Big Daddy Drew's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo previews the upcoming weekend of the NFL every, well, every Thursday afternoon.
I went to New York last weekend to spend some time with a few friends. I did not bring my wife and kid with me. Any time I have an opportunity to have an evening (or in this case, a whole weekend) alone to myself these days, I take great advantage by abusing the ever-loving shit out of my body: food, alcohol, drugs, hour-long masturbathons, etc. It's the kind of weekend I start off looking forward, and then, once in the throes of it, I immediately begin to regret. That dipshit in the corner of the bar at 3AM who's drooling and rambling on about how much he misses his family? That's me.
To give you an idea of just how poorly I treat myself on such occasions, here are a few highlights from the past jaunt. I'm not doing this to brag. You probably have far more exciting weekends on a regular basis: chock full of casual sex, flagrant law-breaking and such and such. Fuck you. But don't worry. This will all tie back to the NFL for both you and me in just a moment. I assure you.
Friday night I went to Brooklyn for a party at a bar that featured $2 Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. Now, I get drunk at home every weekend. Nothing new there. But I tend to get drunk at home by quaffing glasses of wine and topping off the evening with some bourbon. That's a very relaxed, loose kind of drunk. Very elegant. You can still hold a conversation when you're drunk like that. But getting drunk off cheap beer, particularly one as hip as PBR, produces a notably different sort of drunk. It's the sort of drunk that causes you to tell people just how drunk you are, like so:
Me: Dude, I am fucking HAMMERED.
Me: Dude, where the fuck is MATT? (NOTE: When I drink, I often spend a lot of time asking people where other people are.) I wanna do some fucking KARAOKE. I will own his SHIT.
Stranger: I ... I don't know. I'm sorry.
Me: I gotta piss.
I got drunk to the point where a friend had to lead me out of the bar and hail a cab for me. I enjoyed this, because it meant I didn't have to hail a cab myself, which I dislike.
The next morning I woke up in my friend Jeremy's apartment (not his real name). I had spent the night on an Aerobed, also known in the common vernacular as a fucking raft. From the Aerobed, I rolled onto the floor and then crawled across the room to the toilet to throw up. I have quite the knack for booting loudly. It sounds like someone bailing out a sinking boat. At 7 a.m., this woke up Jeremy, who was sleeping in the room upstairs. He kicked me.
Jeremy: Hey fuckhead, you left vomit on the toilet rim.
Me: Can you get me some Advil?
Me: You're my best friend.
Jeremy: Go fuck yourself.
I began drinking again at lunch. At around 4, I met up with two friends at a bar called Red Rock West. If you've never been, by all means continue your streak. But if you're a douchebag, this is just the place for you. It's one of those bars tended by 16-year-old girls wearing cowboy boots who are purposely drunk, loud and obnoxious to the customers. Ever see Coyote Ugly? Don't. At 4 p.m., this is the most annoying place on the face of the Earth.
To add to the general atmosphere, my friend Paul (not his real name) was being deployed to Saudi Arabia for a year for work. In Saudi Arabia, Americans have to live in gated compounds, and there's no alcohol or prostitution to keep yourself occupied. The Internet is also filtered, so no porn. Thus Paul, who had been drinking since 10 a.m. that morning (and had gone to bed at 6 a.m. after spending the previous night at a tittie bar), would grab me by the lapels every 10 minutes and then yell, for no reason: "WELCOME TO HELL!" I don't think Paul has a very good attitude about all this.
Paul: Dude, you have to send me booze and porn.
Me: I can't do that. Isn't that contraband? Don't they check your mail and shit? I bet they steam open your envelopes, and then they come and chop my dick off for sending you an Andrew Blake movie.
Paul: Oh yeah. I hadn't thought of that.
We left immediately and headed to a normal bar with regular, sane bartenders and proper lumbar support. We then ordered every friend item on the menu, which in turn caused me to spend the majority of the LSU-Kentucky game letting out farts that could legally be declared a biohazard. But, because I was already drunk, I found each successive fart more hysterical than the last. I was the only one who felt this way.
Jeremy: You are a fucking disgusting animal.
Me: (farting) Oh my God, this is goddamn funny.
Jeremy: No, it's not.
