It's here? It's finally here? OH THANK YA SWEET JESUS, IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!! Every year, March rolls around and I think to myself, "Goddammit, where is the fucking draft already?" Yes, I know it's on the same weekend every year. But man oh man, does it take fucking forever to arrive.

It's been three full months without any football. Three long. shitty, rainy, cold months. I'd like to extend a hearty FUCK YOU to February, March and April, three months on the calendar that serve no purpose other than to slowly deprive me of my will to live. Especially you, April: with your half-sunny, half-rainy days, and your wild fluctuations in temperature. PICK A GODDAMN WEATHER PATTERN AND STICK WITH IT. I'm tired of needing a jacket in the morning, only to have the interior of my car hit 9000 degrees by the time I pull out of work.

I'd also like to extend a hearty FUCK YOU to people who snidely look down on the draft and on people who enjoy it. That means you, Mike Wilbon.

It's a nuisance, made-for-TV-by-TV event for people who couldn't tell a left tackle from a right guard, or zone from man-to-man coverage to save their mamas' lives.

Really? That's odd, because I've found that the draft is an event made specifically for people who can deduce such things. Like me! I know the difference between a left tackle and right guard. A left tackle plays on the LEFT! And has to protect the passer's blind side. And a right guard plays on the RIGHT! And sometimes has to pull! I knew that! Amazing, but true!

I also know that man-to-man coverage involves having the defensive player "cover" the offensive player one-on-one! Who would have thought a fan of the NFL might know basic things about the NFL? Surely, only a trained journalist could possibly know such things. And the biggest miracle of all is that I don't watch the telecast from my mother's basement!

Choke on Barkley's dick, Wilbon.

And you, Will Leitch! Yes you, you raging anti-draftite! You too can help yourself to a heaping spoonful of my dick milk. (Ed. Note: AGAIN?)

We were excited at the beginning, fooling ourselves into believing the recitation of names of people we don't know for four hours could be a scintillating experience, and watching Brady Quinn lose millions of dollars every 15 minutes kept our interest for a while too. But once he was drafted, we were out of steam and ready to watch, you know, actual sporting events where people run and jump and move around.

Well, aren't you just a little smartypants. Yes, I think it's just HI-larious how, every year, you (all one of you!) remind me that the draft is just the recitation of names. You really put the draft in its place. It's just names being listed! It's so clever how you boiled it all down to that! Don't I feel goofy now! I could attend the end of any college graduation, and it would be EXACTLY the same! How silly of me to actually care which players will be joining my team. Why don't you go listen to NPR and write something for McSweeney's, you fucking twee assfingerer.

Here's the thing, Leitch. Your favorite team plays 162 games every year (and this year, only 162). That gives you 162 chances to bust out your Ankiel doll and put on a 3-hour showing of "Leitch And The Real Rick." My favorite team plays 16 times a year. That's it. That's all I fucking get. Sixteen chances to get blotto and yell at Brad Childress for having Adrian fucking Peterson return kickoffs. So you'll excuse me if I find those names being recited just a tad important.

I'm well aware that no actual football is played during the draft. But it's not as if it's the only non-game sports programming in the world that people enjoy. No games are played on PTI. No games are played here on Deadspin. But who gives a fuck? They're still entertaining. Part of the reason I watch sports is so I can talk about them. And lo and behold! Here, before us, is a very long sporting event, which gives NFL fans like me lots and lots to talk about. Gee, I wonder if that might interest people?

So if you don't like the NFL Draft, and if you just can't possibly fathom how the unwashed masses could enjoy such a thing, please consider yourself cordially invited to stick your scrotum in a fucking Cuisinart. It's the NFL Draft, and this is your NFL Draft Jamboroo.

All aspects of the NFL Draft are evaluated for sheer watchability and or awesomeness on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

Five Throwgasms

Cutting The Time Between Selections From 15 Minutes To 10: This year's draft starts at 3 p.m., three hours later than usual (BOOOOOOOO!!!!!!). But there is some good news. The NFL, at long last, has cut down the first round selection clock by 5 minutes. If Roger "The Ginger Hammer" Goodell leaves any legacy upon the league, apart from suspending all the black players, it will be this. The pace of the ceremony has been upgraded from glacial to downright slug-like. Whoa whoa whoa... stop this draft! It's all happening so not-quite-as-slow now! It's gone to plaid!

Mock Drafts: The Gregg Easterbrooks of the universe just adore telling you how pointless mock drafts are. "Why, those mock drafts never turn out to be 100 percent accurate, don't you know. (smells own fart)" That's not the point of mock drafts. The point of mock drafts is to let me know which players are currently meriting first round consideration, and to give me an approximate sense of where they're being slotted. That way, I can figure out which players I'd like my team to draft (Joe Flacco can throw far? That makes him way better than Tarvaris Jackson!), who I hope falls to them, etc.

Once I'm familiar with how the mock drafts are trending (apologies for that word, it's result of watching too much political coverage), I can then get into the drama of the real draft. I can express surprise should a player like Leodis McKelvin, whom I have never seen, slip down the board. I can cry out in disbelief should a player like Flacco go in the Top 15 ("Reeeaccchhhh!!!!").

You see, mock drafts help educate me, the fan. No, I haven't watched many of these players play football. It's just not feasible, given my schedule, and how much of that schedule is allocated for masturbation. That's why we have mock drafts. They're learning tools. And that's why I enjoy the draft itself. It's for learning. That's right, you anti-draftites. I'm the educated one! Plus, I get to drink and ignore house projects as I learn. And that's awesome.

Mel Kiper Jr.: After my team drafts a player, I rely on Mel to get me properly excited about his prospects. And what he needs to work on! What's that, Mel? He's got great agility? NICE. Excellent lateral movement? Fucking double nice. Bit of a tweener? Oh, I don't like the sound of that. But he's explosive off the edges?! (creams jeans)

Booing: Nothing beats a cocky young player being booed on the best day of his professional life. That'll knock you down a peg, Golden Boy. I also like it when the crowd lets out a collective, sarcastic laugh at a shitty pick. The Raiders took Sebastian Janikowski? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! What a bunch of retards.

Watching The Entire Draft If You're A Fan Of The Cowboys: Are you a Dallas fan? Holy shit, are you in luck! The draft lasts a combined 17 hours or so, and ESPN spends, oh, about 16 of those hours TALKIN' BOUT DEM COWBOYS! NYEEEEHAWWWWW! THIS IS DOUBLE J'S DAY TO SHINE, CHUBBY RAIN!!! I, for one, welcome ESPN's efforts to turn the NFL into a one-team league. Look at the great job they did turning baseball into a two-team affair. God, if only the NFL could be just like that!

Morons.

Unfortunately, there won't be any Emmitt for this year's draft. Which is too bad, because I was crazy excited to hear him talk about a player's agulation, not to mention lazurus quickness, excellenteration, and overall dexatrim. Taking Matt Ryan at Number 3? That is a fucking Debalkanization!

The Draft As A Harbinger Of Spring: They say March 21 is the beginning of spring, but it's usually not until mid to late April when you start seeing the ladies around town rocking hot sundresses and strappy sandals, with their cleavage bouncing to and fro. Now THAT is spring, my friends. Those ladies are just so eager for warm weather, so happy to rid themselves of all those cumbersome winter clothes, that they merrily strip down to all but the bare essentials. Ladies, I support you wholeheartedly in such efforts. Let those puppies roam free!

Nothing beats sitting outside at a bar on a cold spring day and just watching the parade of lovely ladies pass by. I tell you, people-watching is 100 percent more awesome when there are tits out and about.

Highlights of Previous Draft Moments: Oh Jets, will you ever stop being clueless for drafting Jeff Lageman? Fuck and no. (Actually, Lageman turned out to be pretty good.)

Player Highlights: I don't give a fuck about interviewing the draftees after they've been selected. I DIDN'T DRAFT YOU TO TALK, BOY! I just want to watch the five-minute, Kiper-narrated highlight reel of you fucking shit up. Running. Jumping. Tackling. Exhibiting a callous disregard for your own body. That's good stuff.

Trades: Trades rule. I'm convinced people like Belichick trade constantly during the draft just so they can have something to do. Only thing that sucks about draft day trades is, once a trade is made, the draft clock gets fucking reset. GAHHHHHHH!!!!!! You traded up because you knew who you wanted, Jerry Jones. Just go fucking pick him already.

Four Throwgasms

The Fact That The Draft Lasts Forever: Okay, so the whole thing drags a bit. So flip over to something else for a bit. Check out the day's token Horrible, Early Eastern Conference Playoff Game. Or watch a flick. Or go to the gym. When you're back, there'll only have been three new picks! You didn't miss jack shit. Draft weekend means there's always something interesting to tune into. You can season the rest of your TV watching with bits of draft from here and there. In fact, last weekend, the NFL Network replayed last year's draft IN ITS ENTIRETY. It made for excellent commercial break filler. That vest on Brady Quinn is just as gay this year as it was back then.

Chris Mortensen: Mort's wrong a lot, unless he's reporting something that's just been reported somewhere else. But he's right at least 2 percent more often than Mike Florio, and that makes him the best in the business. Cutting to Mort during a draft means he's got a potentially explosive non-scoop, and that gets me all atwitter.

In general, I RELY on Mort to be wrong, because it helps make the draft surprising. If there's any news event that stands to benefit from shoddy reporting, it's the draft. Accurate reporting just makes the thing predictable. I don't know why ESPN tries so hard to figure out who's drafting whom. Don't tell me! I like surprises, you fuckers!

I watched an NBA Draft once where Hubie Brown guessed every pick correctly, and well before the picks were turned in. You know what, Hubie? You aren't helping, Coach MeltyFace. ESPN should follow the lead of the league's GMs and do everything in their power to throw us off. Throw out signals that St. Louis is drafting Chris Long, so that when they draft Vernon Gholston, I am positively AGHAST.

Watching A Player Talk On His Cell Phone: Who's he talking to? It might be the President! Of the Titans!

