Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season.
The NFL season is over! NOOOOOOOOOOOO! Christ, I have no clue what to do with myself. Right after football ends, you can feel the world slow down to a crawl. It’s like a personal mini-apocalypse. From here on out, it’s nothing but cold listless weekends with me lying down in the basement and the kids throwing Legos at the window. The clock moves slower than it used to in Spanish class. I’m bored senseless by 9:30 a.m. There is NOTHING out there for me now. GAHHHHHHHHH I CAN’T TAKE IT!
Anyway, it’s time to close down the Jamboroo for the season, including a thorough and most definitely final breakdown of a terrible, 80,000-word Gregg Easterbrook column. Let’s dig in, shall we?
No more games. No more throwgasms. So very sad. Let’s get right to the random crap:
• Given that CBS had virtually no contingency plan for a half-hour delay on Sunday night, I wonder what would have happened if the game had been delayed any longer. What about a three-hour delay? What then? Would CBS have cut to a rerun of Undercover Boss? I totally bet they would have. What if the power just NEVER came back on? They would have had to suspend the game for the night and then move the action to Houston the next day and it would have been the single worst thing that has ever happened in sports. I kinda wish that had happened. I think the President would have bombed a small island nation just to help us collectively work out our frustration.
• I’m not sure I remember a year where so many new quarterback talents emerged simultaneously. Between Robert Griffin III, Colin Kaepernick, Russell Wilson, and Andrew Luck, it’s an embarrassment of riches out there. There will always be teams that have serious QB problems in any given season (Jets, Cardinals, Jets, Jaguars, Jets, Jets, Jets), but you would be hard pressed to find another point in history when the league was flush with this much talent AT THE QUARTERBACK POSITION. Despite having his worst season from a PR standpoint, Roger Goodell has again managed to stumble ass-backwards into a goldmine. Next season is gonna be fucking crazy.
• I have a kid who’s obsessed with trains, and so I read him train books every night. You can learn a lot about trains reading the same four books over and over again. For example, did you know that there are LEVITATING MAGNET TRAINS?! Here’s a MagLev train in Shanghai that travels at over 250 miles per hour:
Peter King just wet himself. WHY DO WE NOT HAVE HOVER TRAINS HERE IN THE US? We have Amtrak trains that slow to four miles per hour when the engineer sees a particularly bendy piece of track coming up. Meanwhile, the Chinese ARE FLOATING ON FUCKING MAGNETS. This is an outrage!
By the way, that video includes what is arguably the dumbest YouTube comment ever, which is a bold statement, but not so bold when you read it: “You don’t want maglev in the u.s. few of my friends have been on long distance train journeys in the states and all said the people and views were amazing, wouldn’t see much travelling at maglev speeds and wouldn’t have as much time to meet new people,, why ruin it?” Indeed. Why ruin a 27-hour train ride?
• Reader Ben would like to point out this breathtakingly awful passage from Dan Pompei of the Chicago Tribune:
Joe Flacco is a Super Bowl MVP, which puts him in some elite company. But he still is not as elite as the most elite in the NFL. He is not as elite, for instance, as $20-million man Drew Brees. Or $19.2-million man Peyton Manning. Or $15.7-million man Tom Brady. Or $15.2-million man Eli Manning. Or $10.8-million man Aaron Rodgers. You could debate if he is as elite as Ben Roethlisberger or Matt Ryan.
So now not only are we debating the empty concept of eliteness, but now that are various LEVELS of eliteness to which Joe Flacco—who just won a goddamn Super Bowl and didn’t throw a pick in four playoff games—must aspire. You see, Joe Flacco is currently only at Operating Elite Level IV, which does not allow him to move pencils with his mind the way Operating Elite Level XI QBs like Drew Brees can. I’m very excited for the people at First Take to take this topic and run with it.
• I went to the grocery store the other day and they rearranged everything. They switched the bread aisle with the card aisle. They put the yogurt on the opposite side of the dairy aisle. They changed the whole fucking layout. And it wasn’t like they were expanding the store. Apparently, they just move shit around once in a while as a practical joke on customers. I walked in and it was like they had switched the hemispheres of my brain. Do you fuckers know how long it took me to memorize where the curry paste is? Rearranging a grocery store should be illegal.
