Fellas I have to leave, this shit sucks.
Photo: Tim Warner (Getty Images)

I’m not saying that you don’t want to get a text message from Drew Magary on a Saturday night. For one thing it’s easily the quietest way to interact with him, and it’s also a good source of breaking news if you are avoiding your computer at a time when a prominent NFL quarterback abruptly plays the Fuck This, Actually card and walks away from the game. It was clear, from the moment that Andrew Luck fired his warning shot at the wobbly colossus that is the contemporary NFL, that it would be something worth talking about on this week’s Deadcast. And as it was texted, so it was eventually spoken:

It was the rest of it that wound up being the challenging part. Our beloved outgoing chief Megan Greenwell would be joining us for one last conversation, that was agreed. But with our equally beloved Mandana out of commission for the week, we had to scramble on every other front—getting the stuff recorded, produced, uploaded, and out to you, the weirdos. A heroic effort from Kirk Hamilton, working from the other side of the country and with, to be kind to those of us on the podcast, a bunch of dippy n00bs, pulled it together (and recorded some interstitial music and ads as needed) heroically, and we are all in his debt. I had to learn how to upload the podcast to the necessary server, but every team needs an emergency quarterback and I have always fancied myself something of a Joe Webb type.

Beyond the still evolving and still strange Andrew Luck Situation, the rest was jarringly normal. We horrified Megan for one last time with our earnest idiocy and feral behaviors, and fielded a batch of Funbag questions that, per the custom, split the difference between “earnest idiocy” and “feral behavior.” This gave Megan plenty of room to sneak in one last appalling food take, and for Drew to share a treasured recipe for Dirtbag Casserole from his dark bachelor years, and for me to address one of my own Instantly Reverting To Feral State classics, a time in which I made a stew for myself on a school night and wound up eating it at 11 p.m. Except for all the improbable and bizarre stuff that made it all so strange and difficult, it was about par for the course. Which is to say: it was par for the course.

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