Three Throwgasms

Forgetting To Draft In Your Slot: The Vikings slipped two spots in the 2003 draft (from 7 to 9), when the clock ran out on them. They ended up with Kevin Williams, an All-Pro, for less than they would have paid him at the 7 spot. The two teams leapfrogging the Vikes were the Jags, who took Byron Leftwich (sucked), and the Panthers, who took Jordan Gross (okay). So the Vikings, despite their astonishing idiocy, ended up in a better position than if they had drafted on time. AND they helped shorten the draft. That's why I suggest that, this year, the Rams let time expire on their #2 overall pick and drop all the way down to the 32nd pick. That way, the entire first round will last seven minutes.

Mike Florio at Pro Football Talk has warned for years that some team will eventually purposely let time run out. And I'm all for it. Rookies are wildly overpaid in the NFL. No team really WANTS to throw $30 million at an untested QB prospect. It's just kinda what they have to do, given that there's no rookie cap. I'm waiting for the draft where one team says, "No way, FUCK that shit," and just purposely drops like a stone, only to have other teams follow suit and turn the whole thing into a giant game of "No, YOU Go!" C'mon Rams, grow a pair now that the old lady's dead and buried.

Two Throwgasms

NFL Network coverage: Still a little QVCish there, NFLN. I'm too used to ESPN's annoying coverage to switch over to your annoying coverage.

The Redskins Having A First Round Pick: But it's so much more fun when they have to sit it out! C'mon Danny Boy. Just ONE more first rounder and Ocho Cinco is all yours!

General Manager Interviews: Happy with your pick? That's surprising, because I thought it ate a fat dick.

War Room Shots: The ties are off. The sleeves are rolled up. Sandwiches are stacked in an artful pyramid on a nearby buffet. Three kinds of juice are out. These people mean fucking business.

One Throwgasm

Berman

Everyone Getting A Jersey With A Number One On It: This isn't Kiddie League Teeball. There's only one #1 pick, and that's the only guy who should get to hold up a #1 jersey. After that, you should get a jersey with a number that corresponds to your draft slot. The #1 jersey makes all the white players look like kickers, and all the black players look like Warren Moon.

Graphics: You'll see the Patriots' panoply of selections 88 times before you get to see your own team's. Flipping back and forth during the telecast means you will, without fail, come onto the draft scroll JUST after your team's selection has passed by. Grrrrrr.

Film Analysis Segments With Jaws And Hoge: I love Jaws, but the whole reason I watch football is so I don't have to play it, and therefore study it. Booooring.

Player Interviews With Stuart Scott: "How's it feel to be the #1 pick?!" Oh, I can probably venture a guess.

The Next Four Months: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

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

"War Pigs", by Black Sabbath. Few people know that "War Pigs" was actually Dick Cheney's wedding song.

Embarassing Single I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"Poison," by Alice Cooper. I forgot about this one. Peep the 1:45 mark in the video. Alice was smart enough to know any video he appeared in also needed a solid bounty of hot chicks to restore balance to the universe. Look out, Alice! That brunette's poisoned you! With Alka Seltzer! Plop plop, fizz fizz, you dead!

Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

No one this week. But mark my words, come fall, that Michael Turner's gonna find a way to fuck you.

Drafttime Snack Of The Week

Teddy Grahams. Can't get enough those Teeeeedy Grahams! Nabiiisco! Ooooooh!

Ever have two Teddy Grahams do a 69 on each other? I have. And I'm not talking about when I was a kid. I did it, like, yesterday. It's even hotter when you do it with a Honey Teddy and a Chocolate Teddy. That's some solid interflavorial bearbanging right there.

Drafttime Beer Of The Week

Anchor Steam! The name makes me think of dropping anchor. And Cleveland steamers. The amber hue is no help, either. Good beer, though. It rises well above its poop juice connotations.

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Browns Fans (No 1st Round Pick)

Into The Wild. I really liked Into The Wild. But I couldn't help but point out all the things Christopher McCandless did wrong that Bear Grylls NEVER would have done. Staying in a Magic Bus for seven weeks? Fool! Out in the wild, YOU'VE GOT TO KEEP MOVING! If only Bear had been around back then to educate Chris, to let him know you NEVER go out into the wild without a water bottle, a knife, a flint and a 20-man camera crew. And a helicopter escort. And a sumptuous mid-day buffet for everyone. Also, Bear would have nailed the shit out of Kristen Stewart. C'mon, man. She was dying for it.

What an idiot. Still smarter than Timothy Treadwell, though.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote

"Spare me your euphemisms. It's fat camp for Daddy's chubby little secret!"

Halftime Masturbation Kit
***For the guys: Round Two with Hayden Panettiere. On "Heroes," she can heal from any injury. Does that mean a fresh hymen every time? I think it does.
***For the gals: A buck naked Keanu Reeves. You know, looking at a still picture of Keanu Reeves and looking at a moving picture of Keanu Reeves offer pretty much the exact same experience.

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

WE HEAR... that Bill Parcells really hopes to trade down and amass extra picks. Know who else is hoping to trade down and amass extra picks? EVERYONE.

Your Motivational Predraft Quote for The Weekend

"In such a situation, you have no time to think. Instinct takes over. It's either kill... or be killed."
-Louis Winthorp III

Enjoy the draft, everyone. See you back here in September when the Jamboroo returns.

Well folks, this is the end. It's now the offseason again, and as much as I'd like to piss and moan about the desert stretch of seven football-free months that lay ahead, it's hard to complain much when the NFL gave us such a rewarding, pants-dampening sendoff. I said to the Maj after the game that it would take at least a few days for the end of that game to truly sink in, and I still don't think it ha...

HOLY FUCK, THE GIANTS FUCKING WON? AND THE GAME IS FUCKING OVER? AND IT ACTUALLY COUNTED? THEY'RE GONNA LET THAT SHIT STAND? HOOOOOOOOOOLY SHIT! AY CHIHUAHUA! HOLY DONKEY DICK!

/gets drunk on floor varnish

Time was, I'd happily segue from the Super Bowl straight into NBA/college basketball/hooker prowling season with relative ease. And I still follow those sports, along with golf and baseball and what not, every day. I'm primarily an NFL fan, but I'm also a sports fan in the more general sense.

But you know what? For a guy who likes sports, I sure as shit don't watch a whole hell of a lot of them.

There's a big reason that the NFL is the dominant sports league in America, and it's a reason that few people ever talk about. And it is this: it's EASIER to be a football fan than a fan of some other sport. The NFL demands far less time from diehard fans than a sport like basketball or baseball. All it takes is three hours a week watching your favorite team for a few months, and a few extra hours of viewing during the playoffs. In a world with movies, TV and gonzo cyberporn, that's a huge plus. You can watch pretty much every game without it being a huge drain on your schedule. And that leaves plenty of time left over for playing video games, hanging out with your family and gunning down liquor store clerks.

But baseball? Holy shit. If you want to be a diehard baseball fan, you pretty much have to forsake the outside world to watch every game. THEY EVEN PLAY TWO GAMES IN ONE DAY, FOR SHIT'S SAKE! DURING WORK HOURS! I understand why the players show up for those things. They get paid. But fans? There are doctors on call who are less put upon.

But just because I don't have the actual time to WATCH baseball or basketball games doesn't mean I'm not a fan. Or does it? I have a decent working knowledge of pretty much every NBA team and its management. And I happily shoot the shit with guys when interesting stuff pops up, like the Gasol trade last week. Does he make the Lakers a bona fide title contender? How come he couldn't keep Memphis from being so shittastic? Is there any relation between Pau Gasol and T'Pau? That stuff all interests me.

But you know how many NBA games I watched on TV last year, from beginning to end, including the playoffs? Zero. None. I'm not even sure I made it past the hour mark. If I did, I almost certainly flipped around or wrote stupid dick jokes in between. I see highlights. I watch 10-minute stretches of games when I'm at a bar, or when I'm channel surfing. But a whole game? No way. I follow basketball, and yet I watch almost no basketball at all.

Why the fuck would I do that?

Let me borrow from the Simmons playbook and use my own personal life experience to make a wild generalization about the behavior of ALL other people. I think what's going on is that we, as people, are consuming sports in a completely different fashion now. And I'm not talking about getting all your sports info from SportsCenter. No, this goes beyond that. The NBA had middling ratings last year for the Spurs-Cavs Finals, yet the league continues to thrive financially. Why? Because more and more people are following sports now without bothering to actually watch them.

I didn't watch much of the NBA playoffs last year. But I damn sure kept track of what was going on. Remember when the Suns and Spurs had that mild fracas in the playoffs and all those guys got suspended? Man, I knew all about that shit. What a fucking outrage! They barely graced the court, Stern, you fucking jackass! But did I see that shit happen in real time? Good Lord, no. That shit was on at like, 4 a.m. I need my beauty rest. It helps resist aging.

I'd wager only a couple million people watched that game on TV. But scores more were happy to talk about it the next day. And that's because, thanks to blogs, and YouTube, and ESPN, and all that shit, we can not only get the gist of what happened out there when Stoudamire and Diaw (it was Diaw, right? I'm too lazy to look that shit up) got suspended, we can get it fucking Rashomon-style, covered from about 4,000 different angles. You can get a version on blogs, a version from the wire report, a version from the streaming video, myriad versions from message boards and comments threads, and what have you. You don't need to see it happen live to be well informed, to get in the slipstream of conversation.

In fact, if you ONLY watched the game in the arena, without benefit of replay, and digested none of the media built upon it, you probably wouldn't be as well-versed about it as someone who didn't see it at all.

Sports are a common language for us. They're a way for us to bond. Something happens in the world of sports, and we talk about with buddies, or we make jokes about it in the comments here. A long time ago, it was considered a rite of passage for a dad to take his kid to a ballgame for quality time together. In all those instances, sports are a vehicle, a means to an end. We NEED the conversation. We NEED to interact with one another over something we share in common.