• One more thing from that blackout post on Monday: I think that NFL analysts know that a TV gig is their only chance to have a high-paying, high-profile job after retiring from football. There’s NO other option for them, apart from perhaps coaching (which no one wants to do because coaching sucks). Once ESPN cuts you loose from its studio crew, that’s it. You’re off the gravy train. No more TV crowds and strip clubs for you. So I think all these guys bend over backwards to make sure they NEVER get cast off. Because after that, it’s nothing but failed real estate ventures and migraine headaches. Fat Keyshawn Johnson has to know that this can’t last forever.
• I punished my kids the other day for making too much noise by erasing all their shit off the DVR. It was the greatest punishment ever. I went from 35 percent free storage to 75 percent free storage in a matter of seconds. I can’t wait for them to fuck up again so that I can clean that shit up. One day, they’ll turn the tables on me on erase all the Chopped episodes from the queue. They will not live to see the next day.
• I lost my padlock at the gym the other day, which happens to me about once a year. The Lock Goblins come and steal the lock right out of my bag, then bring it to the evil Goblin King, who eats padlocks to retain his magic crystal power. Anyway, this meant I had to buy a new lock, which meant I spent a whole week scared shitless that I would forget the new combination and that my shit would end up trapped in my gym locker forever and ever. I wrote the combo on my hand with a Sharpie, and then I worried that a madman would seize me, chop off my hand, decipher the numbers, and THEN steal all my shit. Never lose a padlock. It’s a real mental crisis.
• I’m reading a book called The Disappearing Spoon, and the book notes that if you consume silver, you will come down with a condition called Argyria, which turns your skin blue. And I mean BLUE blue. Look it up on Wikipedia if you dare. It’s fucking terrifying. Picture after picture of people bluer than Grover. Do not eat silver. Sure, it may look delicious, but you will become a Smurf.
• After eating 50 pounds of wings and chili during the Super Bowl, I felt real fat and gross. So when I went to the gym the next day, I switched to the RANDOM setting on one of the elliptical machines. Christ, that is evil. You’re supposed to switch up workouts all the time to keep in shape, but I usually never do that because it’s hard. I’m a MANUAL guy all the way. I bet I’ve burned six calories in the past four years. Remind me to NEVER exert myself while exercising.
Last week: 1-0 (1-0 vs. the spread)
Overall playoff picks: 6-5 (5-6 vs. the spread)
2012 Nazi Shark Playoff Record: 2-2
“Younger Us,” by Japandroids. GIMME THAT NIGHT YOU WERE ALREADY IN BED SAID “FUCK IT” GOT UP TO DRINK WITH ME INSTEAD
/real, real loud guitars
I’d be curious to know the historic success rate for getting out of bed at night to go drinking with friends. I bet the odds for having the night turn out well are low as shit. But when it turns out well, oh man it turns out well.
Chris Culliver. Of course it’s Chris Culliver. I spent the entire second half waiting for the Niners to finally get over the hump and take the lead, but NO. No, Chris Culliver had to be a gaping hole in the Niners secondary. Thanks for ruining everything, you asshole.
Turns out Greggggggg took time away from marathon breakdowns of Rizzoli & Isles to actually watch the Super Bowl. I don’t think Easterbrook actually likes watching football. I think he watches it so that he can fingerblast himself while passing moral judgment upon others. And this final TMQ of the season is a masterpiece of haughtiness, including the single most passive aggressive book recommendation ever. THE FOOTBALL GODS OPEN THEIR ANUSES UPON ITS VISAGE.
When the Baltimore Ravens made it 31-23, your columnist opined, “The ‘77 Cowboys were the only team to reach 30 points and not win the Super Bowl. The Ravens have reached 30 points. They will win.”
IT DOESN’T COUNT UNLESS YOU WRITE IT IN THE NOTEBOOK. Oh, to be in the room when the game finally ended and Gregg helped himself to a massive shit-eating grin simply for predicting that a team up by eight freakin’ points late in the Super Bowl would go on to win the game. WHAT PRESCIENCE.
Stats of the Super Bowl No. 6: Two quarterbacks from Division 1-AA Delaware have started a Super Bowl — Joe Flacco and Rich Gannon — while no quarterback from Ohio State, Oklahoma, Texas or USC ever has.
The lesson is, as usual, to ALWAYS draft quarterbacks from FCS schools. If I’m the Dolphins, I elevate Pat Devlin to starter and pop the bubbly!
