Confessions Of A Glory Boy

Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season.

I wonder if everyone playing in the Super Bowl on Sunday gets as much of a cheap buzz out of putting on cleats as I do. I remember going to buy cleats as a kid. My mom took me to Herman's, the big sporting goods store, and I got try on all the football shoes and walk around in them. They had all the big brands like Nike and Reebok and whenever I put them on, I felt like I was in the Nike ad. I was some chiseled motherfucker running toward the camera in slow motion with Megadeth blasting in the background. Holy shit, did I feel like an athlete. I wasn't one, of course. I was just a sad fat kid. But you walk into a sporting goods store to try on cleats and you FEEL like a badass. They had little stools with angled mirrors so you could see your feet in them, but the reflection cut off at the ankle, so you could always imagine a 250-pound beefcake you filling out the rest of the image.

That's part of the allure of sports. It's not just the game itself ... it's the whole look and feel of it, from the jerseys down to the shoes. I loved getting new sports equipment and trying it on. I always thought it would be a magic cure for everything. These cleats ... I will wear these cleats and other kids will think I'm way cool now. When we got the cleats home, I would take them out of the box immediately and go running around in the yard, practicing my cuts even though I never played any position where you had to deke out another living person. Ah, but I had the magic cleats now. Perhaps these would DOUBLE my speed, and perhaps my JV coach would take a flyer on me at running back for one play only to discover he had the next Christian Okoye on his hands. Kids think this way. They're too young and stupid to know how absurd that idea is.

Drew Magary writes for Deadspin and Gawker. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at drew@deadspin.com.

When I was a benchwarmer in college, we had to walk a hundred yards from the locker room to the practice field. And nobody on the team put his cleats on AFTER making that walk. Most everyone put on his shoes in the locker room, which meant the cleats were practically worn down to nubs by the time you reached the field. But guys didn't do this because they were dumb. They just knew how important it was to be SEEN walking in those shoes, even if tapping along asphalt in black cleats isn't anywhere near as cool as you think it looks.

I always make jokes about Gregg Easterbrook in this column, because Gregg Easterbrook is awful and because Gregg Easterbrook hates the idea of GLORY BOYS, who I presume are people who get into sports simply because they want to experience the end product of being good at sports—money, fame, adulation, readily available sex. And Gregg's attitude always annoys me because, frankly, I was a glory boy. Or at least, I very much wanted to be. I suppose that means I joined a football team for all the wrong reasons (in truth, I didn't really ever like playing offensive tackle all that much, because it sucks). But I don't know why you wouldn't want all the free cars and hot tub orgies that come with being a world-class athlete. I don't know why it makes you a bad person to ASPIRE to such earthly pleasures. Sure, playing the game itself is fun for a lot of people, but there's nothing wrong with taking pleasure in the SCENE, in the rituals of putting on cleats and taping your fingers (I remember one guy who spent an hour taping his fingers in the locker room because he wanted it to look and feel just right) and putting on a fresh jersey and making that walk past all the girls running cross country to the field and stretching in front of everyone in a dramatic fashion.

That's why going to the Super Bowl means so much to NFL players. They all want to win. But I bet most of them are also ecstatic just to be part of the event: to be in the spotlight as the stealth fighters fly overheard and five million cameras flash and a thousand hookers wait for you in the hotel lobby and all kinds of crazy smoke machines and shit go off as you come running out from under a giant, inflatable helmet. You get all that no matter what the score looks like at the end, and it's fucking awesome.

I had to get rid of my cleats a few years ago, back when my doctor told me I couldn't play touch football anymore because my spine was shot to shit. I miss playing in those games. The games were all right. But really ... I miss the shoes.

The Games

All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And for the playoffs, I pick the games, because that totally makes me sound like I know football.

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

Five Throwgasms

Ravens (+3.5) 17, 49ers 14: I really don't want to see Ray Lewis fake crying on a dais, which means we're probably gonna see Ray Lewis fake cry on a dais. Let's get into the random crap:

• It was MLK Day last week, so I asked my daughter if she wanted to watch some of the "I have a dream" speech on YouTube and she agreed. I thought it would be a really patriotic moment. A teachable moment.

HER: This is kinda boring.

ME: Now now, you'll appreciate this more when you're older.