We NEED all that. What we sometimes don't actually NEED anymore is to watch the game itself. We need the game to take place somewhere out in the ether, so that something happens to spur our discourse. But sometimes, that's ALL we require. Obviously, watching replays or reading accounts of a sporting event after the fact are never anywhere near as exciting as seeing it all play out as it happens. But is the latter a prerequisite for being a legitimate, impassioned sports fan? I'm not sure it is.

Is that weird? Well, it's not as weird as you might think. Think about other fields of conversation, such as politics. This, as you know, is primary season. We've all had our political flame wars and dinner table conversations about who we like and who we think is a complete piece of shit (COUGHhillaryCOUGH). Well, have you ever watched a political debate from beginning to end? Or listened your favorite candidate's stump speech all the way through? I haven't. Those things are boring as shit, with only a few exciting moments to be had over the course of hours, if that.

Not unlike watching a baseball game.

But that doesn't mean politics or baseball aren't of any interest to you or me at all. On the contrary. I personally find the whole steroid scandal juicy as shit (They got Clemens? AWWWW YEAH!!!!!). I could talk with friends for hours on end about what a complete fucktaster Barry Bonds is. Number of times I saw him play in a game last year? Zip. The game provides a foundation for our conversations, but it isn't always necessary to it. I used to watch baseball a lot. I don't watch much of it anymore. But am I still interested? Yup. Am I still a fan? Yeah, I guess I am. Not a very good one, but there you have it. What's the opposite of a purist? That's me. I'm an impurist.

I used to think that this shift in my consumption of sports was bad for me. That somehow, this made me a member of the ADD generation who is easily distracted by OH MY GOD THAT DOG HAS A PUFFY TAIL! I used to think it was kind of embarrassing. But now, I actually think it's good. I think it helps make me a more well-rounded individual. Ever talk to a guy who was a complete baseball freak and watched every game and kept track of VORP's and shit like that? Let me tell you something: That conversation dies after about three minutes. It's in-depth baseball or nothing. I know. I've had drinks with Leitch.

But a good conversation is one that flows like music, with one subject floating seamlessly into the next without tripping over itself. And, if you're someone who is well-versed in sports without having dedicated all your time to watching them, you're probably better at having just such a conversation.

I know I am. Dinner party guests find me worldly and large-penised.

Now, am I as well-prepared to have an argument with Henry Abbott about the greatest power forwards of all time than I am having an argument with a friend about the Vikings' problems at quarterback? Uh, no. That dude watches a whole shitload of basketball. I watch a whole shitload of football. We aren't gonna have any kind of scholarly discussion. But we can still shoot the breeze and bond over it, which is why we're all naturally attracted to sports to begin with. It's not about the games. It's about us. It's always about us. We're all selfish dicks like that.

So I, for one, salute this new kind of casual yet extremely well-informed sports fan. Because I am one of them. Come March, I'll fill out a NCAA tourney bracket and then skip the title game. Then I'll make lots of rape jokes about Kobe while he plays late games I have no chance of watching. Come summer, I'll even take in a little baseball... posts from Fire Joe Morgan. And I'll watch some movies, read half a book, consume lots of celebrity gossip (Amy Winehouse back in rehab?!!!! OMG!111!!!1! But she's so brassy!), and do lots of other things that give me basic, topline information about what's going on in sports and the world at large, so that I can be a productive, interesting citizen of the universe.

It's nothing to be ashamed of. I love sports. Just not always enough to watch them.

That said, time to shut down the Jamboroo.

Playoff Game Picks and Predictions

All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

No Throwgasms

The Pro Bowl. Every year, I stumble on the Pro Bowl and say to myself, "Well it IS football." So I start watching. And then, 30 seconds later, I change the channel. Watching the Pro Bowl is about as interesting as watching a goddamn celebrity golf Pro-Am. Oh, look! It's Ray Romano AND Steve Stricker! Together! Wheeeee!!!

I also resent the fact that all the players and media members get to spend the week in Hawaii while I freeze my ass off back home. Look at Berman, wearing a lei. He looks so damn relaxed. Fat fucker. I don't care how great of a fucking week you had. If players aren't suffering, I ain't interested.

Last Week: 0-1 (1-0 vs. the spread)
Overall: 6-5 (7-4 vs. the spread)

Song To Get You Through The Offseason

"Won't Be Long" by The Hives. I like me some Swedish men who dress in matching suits and look like porn stars. This song makes me want to guzzle champagne and pinch a stripper's ass.

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

I'm all outta cassingles. The only other cassingle I remember owning was "You Could Be Mine," which featured "Civil War" as a B-side. And that song kicks much ass. I bought it because it came out in advance of the "Use Your Illusion" release.

Maybe I'll do embarrassing albums next season, because I have a shitload of those sitting in my Caselogic. I even have a Stereolab album I've never listened to. Why did I buy that? I think I might be French. And gay. And a Communist.

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

No players to single out this week. Everything worked out juuuuust right.

Actual Wild Card Of The Week

This week's actual wild card is ELI MANNING!

Oh, yeah. DIDN'T EXPECT OL' ELI TO STEP UP, DID YA?! My goodness, he grew up right before our very eyes on Sunday! And grew pubes and everything! I heard he even had a nocturnal emission!

/marks Eli's new height on the inside of the pantry door

You're 6'4" now, Eli?! WOW!

Snack Of The Offseason

Funyuns! The snack you only THINK are made of onions! According to Wikipedia:

They were named "Funyuns" by University of North Texas professor and copywriter Jim Albright after it was discovered that the first choice of name for the product, "OnYums", had already been taken.

The last laugh is on YOU, OnYum man! Nobody ate YOUR onion flavored processed corn product! Suck Frito Lay's cheese balls!

Cheap Beer Of The Offseason

Boy, I need something for the next few months that'll get me good and DRUNK! I know...

Little crooked I up in this bitch! I like to think of St. Ides as an undiscovered Caribbean island with a crime rate that somehow manages to dwarf that of Jamaica, St. Thomas and the Bahamas COMBINED. What's a figure higher than 100 percent?

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Everyone

Crumb. You start out Crumb thinking Robert Crumb is pretty fucked in the head. And then you meet his brother, who sits on a bed of nails and spends his day passing a very long piece of fabric through his entire digestive tract. IT'S COMING OUT OF HIS MOUTH AND ANUS SIMULTANEOUSLY. He committed suicide after the film was shot. Man, do I feel better about myself.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote

"We're going up to the bluffs to paint SPRINGFIELD SUCKS in huge letters. That way, whenever they look into Shelbyville, they will realize that they suck."

Offseason Masturbation Kit
• For the guys: Brit supermodel Kelly Brook. That suit just won't zip!
• For the gals: You know, I spent a lot of time this year Googling shit like "shirtless men" and what not for you ladies. And what do I get in return? "Oh, he's not hot! Ewwww!!!" Well ladies, tough shit. All I have to go on here is my repressed homosexuality. If you find Justin Timberlake unacceptable, I have no clue what the fuck it is I'm supposed to look for in a man. Kiss my ass.

Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week
WE HEAR... Patriot fans still whining like the little, insufferable bitches they are.

Your Motivational Quote For The Offseason
"Your son looks like a fag to me. You'd better get married again, 'cause he'll have somebody's cock in his mouth before you know it."
-Reggie Dunlop

NOTE: The Jamboroo will return one week in April for the Draft. And I'll be back here in two weeks with a newer, way fucking shorter column. Special thanks to Dan V for his outstanding Photoshop work all season long. You made the Jamboroo sing, Danny Boy!

Enjoy the offseason, everyone.

No tedious buildup here. This is the longest, most needlessly overwritten Jamboroo yet. Let's get right to the fucking game.

Super Bowl Pick

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

Five Throwgasms

Patriots 30, Giants 20. If this game had been played a week after the conference title games, I would have picked the Giants. I really would have. They can rush the passer with just four men, throw the ball deep and mix up the running game with Bradshaw and Jacobs. No reason they can't give the Patriots a decent game, as they have already proven.

But with this goddamn two-week layoff? I'm not as optimistic for a good game. I hope I'm wrong. It's the last game of the year. I don't care who wins, I'm just gonna sit in my chair and pray that the game doesn't turn into one giant fucking suckfest by halftime. Because, when that happens, and the last half of real football you get to see until September is absolute dogshit, well that sucks. So I hope it's a good game. I really, really hope it's a good game. 'Cause it's all I've got. When football season ends, antisocial drinking season kicks into high gear.

By now, you've probably figured out that this column isn't about football, it's about WATCHING football. I love the game. But what I love even more is all the ritualistic shit around it: getting excited for the game, shooting the shit about who's gonna win the game, picking out the right chips at the supermarket for consumption during the game, ordering a hooker the morning of the game, telling Patriot fans they're insufferable fucks and pissing them off by unfairly portraying all of them as overwhelmingly racist before the game ... that's the real joy of this thing. So I'mma savor it. Right up until the final whistle, when the Patriots are officially 19-0, and we have to hear about it for the rest of our miserable lives.

Last Week: 0-0 (0-0 vs. the spread)
Overall: 6-4 (6-4 vs. the spread)

Drew's Guacamole Recipe

When I lived in Manhattan, I lived right in midtown by the Queensboro bridge. One block over was a Mexican restaurant named Rosa Mexicano that made guacamole in a mortar right at your table. The cost? About $15-$20. For fucking guac. That's horseshit. Here's one you can make yourself.

4 ripe avocados
2 tbsp olive oil
1 clove garlic, chopped
1/2 bunch cilantro, chopped
Juice of 1 lime
1/2 small red onion, chopped
Sea salt & pepper (to taste) - And use fucking SEA salt. Good salt is the easiest way to make anything you cook taste better. A salt grinder is the tits.

Using a big knife, cut all the avocados in half at the pit. Twist the two halves to separate them. Then, flicking your wrist, drop the sharp edge of your knife on the pit so it sinks into it a little. Twist out the pit with your knife. Throw the pits in a big bowl. DON'T FUCKING TOSS THEM OUT. They keep that shit green. Using the big knife, make a deep crosshatch pattern through each half of the avocados, like a 6x6 tic tac toe board. Then, using a spoon, scoop the halves all out into the same bowl as the pits. Add the garlic, lime juice, olive oil, cilantro, red onion, salt and pepper. Then fold it all together with a spoon. DON'T MASH IT. That's jayvee shit. Serve with chips. If you serve this to a woman, she will have sex with you. At least, my escort did.

