Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Buy Drew's book, The Postmortal, through here. Find more of his stuff at his Twitter feed. Image by Jim Cooke.
For various reasons, I had to watch all of the divisional playoff games and the conference championships on the DVR, going on a Twitter blackout while the action was happening in real time. And I don't know if this is true for everyone else, but I feel completely naked watching a game without Twitter now. I need it for the complete game experience. Not only do I need inane live commentary for the game on my TV, but I now require a second layer of inane commentary on top of that first layer of inane commentary.
When they cut to Jim Harbaugh on the sidelines two weeks ago and there was a fucking Aerosmith roadie standing behind him, I had to strangle myself to stay away from Twitter and not add to the steaming, fetid pile of 60 million jokes about him that had surely already been made. That's how fucked my brain is now. I have this miraculous technology that allows me to watch a full game any time I see fit. And when I decide to use it, I lament the fact that it precludes me from using another piece of miraculous technology that allows me to tell the world OMG LOOGIT THAT ASSHOLE'S MULLET LULZ.
But that's how important Twitter has become to the sports fan experience. If you watch a game live, and you glance occasionally at Twitter and see that other people noticed the same thing you noticed, or made a perfect DERP joke about Billy Cundiff, it's a great thing. It completely overshadows the commentary you get on your TV, reducing it to ambient noise, and that's a good thing when Jaws and Gruden are the analysts. I've spent my whole life hating announcers. With Twitter, I can render them completely irrelevant. Having Twitter during a football game means you get the gametime commentary you always dreamed of. In my case: I always dreamed of a gametime commentary filled with swearing and cowardly name-calling. And at last it's MINE! Hooray! WOOHOO! HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY!
The knock on Twitter is that people use it to draw attention to themselves. That it's a fat loser's way of substituting for real human contact. But I don't feel that way about Twitter at all. There are certain times in life when you can't be with your friends, either due to familial or work obligations or any number of other factors. There are certain times when you can't watch a football game with perfect company. Ah, but with Twitter, you can. It puts you in a virtual bleacher section filled with everyone you like. You could even say it adds to that corny notion of sports as community, but I won't because I hate that shit. All I'll say is that Twitter makes watching sports more fun. In fact, it makes many things much more fun to watch: political debates, award shows, movies that always end up trending because they're playing on BET, etc. In fact, Twitter often flips the script on these events. When I watch the Oscars, I don't actually watch them. I watch TWITTER, and then periodically check the Oscars to see if Kirk Douglas dropped dead on stage.
And so when I watch the Super Bowl on Sunday, I'll be watching that shit LIVE, checking out feeds and taking note whenever Darren Rovell says something retarded. It's a fucked-up way of watching sports, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And during the playoffs, I pick the games, because why not.
Giants (+2.5) 30, Patriots 20. Much as I dislike the Patriots, I'm really glad we didn't get a second Harbaugh Bowl. You didn't want a second Harbaugh Bowl. OMG! THEY'RE BROTHERS! Yeah no, that means NOTHING. They could be Siamese twins and I still wouldn't give a shit.
By the way, if a pair of Siamese twins play football, do they count as two players on the field? This question was probably answered in Stuck On You, but I never bothered to watch it because it sucked. Anyway, Giants win. And when they do, please take a moment to remember this Bill Simmons NUGGET:
I planned to start my column with a scene from the Patriots' postgame party. Through some mutual friends, I had arranged to hang out with Brady's crew for what promised to be a laid-back celebration in somebody's hotel room, probably no more than 15-20 people since Brady's circle is surprisingly and refreshingly small. Because it was a rare chance to catch Brady in an unguarded moment — and an important moment at that — I spent most of Friday and Saturday thinking about that first paragraph and all the different ways it could start. I kept seeing Brady sitting in a chair with his right ankle encased in ice, quietly sipping a bottle of champagne with a satisfied smile on his face, and Gisele would be there, and everyone would be recapping 19-0 and remembering the incredible season. I liked the thought of a famous person celebrating a historic night in such a totally normal and relatable way.
Partying in a hotel suite with Gisele. TOTALLY RELATABLE, YOU GUYS. I hope that little ball-gargling soiree is ruined for the second time in five years.