Three straight plays from the Baltimore 5, Colin Kaepernick, one of the most dangerous players in the sport, has not rushed. Frank Gore hasn’t touched the ball. Three straight pass attempts to the same guy, (Michael) Crabtree, and all three toward the right corner.
The Crabtree Curse lives on! O HO HO! You Squared Seveners thought you could win a title with 15 first round GLORY MURDERERS?! The Football Gods were merely toying with you! They caused Crabtree to fail to score because good things NEVER happen to bad people.
The (TMQ challenge) winner is R.C. Torres of Eagle Pass, Texas, whose accompanying visual incorporates both Cold Coach = Victory and the all-important concept of cheerleader professionalism.
Take a look at this winning photo. Why is Santa’s leg on fire? I’m so confused. I’ve seen better artwork on episodes of Chuggington.
John Harbaugh’s December decision to install Jim Caldwell as offensive coordinator paid off with higher scoring.
TMQ a month ago: John Harbaugh is a WEASELLY WEASEL FOR WEASELING JIM CALDWELL INTO THE OFFENSIVE WEASELNATOR POSITION.
Everyone’s noting that the gamble of switching to Caldwell as offensive coordinator paid off. As important, Caldwell’s gamble with Baltimore’s offensive tactics paid off.
You mere mortals were busy congratulating John Harbaugh for switching to Jim Caldwell. But TMQ watched tape of Caldwell OFF THE BALL and came to the realization that what Caldwell DID was equally important! See the difference?
Comic books seem tapped out as Hollywood’s gold mine. So how about more toy-based action flicks?
What follows is Gregg offering a HILARIOUS group of theoretical toy-based features. “And then the Go Bots decide to better themselves by attending elite schools!”
Your columnist complains about the Super Bowl, and other public events, in which only the first verse of “America the Beautiful” is sung. Other verses are both poignant and little civics lessons in the good and bad of the American project.
So true. Why not make the buildup to the game even longer by incorporating lyrics that no one pays attention to? ARE YOU PEOPLE REALLY NOT LISTENING TO THE SONG?!
Hmm. I wonder why Greggggg likes these hidden verses so much...
Never-sung lyrics include, “America! America! God mend thine every flaw/Confirm thy soul in self-control/Thy liberty in law,” and, “God shed His grace on thee/Till selfish gain no longer stain/The banner of the free.”
My God! The song sounds like Gregggggg writes! O VERILY, FOOTBALL GODS DOTH SHINE/UPON THE TOUT SWEET LANDS...
Do organizers of public events think Americans are too shallow to entertain such thoughts?
No. I think that there’s a fucking game to play.
Most public servants are honest, while abuse of office ‘twas ever thus, across parties and ideologies.
I bet that sentence looks AWESOME scribbled on the back of Gregg’s copy of the Declaration of Independence. Quick! Someone refill his inkwell! ‘Twas ever thus urgent!
Harbaugh/West went so nuts after the Niners’ fourth-and-goal at the end that it was embarrassing to watch him. He’s the little brother. He should emulate his older brother’s dignity.
Oh, you mean this dignified older brother?
Now that computer-generated graphics have divorced movie making from physical constraints such as gravity, there is way, way too much dangling by the fingertips from skyscrapers, collapsing bridges, exploding jet fighters and so on.
Little children watching such Hollywood JEW-APPROVED NONSENSE will surely lose the respect for gravity that young Americans can and ought to have. They’ll dangle from cliffs and fall and those cliffs will erode and the planet will increase in heat and it will ALL be Christopher Nolan’s doing!
Computer-generated graphics are making these absurdly unrealistic scenes too common, along with jumping from a high object without getting hurt, which is prominent in trailers for the next “Die Hard” flick, and happened in the series finale of the TV show “Human Target.”
Yes, the LEGENDARY Human Target. Join us in the offseason as Gregggggg takes you through the flubs in every episode of “Keen Eddie”.
By the way, ever wonder what Gregg thinks of Randy Moss?
Seeing the pass was high, Moss just stopped and stood there watching the interception, then stood there watching the return. What a punk.
The scum. The maggot. The filthy, repugnant street urchin. Ooooooh, how Gregg loathes you, Randy Moss. The way you STRUT STRUT STRUT and JAW JAW JAW. You are what’s wrong with America! Why can’t you be more like that Welker boy?