Note To Tom Petty

Dear Tom,

Please play the following setlist at halftime: "You Got Lucky," "You Don't Know How It Feels" and "Mary Jane's Last Dance" (if you could dance on stage with the corpse of Kim Basinger for the last one, that would be awesome). I know this setlist is likely not what I will receive. I'll probably get "American Girl," then some new song that no one gives a fuck about, and then "Free Fallin'" which I'm still sick of 19 years after its release.

But you owe me, Petty. Know why? You owe me because of the end of this fucking video. Okay? I was nine years old when I saw this thing. Know what happens when you're nine years old and you watch little Alice in Wonderland get turned into birthday cake and cannibalized? Fucking night terrors, you prick. I was a little kid. I didn't know yet that doing drugs made that shit hilarious, jerkwheat. I demand recompense.

A Note About Super Bowl Ads

I work in advertising. A Super Bowl ad is a $5 to $10 million commitment for any company based on media costs, production costs, research, etc. That means everyone at the agency needs to approve it and make tweaks (this means dozens of people), and everyone at the client needs to approve it and make tweaks (this means dozens of people), and everyone at the focus group needs to approve it and make tweaks (this means dozens of people). Which means that, in the end, what you get is Cuba Gooding jumping out of an airplane drinking a can of Pepsi One.

These ads fucking blow. All of them. Even the ones USA Today tells you are good the next day? Yup, they fucking suck too. They're no better than the shitty ads you get on a daily basis. So feel free never watch one again. There was one good Super Bowl ad, and here it is:

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

"A Song For The Deaf" by Queens Of The Stone Age. Playtime's over, kids. TIME TO FUCKING ROCK YOUR COCK OFF. I enjoy how the sinister bassline ushers in the song. You know something fucking evil and awesome is about to happen, and then the guitars kick in and it's like DUH DUH-DUH DUH DUH-DUH DUH DUH-DUH-DUHHHHH DUH DUH DUH!!!!!! Oh yeah, that's the stuff. Really makes me want to give heroin a spin.

Not only did I used to constantly daydream about being a motherfuckin' badass football player, but I also had an entire dream football life planned out for myself, where I win 12 titles as a player and then go on to become a coaching legend with a .997 winning percentage (my one loss was due to a tragic team plane accident, but with the surviving eight players I was able to still keep my team within two points of winning). But I'm also one of those coaching legends who's such a genius that he doesn't have to put in as much work as other coaches. I had Belichick's acumen and Stoops' work ethic.

And one of the things I always wondered was: If I were a coach, what song would I play over the stadium PA to walk the team out onto the field? I think it's safe to say "A Song For The Deaf" would do the trick. So ominous. So punishing. So unrelentingly brutal.

"I can go get fucked
Lie beside the ditch
So low round my neck
Strung out every stitch"

Oh, yeah. Do those lyrics say "team with nothing to lose" to you? Fuck and yes. I'd also command stadium personnel to use only red light bulbs for night games. Playing a game under red stadium lights helps set the tone for an absolute bloodbath.

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"Cold Blood," by Kix. Kix the band was formed in 1978. Kix the cereal was introduced in 1937. So members of the band knew they competing directly with a kiddie cereal that had already existed for 41 years. Pretty dumb name for a band, right? Well, considering that the band was originally named The Shooze, Kix seems like a wild improvement. The Shooze? Really? Jesus, that's fucking horrible, even from a band from Hagerstown.

(SIDE NOTE: Kix cereal is tasteless dogshit. A Kix is like an unflavored Cocoa Puff. No wonder mothers approve. But that whole "kid tested" claim? I find that highly dubious. That fact that it came in a very large box was also no help. You had to slog for weeks to finish that stupid box, just like Honey Comb. Fuck you, Kix cereal.)

The "Cold Blood" single was a favorite of mine because it also contained "Blow My Fuse" as a B-side, which was also a song I liked. Nothing like a good B-side to help you feel better about purchasing a $7 cassingle with two songs over a $12 album with a dozen of them. Many people remember Kix for "Don't Close Your Eyes," but I tell you, that song doesn't give you the full Kix experience.

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

All of them, for not playing last week. Lazy assholes. I HAD TO TALK TO RELATIVES, GOD DAMMIT!

Five Potential Key Injuries
• Tom Brady (ankle?)
• Tom Brady (foot?)
• Tom Brady (tapeworm?)
• Tom Brady (African Sleeping Sickness?)
• Tom Brady (Dr. E. Henry Thripshaw's Disease?)

Actual Wild Card Of The Week

Each week until all Wild Card teams are eliminated, I'll be picking an actual Wild Card of the week. This week's is Glenne Headley's character in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.

You mean, she's ALSO a con artist? THAT FUCKING BITCH! It's only cute when men do it, dammit!!!

Gametime Snack Of The Week

Wings. No Super Bowl party is complete without wings, chips, or chili. And, to be honest, wings are the No. 1 priority on that list. And none of this teriyaki wing shit, or some other queer variation on the original recipe. That's crap. They're smothered in butter and Franks, or they aren't wings. I also get pissed when people bake the wings and tell you they taste as good as fried wings. That's a load of shit. It's a goddamn chicken wing. It's 90 percent skin anyway. I say fry the fuckers up.

Many people go straight for the little mini-drumstick part of the wing. But I'm here to tell you, that two-boned "forearm" part of the wing is just as easy to eat if you do it right. A lot of people make the mistake of pulling the two bones apart, which results in needless spattering. Folks, there's a better way. Simply grasp one end of the piece firmly with your fingertips. Then place the entire piece in your mouth. Now, using your front teeth, bite down on the end of the piece, right in front of where your fingers are holding it in place. Then, using your teeth as makeshift wire strippers, PULL the piece back out of your mouth. Voila. You've got all the fat and skin off the two bones, leaving only a tiny shred of meat betwixt them. Discard it. It is of no use to you. You're welcome.

By the way, I don't get the celery. I'm ordering wings. There shouldn't be any vegetation of any kind on the plate. Least of all celery. Eating celery is like eating a spool of dental floss. No thanks. And fuck that bleu cheese dressing too. It overpowers the wing. And it's rather excessive, no? Why don't I dip fucking dip my fried chicken in whipped cream while I'm at it?

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Busch. Head for the mountains of Busch... beer. The name of the mountain that Busch is brewed atop? Mount Doom. Forged by the Dark Lord Sauron himself.

When I die, I'm very curious to see if Satan will answer many of the questions I have about my life. For one thing, I'd the opportunity to sit in a private room and watch all the sex scenes from my life, so that I can masturbate to them. I would also like to know which girls would have been willing to have sex with me that I didn't know about. There's gotta be one shocker in that batch. I think. I hope. Eh, probably not. Then, what I would like to do is watch scenes from an alternate reality in which I would have had sex with those ladies that would have had sex with me if I had known they wanted to have sex with me. I don't think that's too much to ask.

But I'd have other questions about my life as well. For example, I'd like to know how large of a vessel all the semen I shot out while masturbating could fill. My guess? A German U-Boat. I'd also like to know how many bagels I ate, total. I bet it's more than you had in your life.

And another question I would have is: What was the one beer I drank the most, and how much of it did I drink, in sheer volume? My guess is that Busch would top that list. Not for any special reason. If you've ever had Busch, you know it sucks. But it was the cheapest beer at my college, with a 30-pack a mere ten dollars. One time I got so drunk off of Busch that I threw up into a cardboard box, then fell asleep on the floor with my head in the same box. During the course of the evening, many people walked by and gave the box a little kick, just to make sure I was alive. Or for fun. Probably for fun. I better ask about that when I die.

I played a handful of drinking games in college and wasn't good at any of them. Quarters? Sucked. Beer die? Sucked. Beirut? Eh... everyone's decent at Beirut. Flipcup? Inconsistent. That's why a friend of mine invented a very simple drinking game that anyone can excel at. And you don't even need a table. It's called DRINK BECAUSE. And it goes like this.

This is a two-player game. Doesn't matter who goes first. Ideally, you are already shitfaced before the game has even begun. The first person must think of a reason for the other person to take a drink. For example...

"DRINK BECAUSE... you're a fucking faggot."

That one came up quite a bit. Very clever. The second player must then drink. Then the second player thinks of a reason of his own.

"DRINK BECAUSE... you fucking smell like a fucking wheel of Gouda."

Tricky game, I know. In all instances, YOU MUST ALWAYS DRINK. If someone says DRINK BECAUSE something, they've got you pinned down.

"DRINK BECAUSE... the fucking Vikings lost, HAHAHAHAHA."

"DRINK BECAUSE... you fucking jerked off in my mom's house, you fuck."

"DRINK BECAUSE... I fucking hate you... and I never really liked you."

"DRINK BECAUSE... THEY'RE FUCKING PLAYING 'PLOWED' BY SPONGE RIGHT NOW, SHITBOX."

Yep, I've wasted my life.

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Avoiding The Pregame

Europa Europa. This is a German movie about a young Jewish man who survives the Holocaust by posing as an Aryan and joining the Hitler Youth. We watched it in history class when I was in high school. The main character, Jupp, goes to great lengths to hide his identity, and succeeds. At one point, he even passes a Nazi phrenological exam (whether he'd pass the same test in a Texas public school now is up for debate, as the state has made great strides in that particular field since then).

But there's one thing Jupp can't hide from the Nazis, and that is his circumcised penis. So, using a needle and thread, he pushes the head of his penis down into his remaining foreskin and stitches it up. Now, this is harrowing enough. But it gets worse. The penis then gets infected. Badly. And, when Jupp goes to the bathroom to examine his mangled, stitched, infected schnitzengruben, they show it close up.

GAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

One look and my thighs slammed shut so tightly I crushed my own balls. I'd just like to say to Agnieszka Holland, the director of Europa Europa: You fucking suck. Thanks for treating me to the 1990 equivalent of the kids in the sandbox video, you heartless frau you.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote

"Kids, we need to talk for a moment about Krusty Brand Chew Goo Gum-Like Substance. We all knew it contained spider eggs, but the hantavirus? That came out of left field. So if you're experiencing numbness and/or comas, send five dollars to antidote, PO Box..."

Halftime Masturbation Kit
• For the guys: NSFW gallery of former playmate Kerri Kendall. I've tried to avoid the NSFW linkage all year, because I'm a dad, and that would be weird. But this link serves a special purpose. Kendall was the playmate in the very first issue of Playboy I ever stole. It featured Rosanna Arquette on the cover. Now, I was maybe 13 or 14 when I did this, and this easily ranked as my greatest accomplishment of life at the time.

There was a drug store located about two miles from my house, in a town center. On weekends, I biked all the way to the area, ostensibly to rent a Nintendo game at the video store. But, once I stole the Kendall issue (tucked into my windbreaker), I stole a new Playboy every month. And I can recite those older Playmates practically in chronological order: Kendall, Cheryl Bachman, Carrie Jean Yazel, etc. The only problem with stealing those Playboys was that I had to bike the two miles all the way home in order to get to my room and masturbate in a sweaty furor. I was fat, so it took a while. Once, I just pulled over the side of the road and did it in the woods. I may have tried to have sex with a tree, but I'm not ready to admit that.

I stole porn regularly up through my attendance at a dipshit prep school. And I never got caught, until one day sophomore year. I walked into a convenience store near campus, one I regularly stole from. I grabbed an issue of Swank, tucked it in my jacket and casually walked out. I got 200 yards when a fucking HUGE pickup truck came speeding straight at me. I froze on the spot. The truck stopped about two feet from me, and out popped a dude who looked exactly like Kenny's dad from "South Park." Only he was REAL. He pushed me to the ground and grabbed the Swank out of my jacket. Then he pointed at me and said:

"Don't you ever fucking come in my store again."

And he drove off. I swore at that moment I would never masturbate again. That oath lasted a grand total of 12 minutes. I was pretty proud of myself for holding out so long.

So this Kendall spread brings back the memories. Sad, pathetic memories. Enjoy!

• For the gals: Reese Witherspoon ex Ryan Phillippe. I saw Philippe in "Breach". It was a good flick, and he's okay in it. But he spends most of the flick giving the camera the Blue Steel look. Unpurse those lips, young man!

Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week
WE HEAR... Leitch's Super Bowl party tonight will devolve into something resembling a "Real Sex" swinger biker couples orgy segment.

Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend
"Being perfect is not about that scoreboard out there. It's not about winning. It's about you and your relationship with yourself, your family and your friends. Being perfect is about being able to look your friends in the eye and know that you didn't let them down because you told them the truth. And that truth is you did everything you could. There wasn't one more thing you could've done. Can you live in that moment as best you can, with clear eyes, and love in your heart, with joy in your heart? If you can do that gentleman - you're perfect."
-Coach Gaines

PROGRAMMING NOTE: I'll have one more Jamboroo to review the season next week, then I'm taking a week off and debuting a brand new column in this slot the week after. Will you like it? Eh, I don't really give a shit.

Enjoy the Super Bowl, everyone.

Well, here we are. It's the Super Bowl bye week. Fuck. The first whole weekend without real football since September. This is the weekend where I sit around in my living room in the middle of Sunday afternoon, look around for something to do and begin crying. Everything about this whole shitty ass bye week business sucks, but I'll get to that in just a moment.

As you know, next week a whole bigass load of journalists will be packing up their Rolaids and back issues of Playboy's Nudes and jetting out to Phoenix for the media festivities surrounding the Giants-Patriots game. And they won't be alone. Plenty of bloggers will be joining them, including the editor of this esteemed site, along with Matty Ufford, Dan Steinberg and a cadre of others. The number of bloggers heading out to the Super Bowl increases by the year. Some of them have credentials. Most of them don't. But they'll be there all the same, to drink in the scene and report back to you about just how fucking hard it is to get into the Maxim party.

This migration also coincides with the release of Chairman Leitch's new book, which takes dead aim at the traditional sports media, along with other assorted targets. No doubt God Save The Fan will raise the ire of the occasional mainstream reporter or two. It may even get them to bitch about blogs, as so many MSM columnists have already done. In turn, it will cause lots of us bloggy folks to poke fun at them and call them dinosaurs. And this is where I'd like to make one poorly-thought-out and not dick jokey enough point about this whole blogs vs. MSM bitchfest.

I'd like you to take a look at the four quotes below. You've no doubt already read them here on this site and poked fun at them. But there's a deeper context to them that needs to be addressed. Read on:

Bill Conlin: "In Colonial times, bloggers were called 'Pamphleteers.' They hung on street corners handing them out to passersby."

Michael Wilbon: "The notion of blogging scares the hell out of me Scott, and ... this is why. There's no accountability ... stuff isn't edited. It just goes out there as gospel. What it is is opinion, there's way too much rumor."

Stephen A. Smith: "And when you look at the Internet business, what's dangerous about it is that people who are clearly unqualified get to disseminate their piece to the masses. I respect the journalism industry, and the fact of the matter is ...someone with no training should not be allowed to have any kind of format whatsoever to disseminate to the masses to the level which they can. They are not trained. Not experts."

Sam Smith: "How is it I can work for decades developing contacts around the NBA and traveling regularly around the NBA and talking with the decision makers and some guy in his basement in his underwear is writing something that has credibility?"

Put aside for a moment whatever personal animosity you may have towards any of these four gentlemen (I fully realize that will require a Herculean effort, particularly for the third man listed). All four of these quotes assume three things:

1) Blogging (or, as Conlin might put it, pamphleteering) is a new and unreliable form of journalism;
2) All sports bloggers are trying to practice some form of amateur reporting;
3) People consume blog posts the same way they read mainstream news pieces.

All three of these assumptions are wrong. In an age where more and more people are reading blogs, and bloggers are even allowed to cover live sporting and news events, it's important now to clarify something. BLOGGING IS NOT JOURNALISM. And it doesn't aspire to be. It's a completely different art form that has absolutely nothing in common with journalism. They aren't the same thing, and they aren't supposed to be.

A blog is a blank website with roughly 17 trillion potential applications. You can use it to make stupid dick jokes. You can use it to post pictures of your trip for your family and friends to check out. You can use it to sell t-shirts. You can use it to show ass naked pictures of Crissy Moran dry humping a balance beam (I strongly recommend this option). It has no rules. No supposedly built-in set of ethics. No style guidelines. It's a blank canvas, for you to do with as you please.

Journalism, on the other hand, is a set discipline with an already established set of rules for those wishing to practice it. The purpose of journalism is to inform and, when necessary, interpret. A reporter researches a story, writes down what happened, and then presents it to you. Columnists, who ideally have done research of their own, will then interpret the story in some sort of greater context, i.e. how it relates to other events in the past, present, or future. Is that how journalism is ALWAYS practiced? No. But the principles are there.

You see where those two art forms might differ just a tad? The reason MSM folks get bitchy about bloggers is because they assume that bloggers are trying to do what they do. And, by and large, they aren't.

Yes, there are sites such as Deadspin, With Leather and The Big Lead that break the occasional story, or interview newsmakers, or discover new, amazing sets of tits to look at. And there are blogs that serve as extensions of legitimate journalistic enterprises, like the DC Sports Bog. But to assume ALL sports blogs share a common goal that is similar to that of journalism is dumb. Apart from talking about sports, a blog like The Dugout and another blog like the DC Sports Bog have absolutely nothing in common. No common purpose. No shared ideal.

Look at Sam Smith's quote again:

Sam Smith: "How is it I can work for decades developing contacts around the NBA and traveling regularly around the NBA and talking with the decision makers and some guy in his basement in his underwear is writing something that has credibility?"

Thing is, he's exactly right. He DOES have more credibility than some blogger who is just starting out and has no professional contacts. But who out there is assuming the blogger has more credibility? There isn't a reader in the universe who expects Joe Somebody's blogspot site to compete for credibility in reporting with a seasoned reporter from a billion dollar media conglomerate with unlimited resources and access. And, if there is, then that reader is a moron. And probably comments on perezhilton.com.

This isn't to say journalism is better than blogging. They're just different, and quality obviously varies within them. There is good journalism and shoddy journalism, just as there is good blogging and shoddy blogging. Part of what makes a Woody Paige column or a Jay Mariotti column so execrable is that they hold absolutely NO journalistic value of any kind. It's just braindead yammering, which makes it doubly insulting since it neither informs or enlightens, which is very least anyone should expect from a piece of journalism. Compare that to a blog, where there is NO expectation of any kind on the reader's part (or, at least, there shouldn't be). There is only the hope that you will be reading something interesting. And, if what you're reading happens to be a Big Lead movie review, you're gonna be shit out of luck.

The problem is that many journalists, and in turn many readers, have a deeply held belief that the printed word (on paper or electronically) holds more weight than the spoken word. That it is somehow sacrosanct. But that's not true on blogs, or on message boards, or on text messages. In these new forms of media, the written word is just as disposable and frivolous as a conversation between me and you (and talking with me is like taking a dip in an empty kiddie pool). And it's foolish to assume otherwise. Most sports blogs are run by fans, and serve mainly as an online extension of the friendly banter we all engage in about sports on a daily basis. It's not journalism. It's a blog. It's its own thing, and the two needn't be confused.

Yet time and again, this is what happens. And not just with journalists. But with readers as well. You know MJD moved to Yahoo this week. Check out these comments on his commentspost about Herschel Walker's battle with multiple personality disorder:

Please remove this post. Then proceed to removing this writer. Another example that there's no such thing as an editor in the age of "internet journalism".

I am SHOCKED at what i just read - I seriously can't believe a supposed "professional sports column" allowed this peice (sic) of garbage to be published - it's not even journalism, it's borderline MySpace drivel and I'm ashamed of Yahoo-Sports for allowing it.