HER: My teacher said a man named James killed him.

ME: He did. James Earl Ray killed him.

HER: How?

ME: He shot him.

HER: (gasps) Just like Abraham Lincoln! They shot him too!

ME: Right. Both men were shot.

HER: COOL!

ME: No! Not cool! Very, VERY uncool.

HER: It's kinda cool.

ME: No! Not kinda cool! Not ANY cool!

HER: But it's KINDA cool.

ME: Holy shit, I can't be here.

We didn't make it through the whole speech.

• Let's say that Colin Kaepernick wins the Super Bowl running the Pistol offense, and let's say that defensive coordinators DON'T end up proving the Pistol to be a gimmick offense, the way they did with the Wildcat. If it turns out that you can win consistently using this offense (its inventor says you don't even have to be a fast QB to run it effectively), then it makes the Redskins trade for RG3 suddenly look like a shitty deal. Because what if turns out that you can draft a skilled mobile QB in the second or third round and still have the system work?

I'm not trying to take anything away from Kaepernick, who was almost more impressive winning the NFC title game in front of a raucous crowd (all loud sports crowds are "raucous"; it's in the sportswriter style book) than he was in ripping the Packers to shreds. I'm just saying it's possible that you might always be able to find a capable QB to run this system in the second or third round, freeing you to shore up other areas of your team via the draft. The Redskins, by contrast, exhausted three first-rounders to draft Griffin and will spend the next few years trying to cobble together a decent team around him.

I want Kaepernick to win the Super Bowl, mostly because Fuck Ray Lewis, but also because it really would signal a change in quarterbacking. I always thought you could only win with a traditional pocket passer, but maybe Kaepernick is about to blow that idea to shit. Maybe we're on the cusp of a REVOLUTION, in which pocket passers are no longer dominant and more well-rounded teams (like the Niners) can surpass them with great defense, a good running game (remember when that shit mattered?), and a deft, mobile QB running the Pistol. That would change the NFL from a league of QB-haves and QB-have-nots to a more level playing field. You wouldn't have to despair at the beginning of every season just because your team isn't being QB'd by Aaron Rodgers. I think this would be a good thing for everyone. Except for Aaron Rodgers, I guess.

Or maybe GLORY BOY QBs will keep running the show. Either way, I can't wait to see what happens. In a way, it feels like the NFL is just getting started.

• I went to take a shit the other day in a single-occupancy public bathroom and there was no coat hook behind the door. This ruins me. There's no good place to put your coat in this situation. You can't put it on the toilet, because it's usually a stick-shift toilet coated in piss. You can't put it on the floor because the floor is also coated in piss. You can't put it on the sink because it's usually already wet and has stray pubes on it for no reason. I had to lay my jacket across the top of the garbage can, because the garbage can represented the CLEANEST possible object in the whole room. It's awful. Anyone building a bathroom with no coat hook should be fined $1,000 annually by the county.

• I'm reading all the Harry Potter books to my 7-year-old and the more I read these books, the more I find glaring plot holes. For example: Why does Slytherin House exist? If it's known for turning out dark wizards, WHY do they keep it open? "Hey, everyone who comes out of Slytherin somehow ends up being pure evil. Oh well. Let's keep it open and see if they win the House Cup this year." Are Lucius Malfoy's donations to Hogwarts' endowment really that important?

Also, do you realize what incredible fuckers wizards are for not revealing the wizarding world to normal people? We Muggles are out here desperately trying to find renewable sources of clean energy, while these jackass wizards could have given us FLYING FUCKING CARS the whole time. Oh, you want to keep magic secret because you don't want to be "persecuted"? Give me a break. YOU'RE WIZARDS. You can shoot fucking fireballs out of your wand and ruin people's shit whenever you please. You are hogging the magic for yourselves and letting the rest of us non-magic folk rot! I'M SO ANGRY AT ALL THE INVISIBLE WIZARDS OUT THERE RIGHT NOW.

• Robin Williams joined Twitter this week, and I know that Robin Williams isn't the hippest name in comedy these days. But man, I remember his Night at the Met HBO special:

I must have watched this thing a thousand times when I was a kid. I didn't even understand half the jokes (turns out, now that I'm grown up, the reason I didn't understand half the jokes was because they didn't make any goddamn sense). But I memorized that thing anyway. I kind of wish he had stayed a drug addict.

