a friend took a tuna fish sandwich and tossed it under the kid's bed, where it remained for two weeks. When the kid got back to school after the holidays, he entered his room and promptly retched all over the carpet.

Things like this happen in boarding school.

Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we'll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year's end or sooner. And now, your updated chopping block:

Tom Cable
Wade Phillips
Jim Zorn – FIRED!
Eric Mangini
Jim Mora
Dick Jauron – FIRED!

What a sad, sad list we've come to at the end of the year. I think the odds of Wade getting fired are slim to none. Lovie survived, because the Bears are fucking cheap, despite having a new stadium AND playing in the 3rd largest city in America. That's insane to me. Their fans should burn team headquarters to the fucking ground. Raheem Morris survived. Haley survived. There's a very good chance that we'll end the season with just TWO fired coaches, which would be a real shame. Although it sets up a hell of a chopping block for next year.

As for the Shanahan hiring, it's easy to rip the Redskins for giving Shanny authority over personnel when he did such a lousy job of it back in Denver. That said, isn't this really the best Washington could possibly hope for? Not only do they get an accomplished coach who knows how to run an organization, but Dan Snyder also had to cede control of the roster to make that happen. Getting Snyder to butt out was all that town ever wanted. If it meant giving control to the dude who drafted Maurice Clarett, I say it was well worth it.

Also, fuck the Skins and I hope they fail miserably.

Gametime Snack Of The Week

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Pudding! PUDDING! Puddingpuddingpudding! Let me ask you: is one Jell-O pudding cup ever enough? I could eat 500 of those in a single sitting. It's such a tiny little container they serve it in. It's a goddamn tablespoonful. We supersize everything in this country: burgers, trucks, bewbs. Yet pudding cups remain the size of a V8 can. TRIPLE THAT SHIT, JELL-O.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Milwaukee Special Reserve! Reader Sex Panther sends in this little-known can of evil:

Have you ever heard of Milwaukee Special Reserve?

Being 35, neither had I until I stopped by a Stewart's (An Albany, NY gas station/mini-mart with a shit brown color scheme, famous for it's ability to attract the worst that the local trailer park has to offer) to get some gas. This one didn't have pay at the pump, so I filled up and went to the cashier where I found a glorious display of 'Milwaukee Special Reserve,' advertising a 6-pack of cans for $2.99. I figured I could drop the $3 just to see if I could still stomach cheap beer. BAD MOVE.

I put it in the fridge and came home from the gym the next day, grabbed me an MSR and turned on the TV. The sheer wretchedness of this beer was unbelievable - sweet, pungent and sour all in one - like if you brewed tea with pickle juice, 14 packs of sweet and low, and month old gym socks. I choked it down...I was done with it, but it wasn't done with me. Oh no, my stomach cramped for hours, and I wound up having a serious battle with my toilet paper.

And seriously, if Stewart's was across the street from another gas station and was selling gas at a $1 more a gallon, the place would still attract busted pick-up trucks, fat, toothless women buying cartons of Mustang Cigarettes and scratch offs by the armful.

Holy shit, that beer looks terrible. It's like one grade below BEAST and Old Milwaukee. I didn't even know you could go lower than that. I MUST HAVE IT. And I love the name of the beer. Special Reserve. Like it's a barrel of Cabernet that's been stored underground in a temperature-controlled wine cave for the past dozen years, and never sold to the public, but only to friends of the brewmaster's family. They even wrote the SPECIAL RESERVE in cursive, to class it up. Just a brutal looking beer. I love it.

Robert Evans' MVP Watch!
The winner of the NFL's MVP award will be announced THIS WEEK! Legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

"Baby, my final choice for the 2009 NFL MVP is… PEYTON MANNING OF THE COLTS!

"But I'll tell you who the real MVP of 2009 was: the one and only MERYL STREEP! Gorgeous? You bet! Talented? They don't come any more talented than ol' Mer! Or stubborn! I remember it like it was yesterday: June of 1979. Meryl was still dating the legendary actor John Cazale, a rare talent who I discovered underneath a highway underpass in Inglewood during one of my many psychotic LSD breaks at the time. Cazale was an odd fellow. Mercurial? You bet! Liable to sit quietly in the corner at a cocktail party and drink his own urine? Absolutely! Nicholson said Cazale liked grooming small rodents with his mustache.

"Well, I couldn't understand how a creature as stunning as Mer could hole up with such a weirdo. So I pulled up to her at Swifty Lazar's house that year and said to her, ‘Baby! You're a hell of an actress. But no actress has made it in this town unless Evans has made HER!' And with that, Mer gave me the hardest slap I've ever taken! Stung? YOU BET! Deterred? Hardly. I pressed again and again, but ol' Mer never relented. She just kept going out with Cazale, cleaning up after him when he was boiling earthworms. She never spoke to me again. We're dear friends."

Bonus Warren Beatty Story!
From Coachie Ballgames:

On Sunday, the NY Post published some fantastic excerpts from a new biography of Warren Beatty.

Good quote from the excerpt:

"He made love to [Joan] Collins relentlessly," Biskind writes. "But for Collins, it was too much of a good thing. One Sunday morning, exhausted, she stumbled out of bed. Dragging on a forbidden cigarette, she said, 'I don't think I can last much longer. He never stops — it must be all those vitamins he takes . . . In a few years, I'll be worn out.' Later, a skeptic asked her if they really had sex seven times a day. She replied, 'Maybe he did, but I just lay there.' "

Damn. Ol' Beatty hollowed out Alexis Colby! How much would you pay to live a year of that guy's life in the 70's? I'd pay a lot.

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Rams Fans

Avatar. I'm one of five people yet to see this movie, but I'd like to. Blame the kids. Black Book magazine listed me as one of five people who owe James Cameron an apology, because I wrote on NBC that the movie looked like shit. Fair enough. I apologize unreservedly to James Cameron. Mister Cameron, I am sorry to doubt you. As reparations for my error, I offer you my two children. Take them and do with them what you will, so I can finally go see your movie.

Know who won't apologize to Cameron? The editor of this site, AJ Daulerio. He fucking HATED Avatar.

I actually fell asleep. And the glasses annoyed me. I was like a toddler forced to wear headgear with those things on. That said, I totally would have banged the shit out of the blue frog chick.

That's our editor for you. Let it be known the man is not vague in his opinions.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Ooh, lovely desk. It would be too bad if someone, oh, I don't know...didn't use a coaster!"

Halftime Masturbation Kit
-For the guys: If you recall, earlier this week a Deadspin reader sent us what he said was a picture of his girlfriend's boobs. They were big. Looked like she had just robbed a bank. Anyway, reader Davey wrote in to call bullshit.

These are not the boobs of an anonymous reader, they are the boobs of Amanda Hatley and I am pretty sure those Double D's. Amanda's husband Brent is a producer on the "Bubba the Love Sponge" show. This pic is a present to all the followers of BTLS on Twitter as a result of UF's win over Cincy.

I confronted the original reader with this claim. His response?

I'll present more evidence.

And he did:

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Children Will Crush Your Playoff Dreams. The Wild Card Jamboroo

Believe what you will.

-For the gals: Boreanaz. Bathtub. BOOSH.

Enjoy the playoffs, everyone.