These jackasses all assume MJD is trying to be Mike Silver, or some sort of accredited journalist. He's not, nor is that his responsibility. His job at Yahoo is entertain, not inform. He's there to be the Mighty MJD, to tell some jokes and kick some fucking ass. And if they can't appreciate the difference, FUCK THEM. Dumbfucks. It's a fucking blog. It's not journalism. And, to prove to you just how lacking in journalistic ethics this whole enterprise is:

FUCK SHIT CUNT RAMMING COCK IN YOUR ASS WHILE HITTING YOU IN THE FACE WITH USED TOILET PAPER. CUNT MUFFIN. DICK JOKE. MIGHTY FUCKROD. SHITTING OUT A BOWLING BALL.

Got it? Good. Let's make some chili below.

Playoff Game Picks and Predictions

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

Five Throwgasms

WAIT... there are no fucking games this week. FUCK YOU, NFL. Super Bowl sites are announced years in advance, and tickets for the game are sold out months ahead of time. You fucks really need an extra week to get ready? Bullshit. BULLLLLLLshit. Give me the goddamn game. Quit prolonging my fucking misery and get to it already. Way to put the "Bowl" in Super Bowl, cockknockers.

Four Throwgasms

NONE. GRRRRRR...

Three Throwgasms

NONE. URGE TO KILL... RISING

Two Throwgasms

NONE. FEEL SO COLD, SO ANGRY...

One Throwgasm

LOOK, GIMME THE FUCKING PRO BOWL THIS WEEK FOR FUCK'S SAKE!

Last Week: 2-0 (1-1 vs. the spread)
Overall: 6-4 (6-4 vs. the spread)

Drew's Chili Recipe

I cook. That's right. Didn't think I cooked, did you? Thought I sat around all day with my pants around my ankles masturbating to pictures of Summer Glau wearing a skirt in TV Guide, did you? Yeah, it's true. But sometimes I pause to cook up some shit. I'm a Renaissance man like that.

Cooking will get you laid. Look at Bobby Flay. That guy gets mad pussy. All because he knows how to grill a ham steak. He's my hero. There's no easier way to impress ladies than to invite them over to your house and feed them a halfway decent meal. It lets them know that you're the type of guy who cares enough to boil some pasta. It gives them the illusion that you're the sort of fellow who will take good care of them. Women are suckers like that.

So, to that end, it's time to make some chili. This is a foolproof recipe. Cook it up for your Super Bowl party, and some lucky Holley Mangold of your choosing will hop on your knob in gratitude. Here's what you need.

FOR THE CHILI:

FOR THE SIDES:
Shredded cheese
Tortilla chips
Sour cream
Frank's hot sauce
1 bunch scallions, chopped (Don't skimp on the fucking scallions. They make the dish)
Beer

Put a big pot on the stove on high. Pour in the oil. When it's smoky hot, toss in the onions, garlic, jalapeno, and shallots and stir them around until soft. Turn the stove down to medium/high. Toss in the ground meat. Salt and pepper the ground meat in the pot. Sautee the meat until it's good and brown. Open the can of tomatoes. Using a bigass knife, cut up the tomatoes while they're still in the can. Then pour the tomatoes in the pot. Add the beans, corn, beer, broth, liquid smoke, sugar, cumin, chili powder, joint ashes, vinegar, and Frank's. Bring it to a simmer. Half cover the pot and leave it on low medium heat for 2-3 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. CHILI TIME! WOO HOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Chili has about a million uses. You can eat it in the bowl, or use it to cover nachos, or hot dogs, or pasta, or a hooker's chest. There's really no wrong way to eat it. It's the blog of hearty stews.

Fuck. Now I'm hungry.

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

"Ketang" by Kasabian. Good song.

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"Disappear," by INXS. Actually, I'm not embarrassed. I still like this song. I like to put my feet together and do that little Hutchence hip shake. Given that I look like a 250 lb. five-year-old in real life, this is an incredibly sexy spectacle.

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

Brett Favre. Nice job, asshole. Some hero you are.

Actual Wild Card Of The Week
Each week until all Wild Card teams are eliminated, I'll be picking an actual Wild Card of the week. This week's is Mr. Blonde.

You gonna bark all day, little doggie, or are you gonna bite?

Gametime Snack Of The Week

Hint of Lime Tostitos. I don't what they put on these things, but it sure as shit ain't lime. They are fucking good, though.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Blatz. Milwaukee's first bottled beer. Obviously, they needed a few more tries to get it right.

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For FUCKING EVERYONE

Kentucky Fried Movie. What a movie. I tell ya, you won't know whether to laugh or masturbate.

"This is not a chawade. We need toto concentwation."

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Look, question lady, this job is not what I really do. I play keyboards."

Halftime Masturbation Kit
• For the guys: Hayden Panettiere. "I wanna hold her, wanna hold her tight, get teenage kicks right through the night."
• For the gals: "Lost" star Naveen Andrews. Naveen goes out with Barbara Hershey. Or what's left of her.

Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week
WE HEAR... that Tom Brady's walking boot is actually a team-shared walking boot passed around each week, as per Belichick's orders. Moss is due in it next week.

Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend
"Hey, we're all gonna get laid!"
-Al Czervik

Enjoy the games, everyone. WAIT... there are no games. FUUUUUUCK! You'll pay for this, Goodell.

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

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

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

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

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

1-800-HOT-TITS
1-800-WET-TITS
1-800-WET-CUNT
1-800-BIG-TITS
1-800-HOT-FUCK
1-800-TIT-CUNT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Give up and jerk off
2. Damn it all and dial a 1-900 number

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

Girl: Hello?
Holy shit! Holy shit, it's a real chick! What do I do? Talk, you idiot! Fucking talk!
Me: Oh. Hi.
Girl: What's your name?
Make up a name! Something clever!
Me: Uh. Harvey.
Girl: Hi, Harvey. I'm Alexis.
Me: Uh. Hi, Alexis.
Girl: Where are you calling from, Harvey?
Me: Uh. Minneapolis.
Girl: Ooh! I bet it's cold out there. Isn't it?
Me: Uh...
Girl: Do you play sports, Harvey?
Me: Yeah. I play football.
Girl: What do you play?
Oh, my God. LIE! LIE LIKE YOU'VE NEVER LIED BEFORE! YOU'RE PART OF THE FANTASY TOO!
Me: I'm the starting middle linebacker.
Girl: What are you wearing, Harvey?
Me: Uh. Like. A t-shirt. And, uh, boxers.
Girl: Oh. I was hoping you'd be wearing one of those jockey strap things. Those are hot.
Oh my god, she's flirting with me! Oh my God! ASK HER THE MONEY QUESTION!!
Me: Well, what are YOU wearing?

(cut to 70 seconds later)

Me: Please... please call me, "Big Boy"
Girl: Give it to me, BIG BOY
Me: UNNNGGGHHHH!!!!!! (spurt)

(hangs up)

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

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

Playoff Game Picks and Predictions

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

Five Throwgasms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Throwgasm

Temple at Saint Louis

Last Week: 1-3 (3-1 vs. the spread) - Wow, I'm both disgusted and impressed with myself.
Overall: 4-4 (5-3 vs. the spread) - 5-3 vs. the spread? Suck on that, Brandon Lang!

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

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

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

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

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

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

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

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

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

Five Potential Key Injuries
• LaDainian Tomlinson (knee)
• Eli Manning (shock)
• Philip Rivers (just kidding. He can die in a fire for all anyone cares)
• Osi Umenyiora (exhaustion (NSFW))
• Terrell Owens (guts mashed)

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

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

Gametime Snack Of The Week

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

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

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

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

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

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Colts Fans

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

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

Halftime Masturbation Kit
• For the guys: Movie star Anna Faris. You might remember Anna from Lost In Translation, where she played a character inspired by Cameron Diaz. In other words, she played an idiot. I'm pretty sure Cameron Diaz would lose a Tic Tac Toe match to an orangutan.
• For the gals: "Lost" star Josh Holloway. Look at the alignment of his nipples. It may be a clue to the secret behind the Dharma Initiative! And Cool Water? Does that mean his character will drown soon? Who's this Davidoff fellow? Is he with the Others? Is this picture a flash-forward? Or is it a flashback? Or is it a flash-forward to a moment when he's flashing back? So many layers to this puzzle...

Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week
WE HEAR... that Tom Brady will retire at the end of the year. Did you hear that? It's totally true!

Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend
"Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you! Who's next?"
-Clarence

Enjoy the games, everyone.

The Divisional Playoff weekend is always the most exciting round of the playoffs. And this year, the four divisional games are uncommonly good. I can hardly wait. In fact, sitting here with my thumb up my butt just waiting for them to be played is excruciating. I need something to occupy my time between now and kickoff on Saturday afternoon. And nothing makes time fly by quite like Family Game Night™ (Family Game Night™ is an exclusive trademark of the Hasbro corporation. If you and an undetermined number of kin play a board game at night without the expressed written consent of the Hasbro corporation, the Hasbro corporation reserves the right to come to your house and hang your dog.)

So let's all bust out a game to play while we wait. Monopoly? Too competitive. Scrabble? Too challenging. Charades? Too queer. No, I think this occasion calls for Cranium. Cranium: the board game for people who can't decide what board game to play!

Now pick a color. Red? Fuck you. I'm red. I'm always red. Onto the challenges. Answers also provided below.

DATA HEAD

To win this factoid, your team must agree on the correct answer to the question below. I will read the question and start the timer after I pass the card to you.

QUESTION: When you turn your car on, does it return the favor?

ANSWER: No. IT'S A FUCKING CAR.

To win this Selectaquest, your team must agree on the correct answer to the multiple choice question below. I'll read the question and choices, then start the timer after I pass the card to you.

QUESTION: If Joe Buck were to flirt with you in a bar, you would:
A) Feel creeped out by his smile
B) Feel unnerved by his smile
C) Feel discomforted by his smile
D) Confide your skeeved out feeling to Aikman, because women always confide in queers
E) All of the above

ANSWER: I think you know full well what the answer is.

