The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Email Drew here.

Are you in college? Or are you a single person in your 20s? You listen to me, you little shitstain: Enjoy your Thanksgiving. No, I mean it. Enjoy the shit out of it, because at your current station in life, Thanksgiving is as good as it will ever be.

I apologize in advance for this dipshit upper-middle-class daydream, but here is what Thanksgiving is like for a person that age. You're at school, or you're living in some shit apartment. On Tuesday or Wednesday, you get in your shit car or you hop on a plane or a train, and you slog it all the way back to your parents' house. If the opportunity presents itself, you drink along the way. When I was single and living in New York, I took the Metro-North railroad all the way to the end of the Waterbury line to get to my folks' house. They sold beer in Grand Central before you got on the train, and I always bought two bigass cans of Foster's. I was lit by the time we reached Stamford. It was awesome.

Your folks pick you up and give you kisses and you tell mom that you have a suitcase full of old shirts and dirty underwear for her to wash. You get home and throw that shit on top of the washing machine and kick off your shoes and IMMEDIATELY go look to see what's on the stove/in the fridge/in the pantry for you to gorge on. CHIPS! Fuck yeah! MEAT IN FOIL! That looks tempting! NUTS! Mmmm ... nuts. There's shit cooking on the stove. Is that what we're eating tonight? Or is this all for Thanksgiving? Are we ordering out? I don't have to do anything, do I?

You do not. Your mom tells you that you should take it easy, even though you were just at college or fucking around at work and have done NOTHING productive as a human being yet. You even get this night off from doing the dishes.

Hey, there's a fire! Let's poke it.

You eat and get shitfaced and go to sleep happy. You wake up the next day and eat some coffee cake (or all of it) and walk around in your T-shirt and warmup pants and make the occasional token effort to help your mom or dad with the cooking. They send you on a miniature grocery run to get some last-minute items and you buy extra beer along the way because BEER. You bring that shit home and WHEW! That sure was hard work! Best you spend the rest of the day off your feet, watching terrible football!

More fire pokin'.

Other relatives/siblings/family friends stream in to the house and you give them a token "So good to see you!" before staring at the TV more. Mom tells you to take a goddamn shower already. You shower and put on a nice sweater. LOOKING GOOD, YOU!

You come downstairs and the turkey's out of the oven and your mom bitches at you for picking at the skin and picking onions off the top of the green bean casserole. Not your fault everything looks so edible, dammit! You make yourself a cocktail and feel super grown-up. Dinner time! Maybe it's at noon or maybe it's at 3 p.m. or whenever your family does it. Your mom wants you all to sit in the dining room even though the dining room sucks and you can't see the TV in there. You keep it on anyway just so you can hear the faint sounds of football-related things while you give thanks and then eat. And eat and eat and eat and eat.

There's nothing keeping you from eating. No spouse to restrain you. No kids monopolizing your time. There is just you and a plate (a canvas to you, really) and a bottomless glass that you can fill with anything you please. You take the best skin parts and big hunks of dark/white (your choice) first because skin is important. Some potatoes. Stuffing. Green bean casserole (if they don't come in casserole form, green beans are useless). Some cranberry sauce. And gravy. Fucking so much gravy. A lake of gravy that threatens to breach the rim of your plate. You didn't mean to load quite that much food on your first go-round, but it's not your fault everything looked good and you didn't want to get screwed over by your dickhead brother hogging the rest even though there is more than enough.

You eat until you feel repulsed by your own excess, and then you eat more because it's Thanksgiving and more eating is what you gotta do. Now it's dessert time! THREE KINDS OF PIE YO. There's apple and pecan and pumpkin and you take a slice of all three and eat the pumpkin first because pumpkin is the best, then you scoop the goo out of the pecan pie and eat that, then get more pumpkin pie because having more of that takes priority over finishing the apple pie even though the apple pie is real solid. It's a blameless victim in all this.

Then you lie on the couch and groan for two straight hours as you kinda watch the game and flutter in and out of consciousness. After that, you've got the whole night to either chill out or maybe go out with friends if they're in town. Then you go upstairs to your childhood room and fall into a long, dark sleep. And then you have a full long weekend ahead of you to eat all the leftovers and drink the rest of the booze and go to the movies and do whatever the fuck you want.