Now for the random crap:
• I've had to fly a lot the past couple weeks, and I never cease to have a nervous breakdown when going to retrieve my shit from the conveyor belt in the security line. I can't decide between putting my belt and shoes and watch back on while in line, or trying to gather up all that loose shit and bring it to a metal table nearby to do it in peace. If you choose to do it while in line, it's horrible. All this other shit comes flying out of the belt, and knocking your shit further down, and you have to hop along on one shoe to keep up with it, and more and more people come by to grab stuff and you feel like the slowest person in the world and you're just like CAN YOU PEOPLE PLEASE JUST GIVE ME A MOMENT?! That's the worst part of going to the airport.
• I also get very pissy when I'm putting all my crap onto the conveyor belt, and I get to the mouth of the belt, and suddenly the belt reverses for a second and pushes my stuff back. FUCK YOU, BELT. You can at least ask before you go ramming my suitcase back into my little shoe tray. That shit ain't right.
• I got the small plane the other day. That's always a kick in the nuts, when you're expecting a REAL plane like a 737, and you look out on the tarmac and you see the seaplane from Raiders of the Lost Ark. That's a miserable flight. Everyone who rides in a tiny plane should get a free parachute.
• I was in L.A. last week, and I was eating dinner at this really old-school restaurant—the kind of restaurant where every waiter wears a red jacket and has worked there for 50 years. I'm looking at the menu and I see that they have grilled lamb kidneys. And since I try and eat like a pale imitation of Anthony Bourdain whenever possible, I decide to ask the waiter if they're worth ordering. The second I mention the kidneys to him, he begins shaking his head violently.
ME: No good?
WAITER: (points to nose)
ME: Oh, they smell? They smell like piss, do they?
At this point, the waiter leans down and whispers into my ear. And I swear to fucking God, this is what he said: "It-a smells like-a the woman's poosy."
THEY SMELL LIKE PUSSY! I've never had a waiter be THAT specific. Clearly, I look like the kind of person to whom you can say this kind of thing. I ordered lamb chops instead.
• After dinner, I met a friend for drinks at a nearby bar, and when he walked in, he told me that he had just come from an intervention for a mutual friend. The intervention had been successful: They got the guy in a car and off to rehab in less than an hour, with no resistance at all. But we were sitting there and trying to figure out if it's appropriate to go and have a beer immediately after an intervention. I mean, you JUST told someone that they drink too much and that they need to get their shit together. And then, the second they zip off to Promises, you go and knock back a six pack? SUCH BLATANT HYPOCRISY. Anyway, we started drinking right away. I think drinking after an intervention is fine. It's if you drink BEFORE one where I think you've crossed the boundaries of good taste.
• When the Giants beat the Niners in the NFC title game, they did so by kicking the winning field goal on third down. You kick on third down so that, if there's a bad snap, you can fall on it and kick the ball again. It's a perfectly good idea, but I was wondering: Has it EVER been put into practice? Has there ever been a third-down kick attempt that went awry, forced the holder to smother the ball, and then resulted in a successful fourth-down attempt? I have NEVER seen this happen, which annoys me because I'd like to see the strategy pay off once in a while.
• There's a public aquatic center a few miles from my house. And since there was no football last weekend, and because I was bereft of other ideas, I took my kids there to go swimming in the indoor pool. The place was HUGE. There was a lap pool, a diving pool, two different hot tubs, a kiddie pool, two waterfalls, and a bigass water slide running down the wall of the complex. It would have been awesome, except for the fact that half of greater Maryland turned out that day, including a bunch of obese 50-year-old dudes wearing thick glasses who were clearly pederasts. They were sitting in the hot tub overlooking the kiddie pool the whole time, and I know damn well that they were there exclusively to ogle preschool ass. And the other kids in the pool were disgusting. One little girl nearby kept drooling into the pool. And her drool wasn't clear either. It was white. She was basically drooling a constant flow of mucus into the pool. I was horrified. Then I bumped into some other dad while swimming with my kid. Ever bump into another hairy man at a public pool? It's unpleasant. We're never going back.
• My son had his birthday a week ago and when the birthday boy has an older sibling, it's damn near impossible to keep that older sibling from opening all the presents and claiming them as their own. My daughter kept grabbing every box and I had to leap across the room to prevent her from tearing the paper and ruining everything. "What's this? Is this present for me? Can I help open it? Can I open this one then? WHY AREN'T THERE ANY PRESENTS FOR ME?! LIFE IS NOT FAIR!" Presents should be made illegal. Nothing good comes from them.