To win this polygraph, your team must agree if the statement below is true or false. I'll read the statement and start the timer after I pass the card to you

STATEMENT: Boy, Vince Young may have seriously injured himself on that play.

ANSWER: False.

CREATIVE CAT

To win this Sculptorades your team must choose one person who can get you to guess the answer on back by sculpting the subject in Cranium Clay with no talking or gestures. I'll read the hint aloud and start the timer after I pass the card to the artist

HINT: The main hobby of a 14-year old female Jacksonville fan

ANSWER:

To win this Sensosketch, your team must choose one person who can get you to guess the answer on back by drawing clues on paper with no peaking, talking, letters or symbols. The artist's eyes must stay closed. I'll start the timer after I pass the card to the artist.

HINT: Where Laurence Maroney tries to put the triangle peg.

ANSWER:

To win this Cloodle, your team must choose one person who get you to guess the answer on back by drawing clues on paper with no talking, letters or symbols. I'll read the hint aloud and start the timer after I pass the card to the artist.

HINT: What Philip Rivers specifically asks for during intercourse.

ANSWER:

STAR PERFORMER

To win this Cameo, your team must choose one person who can get you to guess the answer on back by acting out silent clues just like charades. I'll read the hint aloud and start the timer after I pass the card to the actor

HINT: Coach

/paints nose red
/stands with jaw agape
/holds hands out in perpetual stance of outrage
/would not be happy even if sharing a beer with Jesus fucking Christ himself
/shits pants

ANSWER

To win this Copy Cat, your team must choose one person who can get you to guess the answer on back by acting like this famous person or character. The actor should mimic their speech and actions, but say no names of the people or places. I'll start the timer after I pass the card to the actor

"I smoke cigars and have an IQ of 2. Last night, I tried licking cake batter off a still running Kitchenaid mixer paddle. My head is made of pure quartz. Somehow, there are people at my work who are just as stupid as I am, if not more so. I varnish my mustache. Employees at my restaurant often steal from the register because I am unfamiliar with math."

ANSWER

WORD WORM

To win this Zelpuz, your team must take the mixed up puzzle below and rearrange all the letters to find the answer. I'll read the hint and puzzle aloud, then start the timer after I pass the card to you

HINT: What Peter King will be administering to Brett Favre in front of special needs children after the Packers/Seahawks game.

PUZZLE: BMPULIKN

To win this Blank Out, you team must complete the puzzle below by filling in the blanks with the missing letters. I'll read the hint aloud and start the time after I pass the card to you.

HINT: Number of years the average Patriot fan has been a Patriot fan.

PUZZLE: S_V_N

To win this Lexicon, your team must agree on the correct definition to the word below. I'll read the word and definitions, then start the timer after I pass the card to you.

WORD: PERTURBATION
A) Mental excitement or confusion
B) What I do in the shower with green shampoo
C) Word Emmitt Smith uses when he means "permutation"
D) Constant shared mood of Jack Del Rio and Mike Tice

ANSWER?

Well, that was fun. Now, onto the REAL games.

Playoff Game Picks and Predictions

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

Five Throwgasms

Jaguars 28, Patriots 27. Since my picks are inherently stupid and meaningless, I may as well go ahead and pick the Jags. If you pick the Jags, you get to boast about it if they win. If you pick the Pats, you're just another guy who made the sensible, correct decision. That's no fun. Far more enjoyable to be brazen and stupid. Ask Les Miles. Besides, the Jags seem to match up well with the Patriots. Like the Ravens and Eagles, they run the ball well and employ a cover corner good enough to shut down Randy Moss. Will this make a difference? Probably not. But may as well roll the dice.

I'll confess now that, should the Patriots lose, I'd join everyone else in feeling that these playoffs would lose a whole lot of juice. It would be fun to see the Pats go down. But is a Jags-Colts AFC title game as interesting as Pats-Colts, or even Pats-Chargers? Of course not. I enjoy watching Tom Brady play football, and I like seeing how Belichick schemes against high-octane offenses like Indy's. The truth is, I'm rooting for the Patriots AND against them simultaneously. I have no idea how that is possible. Yet, here I am. I'd like to see history made, just not by THAT team. For THOSE fans.

Packers 31, Seahawks 20. I have been on Vicodin all week to treat a back problem that has ranged from "excruciating" to "not quite excruciating, but probably will become so at any minute." I have no clue how anyone can get addicted to this crap. Oooh! I can't get enough of the grogginess and waves of mild nausea! This Vicodin is so irresistible! What a crock. I was expecting a good buzz. Instead I feel like someone spent all night fucking with the dimmer switch in my house. Bullshit. You let me down, makers of hydrocodone! You too, Queens of the Stone Age. That drug doesn't belong anywhere near "Feelgood Hit Of The Summer". Who throws a Vicodin party?

We all know that celebrities who claim to be in rehab for prescription pills are just using that as a cover for their addictions to way awesomer drugs like booger sugar and heroin. But if there is anyone out there who has ever legitimately checked into rehab for an addiction to Vicodin (*cough* FAVRE *cough*), I have to say, that is one LAMEASS addiction. Part of the fun of being an addict is telling people in rehab about all the crazy ass shit you did just to get high, or so I would assume:

"Then I woke up... IN HANOI!"

Vicodin doesn't make you do any of that. Unless I'm doing it wrong. Perhaps following the exact directions on the pharmacy label is for suckers. Maybe I need to snort that shit, or grind it up in a mortar and stir it into a tall glass of Bull Ice. Further research may be required.

Colts 34, Chargers 14. In which we see Norv Turner and Philip Rivers inevitably sink to the occasion. Perhaps MJD will drink enough during this game to gather up the courage to get Muff Stubble Girl's digits. Then again, I'm assuming she has them tattooed on her midriff somewhere.

Cowboys 16, Giants 13. And here's the most unpredictable game of the weekend. The Giants, who have looked like a real, live football team over the past three weeks, head into Texas Stadium to play a Cowboy team that's been flat since November. If any team is liable to suffer from the kind of letdown the Colts experienced in the 2005 playoffs (which took place in 2006. Stupid calendar-straddling season), it's probably this team. TO's limping. Romo's busy getting taking trips to Mexico for the sole purpose of acquiring VD. Sparano's on his way to Miami. Garrett is gassing up the bus to run over Wade. I fully expect the Giants to keep the lead until the 4th quarter, when the Cowboys get their shit together and win one of those dodged-upset games that are always a big fucking letdown to watch.

Playoff Pick Record: 3-1 (2-2 vs. the spread)

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

"Celebrated Summer" by Husker Du. Growing up in Minnesota means you are required by law to like Prince, Husker Du and The Replacements. Limited Warranty, not so much. Husker Du broke up in 1988 after the suicide of their longtime manager, and in part because of drummer Grant Hart's heroin addiction and singer/guitarist Bob Mould's speed addiction. Now THAT is fucking rock'n'roll. Beats Vicodin.

Oh, and "Celebrated Summer" is one of the greatest rock songs ever recorded.

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"Rico Suave," by Gerardo. "You gotta know how to deal with a woman who can't let go, the price you pay for being a gigolo." So true, my man. You and I share a common bond like that. Gerardo here crams his videos full of hot chicks dancing around in skintight spandex skirts. This was a hugely successful strategy for making videos in the 80's. I don't know why more bands today don't copy that model. Oh wait, I know why. Because bands today that are not named Queens of the fucking Stone Age are gay. Gayer than Gerardo. No wonder they never play videos on MTV anymore. They lack quality pussy.

Gerardo rocks the leather-jacket-with-no-shirt look in this video, something I have wanted to try in the bedroom, but am unlikely to pull off. Also, be on the lookout for Gerardo switching up to the bandanna and hoop earrings. Totally makes him look like a pirate. A MEXICAN pirate. Muy peligroso! Don't bring that Gerardo into your parents' home! He's used to good ol' fashioned homestyle Spanish cookin'. If he tries your mom's shit, he'll be pukin'.

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

Shaun Suisham. You shall pay for upsetting the Maj, Shaun Suisham. The Jews are the one species of flying monkey that you do NOT want to piss off. They hold those grudges forever. I'd tether your child to his or her pram, if I were you.

Five Potential Key Injuries
• Terrell Owens (ankle)
• Tony Romo (Cabo Wabo)
• David Garrard (hard out here for a pimp)
• Matt Hasselbeck (Mike Holmgren)
• Dallas Clark (no injury of any kind. Fucking Dallas Clark)

Actual Wild Card Of The Week

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

Will he? Won't he? He could really shake things up! Don't cut into Obama's votes, Bloomy. Blacks already dislike Jews plenty.

Gametime Snack Of The Week

California Pizza Kitchen personal pizza. Home of once bizarre and now widely accepted pies such as BBQ Chicken and Thai Chicken, CPK has expanded their menu to include even more exotic ingredients, such as jerk chicken, carne asada and Japanese eggplant. What you may not is know is how many other kinds of strange pizza never made it out their test kitchen. The Fried Panda Bear And Red Onion pizza, for example. Or a Mario Batali favorite, the Mangino lardo pie, which is carved tableside. He practically melts in your mouth!

The Bazooka Gum Pizza also rated poorly. Though the comics under the box proved a big favorite with the Sussman family.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Hamm's. You know, I don't know why people get on beer companies' jocks about marketing to youth. I see no pandering to children here. I just see a happy little bear, hoping to grab an ice cold can of Hamm's before frolicking in the meadow with his cuddly animal friends. Perhaps they'll sing a merry drinking song or two. Won't you join them? It'll be so much fun! And, lest you think that's a cookie jar, I assure you, it's a decanter. What does it decant, given that almost all beer is not decanted? That's up to your imagination!

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Dolphins Fans

House Party. I bought the soundtrack to this movie hoping the danceoff song would be included.

Your love so goooood
Your love soooo fine
Ain't my type of hype, babay!