THAT is a maximized Thanksgiving, and you have only a 10- to 15-year window of that kind of ultimate laziness before marriage and kids come and you have to stiffen up a bit. At my age, Thanksgiving is not as relaxing as I would like it to be. It's frantic and messy and I have to steal bites of food in between jamming pieces of turkey into a screaming kid's maw. Half the time, I don't even know what I'm eating. One day, I hope, Thanksgiving will settle back down for me, and I can be my 22-year-old self again and slug about, eating and drinking and scratching my balls as I please without quite so many responsibilities. Maybe it won't be the Turkey Day I once knew, but I'd like to get a little of the old feeling back.

So hear me now: If you're still a fresh-faced young whippersnapper who can indulge yourself in every possible way today, please do so. Do it for me. You are living in your golden age of Thanksgiving and it would be a crime if you actually showed some restraint. This is Thanksgiving, and this is your special Turkey Day Jamboroo ...

GOBBLE GOBBLE MOTHERFUCKER LET'S DO THIS.

The Games

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

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

Five Throwgasms

Saints at Seahawks: Holy shit, this Monday night game is good! It's not like the San Francisco-Washington MNF game earlier this week. You can hear the contempt in Mike Tirico's voice whenever he has to watch a bumbling offense monkeyfart its way through a game. At some point, the suits at ESPN will pull Mike aside and tell him that the NFL would like him to tone it down a bit, and then Tirico will tell them that he would like to throw them on a table and fuck their brains out.

By the way, bonus HOT TAKE points to any columnist who used the Seahawk drug suspensions this week to ask STRONG questions about the potential "drug culture" in the Seattle locker room.

This has become the elephant in the room that the Seahawks can’t control.

So true. Can anyone stop the Carroll Cartel from terrorizing America?

Broncos at Chiefs: My wife made cookies the other day and she tossed the mixing bowl in the sink and filled it with soapy water when there was CLEARLY still enough dough left either to form a final cookie or to eat raw. I can't tolerate this. It's like watching someone leave a child on the side of the road. How can you just let that extra spoonful of dough go to waste? I could have given myself salmonella, girl.

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

Four Throwgasms

Cardinals at Eagles: I did a yoga class for the first time this week because yoga is supposed to be good for your back, but HOLY SHIT. It wasn't even a real class. It was just some beginner DVD. I even made sure to watch Sue, the girl in the back of the room who did the most basic poses for neophytes. No matter. I was not prepared for its arduousness. I should not have selected a DVD geared towards women (it was my wife's), because women can do crazy shit like lick the back of their heels. I need a beginner DVD for the beginner DVD, because that thing put me in a world of hurt. They also asked me to stare at the floor a lot, which prevented me from seeing what the fuck I was supposed to do next. I made it through 20 minutes before collapsing. Everything hurts.

There are four million BROGA pieces out there where the dude is like, "I know yoga's usually for the BITCHES, but I thought I figured I would try it anyway NO HOMO," but I think we've evolved as a species well past that. These yoga poses where you hold the same position for 89 straight minutes are not for pussies.

Bengals at Chargers

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

Three Throwgasms

Raiders at Cowboys: Dez Bryant got into an argument with Giants defender Trumaine McBride last week, with McBride shoving Bryant and getting in his grill. And after the "Dez chews out Romo" affair of a few weeks ago, I watched the altercation imagining that Bryant and McBride were actually engaged in some kind of friendly dance fight that everyone had wildly misinterpreted. I SAID I HOPE YOU HAVE A HAPPY THANKSGIVING MOTHERFUCKER.

Packers at Lions: I need the phrase "runs angry" retired forever. At the very least, I'd like all the angry (downhill) runners countered with an army of HAPPY runners who elude every defender while laughing out loud and skipping through the hole. "Look at Eddie Lacy! He's running downright JUBILANTLY."

Bucs at Panthers: Steve Smith currently sits at No. 22 all time in receiving yards. He's 25th in catches, 42nd in touchdowns, and 26th in all-time yards per game. So he's one of those great players who probably won't end up making the Hall of Fame because his numbers aren't quite gaudy enough. But ohhhh, if he did. I would pay to watch that speech. It would be 20 minutes of taunting every defensive back he ever faced who did NOT make it to Canton. Then he'd punch a baby.

Steelers at Ravens

Titans at Colts

Rams at Niners

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

Two Throwgasms

Giants at Skins: I assume that Washington will show Shanny the door at the end of this season, but they better have made that decision NOW. The worst thing any franchise can do is fire a guy without having any successor in mind. By Week 10 or so, you need to be like, "Oh fuck yeah, we gotta shitcan this guy," then you secretly go sniffing around for WEASEL COACHES who might be interested in jumping aboard, and if the market looks shitty, maybe you change your mind. The worst thing is when you pull an Al Davis and you're just like, "Fire that guy and we'll pick a new guy after I come back from my vacation at the local animal put-down clinic." The coaching market heats up and dies down quickly. You gotta have a plan before you send Shanahan back to the tannery.