• I lost my voice two weeks ago, which I secretly enjoy. To other people, you sound sick and hungover. But in your head, you sound HUSKY and SEMI-BATMANLIKE. I spent half the day going to the bathroom and saying, "This city just showed you that it's full of people ready to believe in good!" So very manly.
• Ever accidentally fap with a lotion that contains alpha hydroxy? DO NOT. Lotion makers need to put a big red warning label on any product containing alpha hydroxy that says ALPHA HYDROXY: WILL BURN PENIS TISSUE. You shouldn't even use this on your face. It's not worth looking three years younger to smear acid all over your goddamn forehead. Women have no compunction about using these products, or getting you to try them. They burn for HOURS. It's horrible. Fuck you, alpha hydroxy.
None. No more football after this. GAHHHHHHHHHHH LIFE IS HORRIBLE.
Two Weeks Ago: 2-0 (1-1 vs. the spread)
2011 Playoff picks: 6-4 (2-8 vs. the spread).
Drew's Chili Recipe
My wife does not care for chili. This makes her an avowed Communist and an enemy of the state, but I still love her nonetheless. I made a big pot of this chili last year for the Super Bowl, like I always do, and she complained about the whole house smelling like chili. I argued that it was GOOD for a house to smell like chili for six weeks. As far as I'm concerned, that raises the real estate value of any home by 10 percent. She disagreed. So this year, I'm taking my chili pot to a friend's house and making it there. I AM GOING WHERE ME AND MY CHILI WILL BE PROPERLY APPRECIATED, WOMAN.
Anyway, this recipe takes a bit of time to make, but I like it that way. I like spending Super Bowl Sunday in the kitchen, preparing a pot of chili that I will end up eating by myself at all hours of the day: for dinner, with my eggs, for lunch, on top of hot dogs, on top of spaghetti, cold out of the pot early in the morning, whenever. It's one of my favorite things to do in the world. I get so excited to eat it, you can hardly conceal my food boner. I even get excited when I go to the supermarket to buy the ingredients. Who gets a boner for canned corn? I DO.
FOR THE CHILI:
2 pounds ground beef or chicken (make sure it's a fatty percentage, too lean and it turns out all dry and crumbly and you will be less than a man)
1 onion, chopped
6 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped
1 jalapeno, chopped
1 large can crushed tomatoes
1 can tall red kidney beans, drained
1 can corn, drained
1 can beer
1 can chicken broth
1 tsp liquid smoke
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp fennel seed
2 tbsp cumin (add more at end if necessary)
2 tbsp chili powder (add more at end if necessary)
1/4 cup white vinegar
Salt & pepper to taste
Ashes from a joint (optional)
Lotta Frank's Hot Sauce
2 glugs olive oil
FOR THE SIDES:
Frank's hot sauce
1 bunch scallions, chopped (as always, don't skimp on the scallions)
Put a big pot on the stove on medium. Pour in the oil. When it's hot, toss in the onions, garlic, jalapeno, and shallots and stir them around until soft. Toss in the ground meat. Salt and pepper the ground meat in the pot. Sautee the meat until it's good and brown. Add the tomatoes, beans, corn, beer, broth, liquid smoke, sugar, cumin, chili powder, fennel seed, joint ashes, vinegar, and Frank's. Bring it to a simmer. Half cover the pot and leave it on low medium heat for 3-4 hours, stirring occasionally and always tasting. The liquid in the pot should reduce into a nice, thick stew. Dip in a chip to see if the chili sticks to it. If it does, it's ready to serve. Personally, I add about half a container of sour cream to my bowl. Sour cream in chili is the best goddamn thing ever.
Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
"Millionaire," by Queens of the Stone Age. For the Super Bowl, you stick with the classics. "I need a SAGA. What's the saga? It's Songs for the Deaf. YOU CAN'T EVEN HEAR IT."
Embarrassing Song I Kinda Liked That Will Not Fire You Up
"Rain," by Madonna. Madonna is your halftime show for the Super Bowl. And while you may goof on the NFL for hiring a procession of old farts for this gig, they've got nothing on Rolling Stone magazine, which goes out of its way every month to feature whatever dying musician happened to have breakfast with Jann Wenner lately. I was in the airport the other day and I saw the latest issue had David Bowie on the cover. Who the fuck is craving David Bowie news anymore? What is the fucking point of this magazine now? All they do is publish retrospectives of old Clapton albums and Matt Taibbi articles about the finance industry that will make you want to kill yourself. I'm pretty sure this magazine only remains in business because Cameron Crowe has 50,000 duplicate subscriptions.