• I have a 4-year-old who doesn't eat jack shit except for KraftMac, so my wife decided to sneak some mashed cauliflower into his noodles the other day so he would eat something of nutritional value. Only she didn't tell me she had done this, so when I went for my customary enormous spoonful right out of the pan, I was like HOLY SHIT, THE KRAFTMAC HAS GONE BAD! KIDS, KIDS! DON'T EAT IT! IT'S BEEN POISONED, I TELL YOU! Dinner was not a success that night.

• I'd like to see Joe Flacco throw five picks in the Super Bowl, because then everyone will be confused. I thought he was elite now, but it turns out his eliteness was a ruse and he's only pretend elite! ELITE ELITE ELITE. Then the Ravens will hand him $40 million guaranteed while holding their noses.

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

Four Throwgasms

None.

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

Three Throwgasms

None.

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

Two Throwgasms

None.

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

One Throwgasm

None. This is the end of football. I hate living.

Last week: 1-1 (1-1 vs. the spread)
Overall playoff picks: 5-5 (4-6 vs. the spread)

Drew's Chili Recipe

Every year, I post this recipe in the Jamboroo and people seem to have good luck with it. Of course, a chili recipe is merely a suggestion. It's up to you to add your own unique signature to it. Cut-up hot dogs? Sure. Adding a hunk of seared pork butt to the cauldron, as I'm doing this year? Absolutely. White beans instead of kidney beans? Knock yourself out. Tofu instead of meat? YOU GO TO HELL. YOU ARE NOT WORTHY OF THE RECIPE.

FOR THE CHILI:
2 packs ground beef or chicken (make sure it's the fatty percentage, like 80/20. That 20% fat lets you know it's working. I'd buy 50/50 ground beef if the USDA didn't ban it.)
1 onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped (ANNUAL NOTE: Shallots are the things that make restaurant food taste like restaurant food.)
1 jalapeno, chopped (remove seeds if you're a gash)
1 large can crushed tomatoes
1 can tall red kidney beans, drained (NOTE: I know Texans don't like beans in chili. This is the part where I tell you that I don't give a flying shit about anything anyone from Texas says)
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:
Shredded cheese
Tortilla chips
Sour cream
Frank's hot sauce
1 bunch scallions, chopped
Beer

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. I think it serves about eight. I've never really bothered to check.

Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall

"I Got A War," by Gluecifer. Now that's a quality band name. From the Mighty Swede:

This song crushes my earpussy, and since they are Norwegian we can forgive the goofy hockey aggrandizing in the video.

I like that the lead singer is pasty like me and wears terrible clothes like I do. I COULD BE A ROCK STAR IN NORWAY.

Fun fact: Gluecifer's lead singer went by the handle Biff Malibu. Why are Scandinavian bands so much cooler than our own?

Nazi Shark's 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.

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

This week, Nazi Shark likes the Niners giving 3.5 points to the Ravens. But alas, I think this is the last time you'll see Nazi Shark around here. I killed him off last year because all the Nazi jokes got boring, and then we invented Nazi Bill Simmons earlier this year because honestly, fuck Bill Simmons. But then that got old so we brought Nazi Shark back, but it turns out all the Nazi jokes are still boring and shitty. Even boning up on my Nazi history (did you know that Adolf Hitler's last name should have been Schicklgruber? Hitler is so much catchier) can't freshen things up. So wave goodbye to Rolf, everyone. He had a good run while it lasted. He even managed to come back from the dead, unless he faked his death and had been living in South America this whole time. I put nothing past him, really.

2012 Nazi Shark Playoff Record: 2-1

Player Who Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

Wes Welker. I don't ever want to hear an announcer express surprise or astonishment that Wes Welker dropped a pass ever again. Welker tied for sixth this year in passes dropped (nine). He had two more dropped passes than Jermichael Finley, who is fucking terrible. Wes Welker drops passes. A lot. I'm sure none of this will be mentioned when Peter King endorses his Hall of Fame candidacy. JUST SO GRITTY.