/knocks feet with David Givens

But it was fucking nowhere to be found. Such bullshit. Anyway, I've seen House Party a grand total of 4,000 times. Between Robin Harris ("I come from a town called Fresh Off A Cop's Ass! And I'm feeling a little homesick!"), John Witherspoon ("Public Enema?"), Martin Lawrence back when he was funny ("Dragon breath? Your shit is a little tart, too!") and Full Force ("We're gonna kick your fuckin' ASS!"), it's an embarrassment of riches. It's as closely in touch with the black community as I get. I especially like the scene where Kid accidentally sees the fat guy nailing his wife through their bedroom window ("Whose pussy, baby?!"). It's like that one scene in Sideways, only NASTIER.

Also, for the record, I think Play should have been declared the winner of the rap battle.

Look at him now. Already a has-been,
Let Uncle Play sing a rhyme that'll tuck your ass in.

Oh, snap!

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Hmm. Lost a nail. Well, that's leprosy for you!"

Halftime Masturbation Kit
• For the guys: A NSFW centerfold shoot featuring Raquel Gibson. Courtesy of Ufford. I like the fact that the video contains NO interview.
• For the gals: Foreign indie flick staple Gael Garcia Bernal. With pubes!

Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week
WE HEAR... that Joe Gibbs resigned to spend more time "ungaying" his son, Coy.

Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend
"You guys should, uh, play like you belong here. Because you do belong here. Kinda. And just go, like, have fun. And, uh, play with confidence. Ugh. You guys blow. I'm going to Texas."
-June Jones

Enjoy the games, everyone. Best NFL weekend of the year.

The NFL playoffs are a bittersweet time for fans such as myself. Nothing beats a good playoff game, but I know in the back of my mind that this 2007 season is now officially living on borrowed time. It won't be long now before football is gone once again, and I am left alone, bereft, with only a wife, a daughter, and an extended network of family and friends to comfort me. And that blows.

There are now only 11 games left in the NFL season. Spread out over a period of five weeks. That ain't many. Just last weekend, there were sixteen games going on all over the place. Now there are just over half that many left to go. And, if one of them sucks, I can't go flipping around to find a better one. I'm stuck with that shitty Titans-Chargers game, and there's nothing I can do about it. It almost seems unfair.

Seasons tend to go by faster in my old age. I swear it was just days ago that Charlie Frye was the Browns starting quarterback, or that the Chargers were in complete disarray, or that Brett Favre's gin-soaked body was blissfully decaying before my very eyes. These days, it feels like Week 1 becomes Week 16 in a relative snap. It gets me thinking that there are a finite number of NFL seasons in my lifetime, and that they are flying by faster than I can keep up with them. And that makes me want to drink. Heavily.

I remember watching the World Series one year. And, after the Series had ended, I heard Pat O'Brien whisper to the audience in the post-game show, "Bad news, baseball fans: baseball season is over." And I remember thinking, "About fucking time. They play 5,000,000 baseball games a year." Not so with the NFL. You only get that shit once a week for a handful of months. And then it's gone. Baseball, by comparison, hangs around like a goddamn plantar wart.

That's why I feel compelled to treat each of these remaining 11 games with great care. To cherish them before they pass by. These are your last games of the year. Savor them, my friends. Savor them like a warm glass of Haffenreffer Private Stock. It's playoff time, bitches!

Playoff Game Picks and Predictions

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

Five Throwgasms

Jaguars 28, Steelers 10. Najeh Davenport learns how to metaphorically shit the bed. Big Ben's partially functional nervous system causes him to begin uncontrollably dropping the ball without warning or provocation. Christmas Ape doesn't speak to me for the entire offseason.

Four Throwgasms

Seahawks 31, Redskins 10. They lose by 21! It's a sign from above!

Three Throwgasms

Bucs 24, Giants 16 Underrated Bucs defense helps Eli Manning feel like his old self again. Tom Coughlin blames all his players and you, yes you, the reader, for the loss. Jeff Garcia declares in the post-game show that his teammates all call him Pegboy.

Two Throwgasms

Chargers 37, Titans 3 Norv Turner savors his last playoff victory as a head coach. Chargers GM AJ Smith spends new extension money to build a four-star luxury villa inside his own ass, where he takes up permanent residence. Vince Young dramatically clenches a body part and grimaces.

Playoff Pick Record: 0-0

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

"Midlife Crisis" by Faith No More. Thanks to "Epic," FNM is largely credited with creating the whole rap-rock movement, something I'm quite sure they would like to take back. It's an odd designation, since FNM was such an underrated and wonderfully odd band. You haven't lived until you've listened to Angel Dust WHILE on Angel Dust. Bonus points in this video for the drawing and quartering.

FNM lead singer Mike Patton is a huge fan of menstruation. HUGE fan. Not only is it mentioned in the chorus of "Midlife Crisis," he even wrote a whole song about with his other band, Mr. Bungle. The name of that song? You guessed it. "Bloody Mary. Lyrics, please!

One day God had to get off his ass
He had to walk to the kitchen and get his own glass
To this glass he had to pour his own booze
For this, his woman had to pay the dues
Now all women must pay this terrible bill
That arrives every month against their will
A crescent hang over, half-irritated smirk
Full migraine cramps, and Maxi-pads don't work!

That's so wrong, it's right.

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"The Ballad Of Jayne," by LA Guns. LA Guns guitarist Tracii Guns (The extra I is for Intriguing!) was an original member of Guns 'N' Roses (formed by the merging of LA Guns with Axl Rose and Izzy Stradlin's band, Hollywood Rose). But Guns quickly quit the band because he hated Axl and formed a new LA Guns to record this song. Holy shit, did you make a mistake, Tracii. Surely it was worth enduring the occasional broken bottle attack from Axl to stick around for some sick, sick "Appetite" royalties.

"The Ballad Of Jayne" was written as a tribute to Jayne Mansfield (link NSFW - Yay, old porn!). But you won't find Mansfield and her extremely large breasts anywhere in the video for this song. Instead you will find a band that kind of looks like Motley Crue but is not Motley Crue playing by a very large pool. You'll also find lead singer Phil Lewis rocking that must-have fashion accessory of the late 80's, the oversized top hat. If you're wearing an oversized top hat, and your name is not Saul Hudson, you are a fucking douche.

More stuff worth pointing out here. The bass player is wearing gloves WHILE he plays the bass. I always thought the bass was the most unchallenging instrument to play, and now I have proof. Also here: Tracii Guns rocking Chrissy Hynde's bangs, and smoking throughout the entire video. Smoking on the set? That guy don't give a fuck about nothin'! (swoons)

Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
The fantasy season's over, so throughout the playoffs we'll be highlighting one player from each week who's egregious fuckups cost his team the win. For Week 17, that player is Troy Williamson for the Vikings. Fuck you, Troy Williamson. You fucking suck. I'm surprised you can hold onto your toothbrush while brushing your teeth in the morning. I'm surprised you can eat a bite of food without it falling right into your lap. You fuck. I hope the next thing you catch is gonorrhea. And that you don't drop it.

Five Potential Key Injuries
• Jeff Garcia (back)
• Vince Young (hangnail)
• Eli Manning (advanced erraticism)
• Shaun Alexander (Denver Boot around leg)
• Philip Rivers (grief after discovering Nantucket red shorts are missing from locker)

Actual Wild Card Of The Week
Each week until all Wild Card teams are eliminated, I'll be picking an actual Wild Card of the week. This week's is George "The Animal" Steele.

My goodness, he certainly is unorthodox!

Suicide Pick Roundup
Last week's suicide pool pick of Tampa Bay was incorrect. Off the board now are Tampa Bay, Minnesota, Baltimore, Tennessee, Jacksonville, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, New Orleans, San Diego, Cleveland, Washington, Chicago, Seattle, Denver, Dallas, Green Bay and New England. Final record for the year: 10-7. Jesus, that is fucking awful. I said it before, but it bears repeating: Betting in suicide pools is dumb.

No more suicide picks for this year. But I shall leave you with one final way to commit suicide, and that is to close your garage door and leave the engine running. Does this actually work? If so, I'd totally pick this as my way of committing suicide. Carbon monoxide poisoning is an insidious way of dying. You don't even know you're dying. You just nod right off, and BOOM! You're off to meet Gandhi and Dorothy Stratton. Nice. Sounds quick and painless to me. I may try it this weekend, just for fun.

Gametime Snack Of The Week

The classic Chicken Finger Sub. I ordered enough chicken finger subs in college to support the entire Maine economy for two full decades. And I never ate them for a meal. No, no, no. The chicken finger sub was deployed strictly as a between-meal hold-me-over. It's not like I didn't take advantage of the school dining facilities. I did. Often. And it's not as if I didn't eat enough while at the dining hall. It was always all-you-can-eat. They never pulled a Frying Dutchman on me. And yet, I'd inevitably get back to the dorm and have this conversation with my roommate:

ME: What do you want to do?
ROOMMATE: I dunno. Wanna order?
ME: YES.

Every college student has their staple go-to food. For some, it's the steak and cheese sub. For others, it's a sausage calzone. College students are very much creatures of habit. Once they settle into a groove with one item on Romeo And Juliet's Pizza And Subs (or whatever your pizza/sub place is called) menu, they stick with it. I was no different. The beauty of the chicken finger sub is that it combines the appeal of a "basket" appetizer with the substantive qualities of a really fucking large sandwich. I was not above ordering one, finishing it, and then immediately ordering another. The delivery guy looks at you real funny when you do that.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Natural Light. You'll notice that there's a Natural Light beer and a Natural Ice beer (which really does taste like it's had ice melted directly into it), but there is no regular Natural Beer. Perhaps there is a legal reason behind this. Perhaps the ATF requires that Anheuser Busch place a word directly between "natural" and "beer," because I can't think of any LESS natural beer than Natural Light.

For you 12-year-olds reading out there (and Sitemeter indicates that you comprise 98 percent of the reading audience for this column), Natural Light (or Beast) is likely to be the very first beer that you get drunk off of. There are two main reasons for this. One: Natural Light is cheap, and the sibling/senior who is nice enough to get you beer isn't gonna waste good beer on you. The second reason is that businesses that sell Natural Light are 85 percent more likely to employ a person who is unable to read the letters or numerals on a person'