Gregg Easterbrook Is A Haughty Dipshit
You know how much Gregggg despises those skill position glory boy-types, which is why he dedicated this week's column to handing out his annual Random Non-QB I Picked To Win MVP Award. You disgusting people in the media, who only pick up on major economic stories two weeks after TMQ unearths them, are clearly unfit to judge this award.
Most who analyze football for a living don't try to figure out what is happening in line play or coverages. TMQ keeps his eyes off the ball. Try it sometime!
I know! TMQ is the ONLY person who possesses the learnitude and mental discipline needed to look away from the ball, except for pretty much every other game analyst who will point out good blocks and other away-from-the-ball action using the Telestrator once the play is over. The rest of you are SHEEP.
Now the 2011 Tuesday Morning Quarterback Non-Quarterback Non-Running Back NFL MVP — David Diehl, left tackle of the Jersey/A Giants… On his best days Diehl is not the NFL's best left tackle.
/punches newborn calf
Everything about that passage makes me hate the universe. The pretentious award name. The fucking dipshit nickname he uses for the Giants. And then the admission that his MVP isn't even the best player at his position. But wait! Reader Dubs breaks it down even further:
"Let's put aside the subjective (not really subjective, but either way) and look at one instance where Gregg gets a basic fact wrong to prove a point that is utter bullshit."
When New England and Jersey/A met in the regular season, David Diehl played guard partly so he could match up against Wilfork.
"Um, no. Until Will Beatty was placed on IR at the end of November, he was our starting left tackle. David Diehl was our left guard—a slot he was moved to this year because he just doesn't cut it as an OLT anymore. So during the early November game against the Pats, Diehl was at guard the whole time, and only moved back to left tackle after Beatty's injury weeks later. In Greggggggggggg's effort to boost Diehl's candidacy for his made up award, he tried to make it seem like he sacrificed his spot at left tackle to undertake the valiant responsibility of blocking Vince Wilfork. No, not true. He did not move in "partly" to guard against Wilfork. That was his position the entire game, and throughout the season to that point."
But wait! It gets worse. A number of readers happily pointed out that Pro Football Focus said that Diehl gave up more QB pressures per snap than any other OT. I guess someone wasn't watching the action away from the ball. I guess someone was trying to pick a random OL to give this award to just so he could make himself look super smart and attain a bit of, dare I say, GLORY?!
This year's NFC Pro Bowl choices at offensive tackle are Jerome Bushrod, Jason Peters and Joe Staley. They're all top performers but consider their starts — Peters has started 98 games, Staley has started 68 games, Bushrod has started 49 games. Diehl has performed at a high level significantly longer than any of them.
Oh, so he played LONGER. Well then, let's give him the 2011 MVP based on longevity. This is the exact kind of thinking that nabbed Michael Caine an Oscar for Cider House Rules.
(Mitt) Romney gave away $3 million while keeping $15 million for himself. Judged by the numbers, Romney thought his own luxury was five times more important than helping the poor, the arts, schools and churches.
Listen, I'm a dirty librul hippie who would never vote for Mitt Romney, but are you shitting me? This man gave THREE MILLION to charity. That's a lot. If he gives the poor $3 million and happens to have an extra $15 million leftover to spend on jet skis and shit, MORE POWER TO HIM. It's his money, and therefore his personal choice to give away how much of it he sees fit. It doesn't make him a bad person if he gives away less than you think he ought to. It makes YOU a judgmental shitbox. This isn't like calculating a tip. You shouldn't have to give away X percent of your money just to make Gregggggg Easterbrook happy. How much money did YOU give away last year, you dick? I bet it wasn't $3 million.
By the way, Gregg would also like to appoint himself secretary of weights and measures:
On NBC's "Sunday Night Football," a graphic described a play as gaining "26.9 yards." A tenth of a yard is less than four inches.
So? Four inches is a visible measurement.
Steve Chaggaris of Washington notes this absurdity: "On his 16 dropbacks, [Matt] Stafford's average release time was 2.07 seconds ... Tom Brady's was a very respectable 2.37." Boston Globe reporters can measures hundredths of seconds?
Yes. With a stopwatch. Grittier reporters measure only in fourscores.
Newt Gingrich's statement last week, while campaigning in Florida's Space Coast region, that if he becomes president, "we will have the first permanent base on the moon" by the year 2020, should be regarded as political blather.