Gregg Easterbrook Is A Haughty Dipshit

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

I took a week off from reading Gregg last week (actual sentence from that column: "Clearly the football gods waxed wroth to see Belichick, of all coaches, punt in opposition territory") because reading Greggggggggg for too long destroys one's faith on a loving creator God. But hopefully, Gregg at last found just the right luxury stick-shift sedan to navigate the PATAGONIAN WILDERNESS that is Potomac, Md. Here's his goddamn column from this week, which includes proof positive that Gregg Easterbook knows far less about football than he claims. But first ... GIBBERISH.

Several schools of psychology teach that adults carry deep-seated traumas from childhood, which may manifest as subconscious motives even among the best-adjusted men and women. Many children believe mother loved another child best, or dad only picked on them, or they were cruelly disciplined while a brother or sister got away with anything. It's not uncommon for two siblings to each believe the other was favored by parents.

This is Gregggg talking about the Harbaughs. I would like to note that Gregg spent a lot of time two weeks ago telling you those naughty Jews in Hollywood go out of their way to portray real life as the exact opposite of what it's really like. But when it comes to the Harbaugh Bowl? JOHN HARBAUGH POSSIBLY MAYBE COULD BE SONNY CORLEONE.

Which raises the question: What deep-seated childhood resentments are harbored by John and Jim Harbaugh?

Which one got to drive the stick shift? Which one got to be an Eagle Scout? Does either man support a national currency based on CVS Extra Bucks? Answer those questions and we'll be getting somewhere.

John is the big brother, expected by birth-order theory to be stoic, disciplined and respectful of authority. Jim and Joani, their sister, get a lot more latitude: Birth-order theory says they can be uninhibited and forgiven for outbursts.

So true. Why, just look at Gregg Easterbrook, who is himself a younger sibling! Doesn't he seem so free-spirited and spontaneous to you? Surely the idea of birth-order stereotypes hasn't been debunked by many.

Baltimore is an aging squad whose window is about to slam out.

"Spenser! Stop slamming that window out! Where is your mother to?"

Stats of the Off Week No. 6: Tom Brady had a 10-1 playoff record before he began dating Gisele Bundchen and a 7-6 playoff record since.

This is why Bill Simmons believes women are poisonous bitches who ruin everything.

Stats of the Off Week No. 7: Ryan brothers teams (the Jets and Cowboys) are on an 0-6 streak versus the Patriots.

I have no idea why this stat is included during Super Bowl week. Oh, those Ryan brothers! All they do is BOAST BOAST BOAST and JAW JAW JAW. But verily, the Patriots, who are perfect in every way because they do not stand around, vanquished them, for the football gods do not approve of such things.

In other football news, because the NFL MVP, like the Heisman Trophy, always goes to a quarterback or running back, this column annually presents the coveted "longest award in sports" — Entertainment and Sports Programming Network's Tuesday Morning Quarterback Non-Quarterback Non-Running Back National Football League Most Valuable Player.

Here we go. You're about to see proof that Gregg Easterbrook is 95 percent full of shit. This is Gregg's annual award that forsake GLORY BOYS, who are most sour, in favor of random offensive linemen whose names he drew out of a hat

Here are this year's finalists from the teams that made the playoffs but not the Super Bowl:
• Atlanta — Tony Gonzalez
• Cincinnati — Geno Atkins
• Denver — Von Miller
• Green Bay — Randall Cobb
• Houston — Johnathan Joseph
• Indianapolis — Anthony Castonzo
Minnesota — Phil Loadholt
• New England — Wes Welker
• Seattle — Max Unger
• Washington — Tyler Polumbus

PHIL LOADHOLT! PHIL LOADHOLT! Holy shit, Phil Loadholt is fucking awful. Whenever there's a flag on the Vikings for a false start, I know EXACTLY who did it. Because—SURPRISE!—Loadholt had more false-start penalties than any of his teammates. Rookie Matt Kalil was 80 times better than Loadholt. My asshole is better than Phil Loadholt.

I understand why Gregg does this. When I was in my early 20s, I used to post on football message boards all over the place, and I ALWAYS made an All-Pro team at the end of the year. I went the full Dr. Z and even posted little comments about why X linemen made my stupid team over someone else, even though I really had no fucking idea. I was just trying to look smart. That's TMQ's reason for being. He brags about watching the action off-ball and hands out special honors to Phil goddamn Loadholt because he wants you to stand in AWE of his engorged intellect. SOUR SOUR SOUR.