Some greatest receiver. He wouldn’t even make my top 10.
Gregg’s top ten receivers of all time:
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Wes Welker
- Phil Loadholt
The monkeys Able and Baker are one of the small haunting stories of the space race. Able developed a medical complication and died shortly after the flight; weirdly, her stuffed body is displayed at the National Air and Space Museum. The museum wouldn’t display the stuffed corpse of an astronaut; why is a dead monkey treated without dignity?
Because it’s a fucking monkey. Whoa, hey, since when did people start stuffing animals and placing them in prominent museums, apart from every natural history museum ever built?
Nate Silver of the 538 blog is a hot name.
His political forecasts are consistently sound. Though Silver did not, as some have said, precisely call the 2012 presidential election.
But you know who did? TMQ. IN 1998.
Sunday, the New York Times ran a full page boldly titled “Nate Silver Picks the Super Bowl!” The article was rich with pseudo-scientific decimal-place ratings of various stuff — but never got around to saying which team would win. Your columnist predicted the winner would be Baltimore by three points. And yea, verily, it came to pass.
And yea, verily, Gregggg Easterbrook ‘twas thusly opened his fly and PISSED upon the repugnantly SOUR SOUR SOUR Nate Silver. Oh, Nate Silver. You strut around with your fancy calculations and your Hollywood friends. Why does the mainstream media continue to lionize this... this... this Johnny Election, when Greggggg has verily been in the game for years? The leading indicators are that Nate Silver is a twat!
Perhaps Twitter will evolve into a form of news communication...
...especially in the developing world, where independent media outlets are rare.
Holy fuck, are you kidding me? You know, maybe one day, this whole social media thing might have an impact in the third world. Maybe in the ARAB world. In the SPRING. TMQ feels comfortable saying that verily, this may pass. See if you can beat that, Nate Silver!
Twitter and similar services seek to recapture the sensation of childhood. When you are little, your parents wanted to know everything happening to you, everyone you spend time with, everything that was said. Once you are an adult, nobody cares about daily details like where you are and what you are talking about. Twitter creates the illusion that not only does someone else care — thousands of people care! Twitter is all about the person sending the tweet, not those who receive it.
TMQ says: Why not tweet a charitable donation instead? Instead all of you are infantilized assholes who NEVER use Twitter for noble purposes. You are sickening. You are ALL children.
You know what this means, don’t you? Gregg Easterbrook is the last adult on Earth. It’s true! While the rest of you are in a state of arrested development (NOTE: “analrapist” is not an actual profession, Hollywood!), Gregg is the lone brave Baptist soul who is committed to bettering himself!
All San Francisco talk in the playoffs has been about whiz kid Colin Kaepernick and the Niners’ college-inspired offense. What jumps out at your columnist is the postseason decline of the Niners’ pass defense.
I know, right? No one talked about Chris Culliver AT ALL last week.
Was secondary coach Ed Donatell distracted by other job possibilities?
INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN WEASEL.
Each year as the season concludes and Tuesday Morning Quarterback signs off, I recommend recent books of high merit.
Yes, and wait until you see what a lucky author is in store for when Gregg “recommends” his book.
Ficton: “Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk” by Ben Fountain. Dark-comedy novel that exaggerates its core point by suggesting Americans are blind to the awfulness of war. Maybe the author’s friends are blind to this! Still, a clever and original work.
“I guess I liked this book. Although (snigger snigger) it certainly restates the obvious, does it not? MAYBE THE AUTHOR’S FRIENDS ARE DUMB KIDS WHO WENT TO MEGABUCKS FOOTBALL FACTORIES. But I suppose it’ll suffice.”
And now, we come to the end of the haughtiness. O fair reader, you and I have suffered Gregggggggg’s nonsense for long enough. I think we all need a long break—and by long, I mean “forever”. No more glory boys. No more verilys. No more 1,000-word recaps of Last Resort. I am Gregggggggxhausted. After the following paragraph, I say NEVERMORE.
As usual, I recommend you employ the offseason to engage in spiritual growth.
Take long walks.
Perform volunteer work.
Go pound sand.
Exercise more and eat less. Drink less soda, more tea: green tea is soothing, oolong tea may lower blood pressure.