Phew! Thank God you clarified that! The rest of us thought that claim was totally legit until now! I'm also told that Newt enjoyed The Dark Knight, which of course means that America is doomed. Did you know that TDK was once featured in the ARTS section of the New York Times? GODFREY DANIEL!
Vernon Davis, Justin Smith, Joe Staley and Patrick Willis. This team is loaded with impact players — a good sign for the Niners in 2012.
All of those players are former first round picks and make lots of money. Sounds to me like the Squared Sevens have Crabtree Cursed themselves into mediocrity.
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.
"This week, I like the Pats giving 2.5 points against the Giants. Time for me to point out a random news item concerning Jews and/or Nazis and then make a joke based upon that… WHOA HEY WAIT A SECOND WHAT'S GOING ON?!…"
OH FUCK! Nazi Shark is dead! Forever and ever! You know who I blame for letting his killer get by? David Diehl.
I'm gonna have to find a new racist animal to pick these games next season. My money is on Marxist Meerkat.
2011 Nazi Shark Record: 10-9 (1-2 playoffs).
Great Moments In Varmint Killing History
Reader Anders sends in this story I call RATMAN.
So about 2 years ago I moved into the downstairs apt of a two story house (3 bedrooms 1 bath upstairs/1 bedroom 1 bath down). My dad and my aunt own the building, and right before I moved in my dad had told me about the girls upstairs having trouble with mice cause they were letting their food stay out. Conscious of this, I tried my drunken best not to leave any food out when I fell asleep at night, but a few times I would forget and I'd wake up with the half a Pop Tart I didn't finish severely nibbled by what I thought to be mice teeth. My dad, in his wisdom, had left me 2 small mouse traps and one large trap just in case of this problem.
Now, these aren't your modern day "rats are people too" traps that keep the fuckers alive so you can repopulate them to the disgusting city streets from which they came, but rather the old school kind that snap their fucking necks like twigs when they try to get at that yummy yummy peanut butter left smeared there. I start out leaving the small traps out at night when I go to bed, thinking no problem, I'll kill these fuckers and that's that. HELL NO! I'm lying in bed and I hear the trap go off, followed by a squeal, then scrabbling feet. I rush out of my room and no dead rat. "Well fuck me" I think, "looks like it's gonna take the big boy trap." The next night I leave out the small ones and the big one, which is fucking huge and could kill one of those giant rainforest rat monsters, and drift into blissful sleep with my bedroom door slammed shut.
The next morning, one small trap and the big trap have been set off with not dead rat to show. I'm now certain I'm dealing with the biggest rat man has ever known. A few more days of this and still no dead rat, but the traps are definitely going off. I'm very weirded out, but still going about my daily business, which includes butt naked pooping. So I'm sitting on my toilet, taking one of these nice relaxing naked poops, when suddenly a fucking creature comes running roadrunner style past me! I immediately leap from the toilet, naked with shit in my ass, and begin chasing this creature into my bedroom, where I hear it burrowing into some clothes stashed into the corner. Slowly creeping forward, with a hammer in hand, I throw the clothes back to discover a fucking adolescent possum scared as fuck staring at me. We both freeze. He looks into my soul & sprints behind my mattress.
I try to coax the little fucker out with some peanut butter on bread, thinking perhaps I can tame him and make him my awesome possum friend, but he's having none of that shit and snarls at me and tries to be bite! I back off and start chasing this asshole, still naked and shit covered, back through my bathroom, through the kitchen, and out the side of a hole this asshole has chewed into my pantry. Needless to say, I jammed a piece of plywood over the hole and tried to regain my sense of security in my home.
Moral of the story: if a giant fucking rat trap won't kill your mice, it's a fucking possum and it will not be your friend. Also, possums fucking love Pop Tarts.
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 potential 2011 chopping block:
• Jack Del Rio - FIRED!
• Todd Haley - FIRED!
• Tony Sparano - FIRED!
• Steve Spagnuolo - FIRED!
• Raheem Morris - FIRED!
• Hue Jackson - FIRED!
• Jim Caldwell - FIRED!
• Bill Belichick – RESIGNED?!
• Tom Coughlin – RESIGNED?!
Hey, you never know if one of them will go out on a high note. If I can get a competitive Super Bowl and a new coaching vacancy, I'll be the happiest little boy in America.
Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
I would say Kyle Williams, but he received ACTUAL death threats after the NFC title game, so that would be in poor taste. I think we should go ahead and put Lee Evans here, because only Lee Evans would prove worthless all season long until making the game-winning catch in the AFC title game, and then dropping that pass. That was the most Lee Evans thing ever. What a dick.
Gametime Snack Of The Week
Wings. Always wings for the Super Bowl. My mom used to always make wings for us by frying them in a shallow pan. But any time I do this, I get oil spattered all over the places and sixty grease burns on my arm. If you want to make good wings but don't feel like dealing with the mess of frying, try this: Buy a value pack of wings. Then, put them in a bowl and add olive oil and a couple tablespoons of Adobo seasoning (I like it because it has a FUCKLOAD of sodium). Toss the wings around to coat them in salty goodness, then lay them all down on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper, and bake it at 400 degrees until it's brown as shit. Sometimes, you go to a party and some asshole has made oven-baked wings, but he took them out early and the skin is all limp and gross. Kill that person. If you leave the wings in there for 60+ minutes or so, they'll crisp up real nice. Then, heat up a stick of butter and a bottle of Frank's in a pan, pour it over the wings, and you got yourself a Super Bowl.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Kalik! Reader Pat sends in the official beer of the Bahamas:
Pissy? You bet. Served at Johnny Rockets? Of course. Cheap beach beer to pre-game the conference championships? No question.
Wikipedia notes that there is also a Kalik Lime flavor. PETER KING MUST HAVE IT.
According to the bottle label the name of Kalik is derived from sound of cowbells heard during the annual Bahamian festival of Junkanoo.
Would that happen to be a Dick Joke Junkanoo, by any chance?
Robert Evans' Super Bowl MVP Watch!
Time for legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans to give us his vote for the potential Super Bowl MVP. Take it away, Mr. Evans.
"Baby, my favorite for Super Bowl MVP this year is... Victor Cruz of the Giants! I don't care at all for this expanded Best Picture race. You call those nine movies Oscar-worthy? Where are the Godfathers? Where are the Chinatowns? Where are the Cimarrons? You mean to tell me Hollywood spent billions making movies this year, and the Best Picture is gonna be some French mime festival? Disgusted? YOU BET!
"They don't even celebrate nominations the right way anymore! Nowadays, when some cheap tootsie gets nominated, they go to some bargain basement Tom Snyder and yammer on about how they were in the shower when they heard the news. BULL. In my day, you can bet that Nicholson and I waited by that phone to get those precious slots. And when we got them? WHOA BABY! You wouldn't hear from us for two weeks! It was caviar in Rome, then Champaign in Leningrad, then a leather party in Helsinki! WE DID IT RIGHT. One time, Nicholson got a nom for Best Actor, ran out to a pawn shop, bought Mickey Rooney's old Oscar statue, ran it through a wood chipper, and snorted the shavings! THAT IS HOW YOU CELEBRATE A FUCKING NOMINATION, BABY."
Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Colts Fans
The Help. I had to watch The Help last week because my wife had read the novel and wanted to see the movie, and so I did what husbands do and reluctantly agreed. And I was ready to HATE The Help. I was ready to dismiss it as yet another bullshit Hollywood racism fable where the white people are the ones who solve everything. And then Viola Davis had to go and reduce me to a blubbering pile of shit. You is kind… you is smart… you is important… (chokes up) Oh, GOD DAMN YOU, VIOLA DAVIS. Why'd you have to go and have such gravitas? "You is smart" doesn't even make sense! That's wildly offensive! And yet here I am, bawling my eyes out because Aibileen is never gonna get to hang out with that little fat white girl again because Miss Elizabeth didn't have the GUTS to stand up to that bitch MISS HILLY! Oh, Miss Hilly. You filthy, wretched ginger whore! You will get yours. I promise you. AIN'T YOU TIRED, MISS HILLY?!
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"The year was 1968. We were on recon in a steaming Mekong delta. An overheated private removed his flak jacket, revealing a T-shirt with an iron-on sporting the Mad slogan Up With Mini-Skirts.
Well, we all had a good laugh, even though I didn't quite understand it. But our momentary lapse of concentration allowed Charlie to get the drop on us. I spent the next three years in a POW camp, forced to subsist on a thin stew of fish, vegetables, prawns, coconut milk, and four kinds of rice. I came close to madness trying to find it here in the States, but they just can't get the spices right."
Enjoy the Super Bowl, everyone.