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

One Throwgasm

Falcons at Bills: I know it triggered five million easy jokes, but I think it would be kinda awesome if Jon Bon Jovi bought the Bills. First of all, it would keep him from making new music, which is important. Secondly, he's not a living corpse like Ralph Wilson. Thirdly, if things ever went wrong, he could try to make it up to fans by performing live at halftime, only to have a bunch of angry drunken Bills fans pelt him to death with frozen oranges. All of that would be highly amusing. I bet Bon Jovi's full sales pitch to the other owners will be, "I know Bob Kraft! Can I borrow a billion dollars?"

Jaguars at Browns

Bears at Vikings

Dolphins at Jets

Patriots at Texans

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

"Counter Culture Complex," by KEN mode. From Mike:

KEN is an acronym for "Kill Everyone Now." Good times.

I'll add that the above video is excellent. It has everything I want from a metal video: torches, ice caverns .... Actually, that's about it. I just want ice caverns and torches.

Suicide Pick Of The Week

Last week's picks of New Orleans, Kansas City, and Detroit went 1-2 (oh, that seems bad!), making me 26-10 on the year. Once again, we pick three teams for suicide pool and one thing that makes you want to commit suicide. This week's picks are Dallas, Detroit, New England, and the underscore key. I don't know how the underscore key became so widely used—especially when it comes to email addresses and Twitter handles—but it's the worst. It's easy to miss, it's never the first key you think of when you need to guess someone's email or Twitter handle, and it requires using the shift key. If I have to use the shift key, that symbol should be downgraded to "used once every half a century" status. Use a hyphen if you can. Don't make everyone do a stupid underscore key to find you. I fucking hate the underscore key. It makes everything look like an unsolved Hangman game.

Gregg Easterbrook Is A Haughty Dipshit

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

Oh, woe unto you if you're a me-first, camera-hogging, Hollywood mobile quarterback! So sayeth your fair columnist.

Lead by a highly drafted, magazine-cover, college-style quarterback, the Niners are last in the league in passing.

I know! The fact that Colin Kaepernick was drafted high (kinda!) and dared to be on the cover of a magazine means he cares more about himself than football! If only the Niners had someone like Tom Brady, who's never been on a magazine cover of any sort!

Now that defenses have adapted to the flavor of the month, good old vanilla, chocolate and strawberry passing is required. On Sunday night, Peyton Manning and Tom Brady did vanilla, chocolate and strawberry to spectacular effect: Monday night, the flavor of the month was a bust for both teams.

That is the worst thing ever written. In all of human history, with everything ever said on the Internet, and all of the PornHub comments in existence and all the Brony fan fiction ever put to paper, this is the worst of it. It's an ice cream metaphor that has leapt into a Good Humor truck and is now running over a gaggle of schoolchildren. RGIII was just a flash in the pan! But on Sunday night, Tom Brady used that pan for far more effective, low-temperature cooking. We're talking true wilted spinach. Which is also a flavor of the month at certain boutique ice cream shops.

On the subject of those in cleats, reader Kevin Bryan of Chicago reports, "The Pats have been decimated by injuries, leading to a profusion of the sort of undrafted players whom you admire. The current 53-man roster includes 18 undrafted men. There are as many undrafted players on the New England roster as first-, second- and third-round picks combined."

OH GOD SO MANY UNDRAFTED PLAYERS GO THE EFFORT I CAN'T STOP ORGASMING OUT OF MY BUTT AT ALL THE STICKTOITIVENESS.

Late in life, (Frank) Capra said he left Hollywood because "hedonists, bleeding-hearts and God-haters" had taken over.

So ... Jews.

There are few public-policy subjects on which left and right have exchanged positions as emphatically as dam-building.

Oh please ... GO ON! /affixes mouth to leaf blower exhaust pipe, tapes nostrils shut

As the penguins would say, "Hoover damn!"

That's an actual photo caption in the column, and there are no penguins to be found in said photo. So your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he's referring to all the penguins who live in Jacksonville.

Two months ago, yours truly chided the mainstream media for taking seriously claims that a Mars voyage could be accomplished relatively cheaply with private resources.