The subtext of all these commands (commandments?) is quite obvious: THIS IS WHAT GREGG DOES DURING THE OFFSEASON. He engages in spiritual growth. He purifies his mind and his blood. He becomes even more fully mature than the rest of you disgusting toddlers.
Attend worship services of any faith, bearing in mind Pascal’s wager.
Indeed. Make sure to believe in Jesus. Now let me DAZZLE you with a historical reference to really drive the point home. Somehow, this paragraph gets even worse.
Study philosophy and secular ethics: We spend too much time on economics and science, not enough on ethics.
Philosophy and ethics? Do you want EVERYONE to come out of college unemployable?
Read a book a month. Seriously, you can’t get through a book a month?
YOU ARE NOT READING ENOUGH FOR THE FOOTBALL GODS.
And real books: history, literary novels.
Not those turgid Fifty Shades of Twitter you young folk like so much!
Appreciate the grandeur of nature. Mediate, express gratitude, serve others. Tell the people around you that you love them. Who knows if you will get another chance?
No more. Never again. It’s like the worst graduation speech ever devised. I want to steal money from the poor and indulge in governmental corruption just to rebel against this man. Goodbye, Gregggggggg. Verily, you were fucking horrible.
/writes FISKING OVER in notebook
Reader Kevin sends in this story:
I went to college in the Bronx and junior year three friends and I decided to get a very spacious, very cheap apartment together. It consisted of a first floor, and a basement level, two bathrooms, four bedrooms, and a full, legitimate, stand-alone kitchen. We had just won the lottery.
So turns out, hundreds of rats lived in the walls and in between the floors of that apartment. They got in through a hole near our trash cans and though they could never manage to actually get into the apartment, we could hear them scurrying all around us.
It was pretty nightmarish for the first couple weeks. Obviously our landlord didn’t do a goddamn thing and ignored our phone calls. And we were stupid college kids who didn’t actually know what the next step was, so we just learned to deal with it. The worst was in the basement, where you could hear them in every wall and the ceiling just going fucking bananas. I’m pretty sure there were two rival groups of these things to because shit got VIOLENT sometimes. We would be sitting there watching TV and then one group would attack the other. It was a fucking wave of scurrying and noise from one side of the ceiling to the other. There were screams and crashes, the sound of rats falling in between the walls and then slowly climbing back up for more. It was terrifying, but we slowly gained the ability to just tune it out. We constantly had to convince guests to just ignore the sound. The fact that anyone in that apartment got laid that semester is a fucking miracle (For the record, I was not one of those people).
After a few months of this, the one roommate of ours who slept in the basement bedroom woke up to lots of noise coming from the other room. Thinking it was us, he opened the door. THEY GOT IN. Rats. Fucking everywhere. On the couches, on the tables, running around on the floor. And when I say rats, I mean big ass New York City RATS. Apparently they had been slowly gnawing through the bottom of the staircase and had finally broken through.
My roommate slammed the door shut and, with no cell reception down there, started screaming up to us. Eventually the remaining three of us were standing at the top of the staircase hearing about the situation. After building up enough courage, my roommate made it upstairs and told us he had to go to class (asshole). We, like real man, stayed behind and threw beer cans aimlessly into the basement. Once we were out of beer cans we decided it was time to go to war. We tucked our pants into our socks, grabbed baseball bats, brooms, and a whip (no idea why we owned it, but it was there), and tiptoed downstairs. We flipped the light on and, for a brief second before they fled into every corner of the basement, I saw the most horrific sight of my life. They were fucking everywhere. We aimlessly swung and screamed and ran around like idiots. They scattered. We had taken the field. Step 1: Success.
The next step was placing shitloads of rat traps and poison throughout every square inch of the room. In the initial chaos, a bunch ran back up the hole, but we knew there were a lot still in the room. This ended up being the feeling for the next two weeks. We could never find any of them, and after a while we had to patch up the hole so no more could come down. Now we knew, and I think they knew, the ones that were left were trapped. We ended up finding dead ones (presumably from the poison everywhere) under couch cushions, behind the TV, in closets and bathrooms, and in a coat. Imagine an Easter Egg hunt in hell.