From there, we went to a restaurant for dinner. While we waited for the table at the bar, I grabbed a matchbook. I took out a match, lit it and then lit the rest of the matches in the matchbook. I'm 31, mind you. I really did do this. The fucker flared right up and burned the shit out of my finger. The hostess thought about kicking us out for a second, but then just settled for glaring at me. Jeremy grabbed me.
Jeremy: What the fuck is wrong with you? Any time you leave home you turn into a fucking retard?
Me: (still farting) Yeah. Kinda.
This brings us to...
I woke up Sunday morning with a headache. I was also short of breath and had some tightness in my chest. My shoulders hurt when I inhaled. I may have had a mild heart attack. I'm not sure.
And that, good friends, is where the NFL comes into play. Yes, we all enjoy the ideal Sunday scenario of living it up with friends at the bar or enjoying a kickass tailgate party, etcetera, etcetera. But, just as often, we spend our Sundays curled up under a blanket, waiting for God's unmerciful vengeance to eventually subside. No, the NFL won't cure your hangover. But it will nurture you through that hangover, and give you a nice, 10-hour diversion from your quiet suffering.
That's the side of the NFL fan you often don't see. And, if you had seen me on Sunday morning, you would understand wholeheartedly why you don't see it.
All games in the Jambaroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Colts at Jaguars: Hey, the Jags have finally reclaimed their throne as the AFC's emptiest threat! Good for them. As I recall, the Jags ran through the Colts last year like the ASU football team through Courtney Simpson. I bet that makes Bob Sanders madder than shit. I'd stay the fuck away from that guy if I were a Jags running back. He may have a PR-24 on him.
Steelers at Broncos: Travis Henry will apparently be allowed to play through the next three weeks at least. That's three more weeks he gets to completely fuck with your fantasy psyche until you finally have to drop him.
Vikings at Cowboys: The mere presence of Adrian Peterson makes the Vikings about 300 percent more watchable. And really, that's all I ask for. I know my team isn't gonna win the Super Bowl. Most teams aren't. All I ask is that they entertain me. And holy shit, is Purple Jesus fun to watch. Even when the Vikings get throttled, as they will this week.
Titans at Texans: This is a particularly crummy slate of games this week. Instead of ruminating on the rest of them, let us now praise the comedic genius of Mr. JB Smoove, aka the narrator from Pootie Tang, a.k.a., Leon from this season of "Curb Your Enthusiasm".
Some of Leon's choicest quotes from this year:
• "Get in that ass, Larry"
• "I tell you what, I like a girl with a smartass mouth like that."
• "That's that ejacalate."
• "I gets mine! I bring the ruckus to the ladies!"
• "We got some Joe Pepitone up in this motherfucker."
This man is a genius. I kneel before your majesty, JB.
Bucs at Lions
Niners at Giants
Cardinals at Redskins
Jets at Bengals
Ravens at Bills
Rams at Seahawks
Patriots at Dolphins
Falcons at Saints
Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
"Bodysnatchers" by Radiohead. Hey Radiohead, guess how much I decided to pay for your new album? Nothing. Your little reverse psychology bullshit doesn't work on selfish pricks such as myself. Nice try, Thom Yorke. You may fancy yourself a very small man of the people. But we all know you're just Dave Mustaine with shorter hair and a droopy eye. Perhaps this will teach you to show capitalism a little bit more goddamn respect.
I will give this to Radiohead, though. When I named my price of 0.00 (bear in mind that was in pounds sterling, so I got really fucked on the exchange rate), they at least had the courtesy of following through on my offer, and they gave me a darn fine album to boot. Compare this to priceline.com, which might have the most annoying business model in the history of online purchasing. Hey Priceline, you know how much I want to pay for plane tickets? Nothing. I also don't want to pay for the fucking rental car, or the hotel either. So don't give me this "name your own price" horseshit. Your way of doing business is, "Enter $0, then find out we charged $500 to your credit card for a flight from that makes seven stops, one of which is Easter Island." Fuck you. And fuck Shatner.
I like "Bodysnatchers" a lot, especially when the band goes apeshit at the end. I can picture Yorke doing that thing where he shakes his little tiny head from side to side, like it's just about to fall off his body. One day it really will. That would be a neat trick.
Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up
"New Thing" by Enuff Z'nuff. I remember being a kid in the 80's and thinking to myself, "Hey! You know what the world needs? A hippie hair metal band." And lo and behold, my wish was fulfilled. On a scale of 1 to Gay, this video doesn't quite rank up there with "Fly High Michele," but man, it's still pretty damn gay. But Enuff Z'nuff was all about having a good time, man. And I was so down with that when I was 13. Plus, lead singer Chip Z'Nuff (I think that's an Italian name) wore his sunglasses right on the end of his nose. That's rad!
Five Potential Key Injuries
• Vince Young (quad)
• Joey Porter (acute fuckheadedness)
• Kurt Warner (indifferent God)
• Adrian Peterson (Brad Childress)
• Laurence Maroney (wild card)
This Week's Suicide Pick
Last week's suicide pool pick of Chicago was, I'm happy to report, dead fucking wrong. Off the board now are Chicago, Seattle, Denver, Dallas, Green Bay and New England (Record for the year: 4-2). We once again pick a both a suicide pool team and an actual way of committing suicide. This week's pick: Washington, and taking a seat on the ol' Judas Cradle. Ah, the Judas Cradle. It's a kickass torture device and AND a kickass song by Sugar. According to Wikipedia:
The Judas Chair was a pyramid-shaped seat used for torture. The victim was placed on top of it, with the point inserted into their anus or vagina, then very slowly lowered by ropes. Some theories suggest that the intended effect was to stretch the orifice over a long period of time, or to slowly impale.
Stretch the orifice? Troy Aikman would like to order six of them, please. HEY-O!!!!!!
Gametime Snack Of The Week
Ugh. Crudite. Who the fuck eats raw cauliflower? And raw broccoli tastes like my lawn. I'm down with carrots, and peppers, maybe even the occasional sugarsnap. But I am, by and large, against the idea of crudite as legitimate snack. It's the snack for people who desperately want a Ho Ho, but cry every time they look in the mirror. I want to eat healthy, but fuck that. I want a flauta.
Aw, yeah. That's more like it. Mexicans eat flautas, and Mexicans are small. So they must be good for you. I better eat a lot of them to make sure I get all that nutrition.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Bud Select. Put that fucking Chimay down, people, because this is one high-end motherfuckin' beer. Oh, this isn't regular old Budweiser. That's for poor people. No, this is Bud Select, made using only the finest sand and grits. Jay-Z drinks it, and you know how much he did for Cristal's brand image!
Seriously though, who buys this shit? Beer whores like me know this is just that old World Select beer with a black label slapped on it. Did you think no one would notice your tomfoolery, Anheuser Busch? I also like the fact that they package it in Slim Line cans. Because if football fans love anything, it's a vessel that can hold less beer. Ooh! Ooh! It almost looks like a can of Red Bull! That's hip! Yeah, you'd look like real stallion at the game drinking beer out of a miniature can. I'm sure no one would give you shit about that.
Sunday Afternoon Film Of The Week For Rams Fans
Excalibur, which is by far the best serious movie about King Arthur. It's got dudes nailing chicks while still wearing armor, which is eight different kinds of awesome. I want to do that. It makes it look like you're having sex and kicking ass simultaneously. And that is sweet.
Pretty much every other serious King Arthur movie blows. That one with Richard Gere and Sean Connery slap-fighting over Julia Ormond? Totally gay. And The Sword In Stone was a Disney movie, which means all the armor-fucking scenes were left on the drawing board. A real pity. Kids would have dug that.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Haven't you learned anything from that guy who gives those sermons at church?! Captain Whatshisname?! We live in a society of laws! Why do you think I took you to all those Police Academy movies? For fun? Well, I didn't hear anybody laughing! DID YOU?"
Halftime Masturbation Kit
• For the guys: Lucy Pinder. Lucy is British. Makes you wonder why Thom Yorke is so sad.
• For the gals: JFK Jr. replicant Patrick Dempsey. You shit on my house, Dempsey! You shit on my house!
Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week
WE HEAR... that the set of Joe Buck's new late night talk show will employ two industrial strength humidifiers to keep the host's humor at the appropriate level of dryness.
Three Questions Sideline Reporters Should Ask But Won't
• "Peyton! Peyton! How did you spend your bye week? Really? Christ, that's boring."
• "Big Ben? How did you spend your bye week? Really? You didn't know the difference between a subject and a predicate before now?"
• "Coach Cameron, you're now 0-7. When you go to London next week, why fucking return?"
Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend
"If the milk turns out to be sour, I ain't the kinda pussy to drink it."
Enjoy the games, everyone.