BAM YOU GOT CHIDED

Also chided was Dennis Tito

NOOOO NOT POOR TITO! Oh, Dennis Tito ... woe unto those who might suffer at the heel of TMQ's lethal chidage. Have mercy on poor Tito!

When the kicking unit trotted in, reader James McCollough of Kelowna, British Columbia, announced "game over." And verily, it came to pass: The final was 45-23

I hope Canada burns.

the Packers Bikini Girls were out in force, shirtless with bikini triangle tops despite the cold. That alone should have pleased the football gods.

Hey, you know what? If that's all you need to please the football gods, then why are they football gods? They are TITTY GODS. Hedonists! Football is completely irrelevant to them so long as they got fresh titties to stare at. MMMM OHHHH UNDRAFTED TITS LEMME PART THEM LIKE THE RED SEA.

My item on the city of Jacksonville giving a $43 million gift to the Jaguars for stadium upgrades, while billionaire Jags owner Shad Khan ponies up only $20 million, originally contained a link to school funding cuts in Jacksonville, Ill. This error made me look like a complete idiot. The link rapidly was replaced with the correct one.

But you didn't note that until just now. The football gods do not take kindly to such hubris.

Years ago when Page 2 still existed and still had a background of yellow kryptonite, your columnist claimed to have drawn up a play that was "100 percent unstoppable." The play was called Blast Gold. A year after the boasting item linked in the previous sentence ran, in a middle-school game I called Blast Gold on fourth-and-short from our own 18, and the result was a touchdown.

Boast boast boast. All TMQ does is boast boast boast about his unstoppable plays named after what is almost certainly a series of gonzo porn films. Well, the Titty Gods frown upon such boastiness. YOU WILL BE CHIDED.

Great Moments In Poop History

Reader Brad sends in this story I call RUN FOR THE POOPER:

Pre-driver's license age, our neighborhood crew of guys would sometimes ride our bikes down to the local shopping center to hit up Subway, Little Caesars, Movie Gallery (video game rentals FTW), or our favorite, Taco Bell. The trip was a decent trek—we would cut through a backyard and into the neighboring subdivision, which was huge, and from there through another backyard and out into the shopping center. On hot summer days we always knew a plunge in the swimming pool awaited us upon our sweaty return. Let it be noted that I was of the "husky" body type back then. One day we chose Taco Bell, as we did many times. After railing who knows how many bean burritos (89 cents), tacos, and cinnamon twists we hopped back on the bikes to head home to that glorious body of water. Not very far into the return ride, the grade D meat was ready to come out. We're just into the big neighborhood next to ours, just came out of the woods from the shopping center. It hits me so hard and fast that I know I can't turn around and make it back to a toilet in the shopping center.

A good buddy of mine lived on the other end of the long street we were on, so I decided I'd knock on the door and his Mom or whoever was home would understand. So I'm pedaling as fast as my "husky" frame would allow, right down the middle of the street. My brother and buddy don't understand the severity and urgency of this situation yet (they would very soon, much to their dismay). Unfortunately, I couldn't even make it a few hundred more yards to my buddy's house. I tossed by bike down, dropped my pants, and shat right in the middle of the street. We're talking suburbia, houses all around. Middle of the day in the summer. My brother and buddy were 20-30 yards ahead of me literally with their jaws dropped. Staring in shock/disgust. I exploded what was so ready in me to get out, wiped with some leaves and hopped back on the bike.

He called it "Think outside the buns," but I like my title better!

Emmitt Smith's Lock of the Week!

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

"This week I like the Tennessee Titans (+4.5) to go into Indy and NIHILATE the Colts! Now, apple pose of nothing, I would like to talk about RGIII. A lotta people are saying that his EMO is getting in the way of the Redskins success. They say he can't be coached. That he doesn't listen. THAT HE'S A ROOF! If that's true, it makes me inconstableable. A real leader cannot be HANDOFFISH or STRUCK UP. He has to be a count bull. Gimpathetic, even. Can't let that EMO get in the way. That's just my two cunts."

Emmitt Smith 2013 record: 4-6-2

This Week In Terrifying Animal News

Hey, you know how most every movie has a "NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED" disclaimer tacked onto the end credits? Turns out that's kind of a lie! The Hollywood Reporter did a full #schlongread treatment on all the ways animals are brutalized on film and TV sets. You will not find a more intricately designed web post in the service of bleeding horse photos.