This year's winner is NaVorro Bowman of the San Francisco Forty Niners. [...] Sentimental factor: your columnist attended one of Bowman's games in high school.

Translation: I wanted to pick a Niners linebacker, so I picked the one I kinda sorta knew best. KNOWLEDGE.

One of the fun aspects of the submarine conspiracy show "Last Resort," which TMQ says goodbye to below, was that geography meant nothing.

And THAT is why Americans don't take climate change seriously.

In an episode of "Rizzoli and Isles" [...]

Really? Go to hell.

In the Nicolas Cage movie Next, there's a dramatic scene at the Grand Canyon. Then, the characters jump into a car and mere minutes later are at Long Beach Harbor, which is 500 miles away [...]

Do you watch ANYTHING that other people watch? Hey, everyone! We found the CW's last remaining viewer!

If Sigmund Freud were alive today, he'd be hosting a midmorning talk show: "Zo, Manti, ven you saw the Facebook page, dat made you tink of a childhood trauma, ya?"

O HO HO! That one SLAYED at Congressional Country Club.

Great Moments In Poop History

Reader Will send in this story I call BAG OF MYSTERY:

A few weeks ago, a couple friends and I rented a hotel room for a local weekend nerd convention. Splitting a hotel room between friends is a good investment for these types of cons, since you want to consume as much alcohol as possible and be able to pass out somewhere relatively safe. My one friend "Jim" always tends to go a little overboard at these get-togethers. The first night, Thursday, he gets absolutely hammered, but I decide to take it easy so I turn in early. Sometime in the dead of night I awaken to a horrid stench that can only be described as shit mixed with more shit.

Jim is still awake and drunk in our hotel room, and our other friend is also awakened by this stench. We're unsuccessful at finding the source, and figure it must be the air vents causing it or something. The smell starts to dissipate anyway, so we don't investigate any further.

Fast forward to Sunday morning, three days later, when the convention is ending and we have to start packing our things to go home. The room is kinda messy at this point, but I note that we didn't cause too much damage considering all the binge drinking we had.

Our other friend went home first before me and Jim (who needed me to drive him back), leaving us two gather Jim's stuff. Jim had not stopped drinking until about 8AM, so this gave him about 15 minutes of sleep before I forced him to get up and start packing. As I've already finished getting my stuff to my car, and don't really feel like paying for an extra night, I help Jim collect his scattered belongings. I see an empty garbage bag next to his dirty clothes and I pick it up. Except the bag wasn't empty. I look down to see my finger submerged in a GIANT pile of shit almost to the third knuckle. At that moment I had never been so surprised and confused in my life. As any sane person would in this situation, I start screaming at the top of my lungs "WHY IS THERE SHIT? WHY IS THERE SHIT?", and Jim, still piss drunk, is laughing his ass off.

As I go to scrub my hands raw, a familiar stench hits us. That shit must have been laying in our hotel room for THREE NIGHTS without being discovered. Jim, to his credit, immediately takes full responsibility for the poo even though he has no recollection of doing the dirty deed. My anger turns to amusement once he manages to clean it off the carpet the best he can and we get the hell out of the room (still reeking of shit). We both joke about it on the drive home, but deep in our minds lies a single question that still haunts us both to this day: what drives a man to shit in a bag when there's a perfectly good toilet less than 15 feet away? I know accidents can happen, but there was WAY too much poo to be anything but intentional in this case. Something about the story doesn't quite add up, which makes me wonder if perhaps Jim WASN'T the culprit, but instead was framed by someone who knew he would take the fall. Sadly, it seems we'll never know the whole truth.

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 2012 chopping block:

• Norv Turner - FIRED!
• Chan Gailey - FIRED!
• Pat Shurmur - FIRED!
• Romeo Crennel - FIRED!
• Andy Reid - FIRED!
• Ken Whisenhunt - FIRED!
• Lovie Smith - FIRED!
• Mike Mularkey - FIRED!
• Jason Garrett
• Rex Ryan

Come on, Double J! It's not too late to fire Jason Garrett and name yourself head coach! YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT. DON'T DIE A COWARD. I'm very excited for next year's Cowboys to resemble THIS year's Jets. Because really, when has openly emasculating your head coach and completely destroying his credibility with players ever NOT worked?