So after a while of this we were pretty confident that we had gotten them all. Then one night we were in my roommate’s backroom watching a movie when we heard shuffling. We grabbed the whip, the broom, and this time my roommate’s machete, and went to investigate. We opened the door and saw this fat fucker stuck to the glue trap placed by what had once been his entrance to our home. My roommate approached slowly and the rat let out the most horrific scream I have ever heard. It’s a sound I can never unhear. You know what I’m talking about if you’ve heard it. It’s traumatizing.
We all screamed back and swung our weapons in the air because we were all terrified pussies. My roommate pushed the trapped rat into a empty beer case and we all triumphantly walked it down the street and threw it in a trashcan, because we were all stoned and that seemed like the best plan at the time.
That was the last live one we saw (found two more dead ones) and we ended up moving out at the end of the semester. The best part? We had to argue with the landlord to give us back the deposit because one of the walls had chipped paint. I never want to hear another person complain about seeing a mouse in their apartment again.
Kinda glad I left New York now.
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 final 2012 chopping block:
- Norv Turner - FIRED!
- Chan Gailey - FIRED!
- Pat Shurmur - FIRED!
- Romeo Crennel - FIRED!
- Andy Reid - FIRED!
- Ken Whisenhunt - FIRED!
- Lovie Smith - FIRED!
- Mike Mularkey - FIRED!
Eight firings. Not a bad year’s work. I don’t know that next year’s firing tally will be able to top it. Surely Jason Garrett, Ron Rivera, Mike Munchak, and Rex Ryan are doomed from the very beginning. But after that, we need help from the Dennis Allens and the Joe Philbins of the world. You can do it, guys! Don’t let America down by being competent at your profession!
Whole peanuts! I feel bad for the dude at Five Guys who has to sweep up all the peanut shells at the end of the day. The floor at that joint must look like an elephant cage by 6 p.m.
I’m a terrible peanut eater. Half the time I try to open the shell and end up crushing the entire nut inside. Other times, I get a peanut with a really thick shell, and I need Hulk Strength just to crack one side of it open. Then I throw the other half away because I’m tired from making an effort. I root around the peanut basket for all the thin-shelled peanuts, plus any triple peanuts. Triple peanuts are good luck!
Budweiser Black Crown, to be referred to now and forever as Bud Goth. Nothing gets me excited to drink beer like a bunch of generic hipster assholes dressed in black drinking a shitty bottle of Bud with a black label stuck on it. It feels like a real grass roots movement in partying and not AT ALL contrived, you know? I want footage of the Williamsburg focus group that InBev conducted. I bet it was a comedic goldmine. I would NEVER drink that shitass Budw...
What’s that? It’s 6.0% ABV? I MUST HAVE IT.
Time to for legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans to formally announce this year’s MVP. Take it away, Mr. Evans.
“Baby, your NFL MVP was Adrian Peterson of the Vikings! And your Super Bowl MVP was Joe Flacco of the Ravens! Two fine young men right out of central casting! I could almost envision them as a buddy cop duo: FLACKS AND THE PETE. Big stunts? YOU BET! A love triangle with Kerry Washington? AS LONG AS THERE’S SHOWER ASS.
“It was yet another fabulous NFL season here at Woodland. Nicholson fell asleep on the massage table no less than 30 times! But now the NFL is back in development hell, and so I bid you farewell for now. It’s off to Majorca for me and Warren Beatty. Last time we were there together, ol’ Beatty accidentally killed a 16-year-old and then drove her car off a cliff! Then he sweet-talked the girl’s grieving parents into letting him sleep with their OTHER daughter! THE OLD RASCAL! Catholics will believe anything.”
Arbitrage. The title of this movie makes it sound like you’re gonna have to watch two lawyers have a lunchtime conversation about patent litigation, but NO! Turns out this movie is fucking awesome. Did you know Laetitia Casta is in this movie? SHE IS! Did you know she plays a tempestuous French mistress? YOU KNOW SHE DOES. Laetitia Casta should be given ALL the mistress roles from now on. And she still looks unreal. It’s like a movie and a Christmas gift all in one. I highly recommend it, even if Richard Gere is a fucking scumbag.
“Your new duties will include: answering Mr. Burns’ phone, preparing his tax return, moistening his eyeballs, assisting with his chewing and swallowing, lying to Congress, and some light typing.”
Happy offseason, everyone. The Jamboroo will be back here in April right before the draft. And don’t forget: starting next week, the Deadspin Funbag expands to TWO days a week, with a live Funbag here every Thursday. See you then.