Fantasy Player Who Deserves to Die A Slow, Painful Death

Stevan Ridley, who has pulled a David Wilson on fantasy owners for two straight weeks. I love it when a running back fumbles and they cut to the angry coach and the announcer is like, "Bill Belichick isn't gonna tolerate fumbling like that! HE WILL SIT YOU DOWN!" I expect Collinsworth to run down on to the field and personally force Ridley to take communion in front of the stadium when that happens. YOU HAVE BROUGHT DISGRACE UPON US ALL, BUTTERFINGERZ.

Fire This Asshole!

Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we'll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year's end or sooner. And now, your potential 2013 chopping block:

  • Leslie Frazier*
  • Greg Schiano
  • Mike Smith
  • Mike Shanahan*
  • Joe Philbin
  • Gary Kubiak*
  • Rex Ryan
  • Tom Coughlin

*-Potential midseason firing

No more asterisk for Greg Schiano, but now that the Bucs have won three straight games and are beginning to give off the illusion of competence (one Tampa writer even demanded Schiano get an extension), I must warn you about the dreaded DEAD TEAM BOUNCE, in which a horrible team scrapes together a few wins once the season has been lost. These are aggressively meaningless wins, and if you put too much stock in them, you are doomed to suffer a second season of Romeo Crennel coaching you.

Gametime Snack Of The Week

The fabled black and white cookie, with is really just a flat cupcake with stale icing. I'm all for flat cupcakes. The cupcake stump is inherently useless. But I dunno ... this cookie ain't as good a cookie as Seinfeld says it is.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Hello Kitty beer! From Doug Sly:

Tastes about as good as you'd expect from a beer who's target demographic is 7-12 year old Japanese girls.

I don't even know how marketing a beer like this can be legal in any country. That beer screams "Pedophile child-luring device". I hope one day to pair it with a My Little Pony oatmeal stout. I MUST HAVE IT.

Robert Evans's MVP Watch!

Time to start thinking about who the leaders will be for the NFL's MVP award. So every week, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

The Golden Age Of Thanksgiving

"Baby, my favorite for NFL MVP is Drew Brees of the Saints! Lotta sizzle around these Hunger Games movies, gang. But to the Kid, those movies are child's play. I saw the real thing! The year: 1982. The place: Cambodia. I was scouting out locations with Francis Coppola for a potential sequel to Apocalypse Now called Apocalypse Then. We were guests of the infamous Pol Pot, who secured us lavish accommodations in one of the many temples he built for himself. Luxurious? YOU BET! A bed frame made entirely out of human skulls? NEVER SEEN THAT BEFORE. After champagne and some of Cambodia's finest female sex slaves, Pol Pot invited us into his private dining room. Said he had a surprise for us, and what a surprise! There, standing before us, were 24 children all between the ages of twelve and eighteen, armed with clubs, axes, and shovels!

"Pot orders us to sit down, and I do so in great haste. Then he raises his hand and the kids start beating the shit out of each other! Shocked? MORE LIKE STUNNED. I turned to Coppola and said, 'Frankie, we gotta get outta this place,' and Frankie turns to me and he says, 'Not now, Evans. This is the best acid trip I ever had. We're in Sacramento, right?' The movie was never made."

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Falcons Fans

Gravity, which is every bit as good as everyone says it is, but no one warned me prior to seeing this movie that it would cause RELENTLESS HORRIBLE MOTION SICKNESS. I spent half the time watching this movie hoping that Sandra Bullock would just stop spinning for a moment. If I were trapped in space, the walls of the ISS would be painted in black vomit. I probably shouldn't have had all that Hello Kitty beer before I watched this.

The thing about space that fucks with me, apart from the fact that it makes me think about being dead forever in an endless black void, is that all of the parameters of Earthly living are gone. There's no up or down. Deep in space, there's no day or night. No years. No east or west. There's no foundation to build a sense of time or direction upon. I have a hard time wrapping my brain around that. As a human being, you are biologically engineered to exist on Earth and NO OTHER PLACE, so space is a real mindfuck.

Bonus points to this movie for featuring extended scenes of a woman in compression shorts. All movies and TV shows should feature women in compression shorts at all times, like Corey Stoll's galpal on House of Cards. Really put that show over.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote

"Read your town charter, boy. 'If foodstuff should touch the ground, said foodstuff shall be turned over to the village idiot.' Since I don't see him around...start shoveling!"

Enjoy the games, everyone. And Happy Thanksgiving!


Drew Magary writes for Deadspin and Gawker. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at drew@deadspin.com. You can also buy Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.