Gametime Snack Of The Week

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

WINGS! Always wings for the Super Bowl. If anyone serves you breaded buffalo wings, shoot them dead. Those things aren't supposed to be breaded. You fry them commando or you don't fry them at all.

Gametime Cheap Wormwood Liqueur Of The Week

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

Jeppson's Malört! Reader Andrew says:

I don't know of any other alcohol advertising itself as disgusting to 48 out of 49 people. Or favored by "that unique group of drinkers who disdain light flavor or neutral spirits".

You can find it at most dive bars, where it only exists as a dare shot, a big Welcome-to-Chicago-and-fuck-you. The taste? It tastes like a bunch of crushed-up Advil on a grapefruit soaked in gasoline. You can search "Malort Face" on YouTube just to see people's reactions. It's like the 2 girls 1 cup of alcohol. The best part is you don't realize how bad it is at first. So everybody takes the shot and thinks they're okay, and then it starts hitting them after a few seconds. And it doesn't go away for 15-20 minutes. Nothing can wash that taste out of your mouth. It's glorious.

And here is a compilation of reaction shots to drinking this heartland rat poison. I have to admit: I'd really like to know what it's like to experience that split second before the agony kicks in. I MUST HAVE IT. I demand Jeppson's Malört be used in all fraternity hazing rituals.

By the way, there was an episode of Anthony Bourdain's Layover in Chicago earlier this year and Bourdain drinks Malort without EVER disclosing its hideous after effects. That's malpractice, I tell you.

Robert Evans's Super Bowl MVP Watch!

Time to start thinking about who will win the Super Bowl MVP award. Every week, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

Confessions Of A Glory Boy

"Baby, my favorite for Super Bowl MVP is Joe Flacco of the Ravens! And baby, I wish I could include you in our little annual Super Bowl soiree here at Woodland, but Nicholson always brings five more hookers than I have room to accommodate! BLAME HIM. Oh, what a fun day it'll be. A pre-game tennis tournament umped by Dusty Hoffman? YOU BET! Wing sauce orgies? YES EVEN THOUGH IT ALWAYS ENDS UP BEING A MISTAKE.

"One of the invitees this year is none other than the fabulous SLY STALLONE! Now, you know that ol' Sly has a movie coming out this weekend called Bullet to the Head (SPOILER: People take bullets to the head!). What you don't know about Sly is that he qualifies as medically retarded. It's true! Such a gentle man in real life, but he only has the cognitive function of a third grader. Twelve years ago, I hosted a fabulous orgy in this very house, and Sly showed up with one of those most ravishing brunettes you've ever seen. Six feet tall. Natural D-cups. Ass like a young Michael Caine. A real find. Well, Sly has some champagne and takes her to one of my many private bungalows. Five minutes later, he comes running out of the hut buck naked save for a condom rolled down his finger. And he says to me "DUHHHHH EVANS YUH GOT ANY SMALLUH RUBBUHS'. And I ask him what the hell he's doing with a rubber on his finger. and he says, 'DUHHHH MEREDITH IN THERE SAID SHE WANTED TO SEE MY JAB.' Great guy. Dumb as a post, but great guy."

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Chiefs Fans

Flight. Skip the next paragraph if you don't want a SPOILER:

I can't be the only one who wanted Denzel to get away with it, right? I mean, I REALLY wanted him to get away with it. By the end, I was practically screaming at the screen. DON'T DO IT! DON'T DO IT, DENZEL! Why not just say "I don't know" to the investigator lady? YOU IDIOT. But yeah, good for him for sobering up. Whatever.

SPOILER OVER. But let's face it, you probably stole a glance at that paragraph anyway. I do this all the time. I skip the spoilers, then peek back at them anyway. It's impossible to resist. I hate myself when I do this, and then I turn my anger on the author. WHY PRINT SPOILERS WHEN YOU KNOW I'LL LOOK? DICK.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote

"We now return to Troy McClure and Dolores Montenegro in Preacher with a Shovel!"

Enjoy the Super Bowl, everyone.