Fuck Tweetstorms

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Illustration by Jim Cooke

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

I’m gonna show you something awful. Are you ready for something truly awful? I promise that it delivers fully upon its awfulness, and is a perfect, concentrated morsel of internet hate-reading. Okay, here we go…


Jesus fucking Christ.

That’s New Republic editor Jeet Heer—who could answer the phone using his full name and have it be a perfect dad joke—opening up a tweetstorm (Jeetstorm!) that, against all odds, does not end in a RickRoll. He’s dead serious about his incoming Twitter essay… all 18 parts of it! Here’s Turd No. 14 in the series:


Oh, but it gets even worse. Because, as tweetstorm etiquette dictates, other fartsniffers joined into the discussion, like so:



For the moment, I’m gonna put aside why any media outlet would let a dude compose entire essays on Twitter for free instead of writing them for THAT media outlet, if only because it benefits The New Republic to not have takes like this anywhere near its proper site. There are more pressing issues here, like: Who the fuck is this for? How could anyone delude themselves into thinking anyone else could give a shit about reading this? And what did poor Jaws do to deserve getting lumped in here?

Like you, I have been suckered into reading tweetstorms. They usually come with a firm recommendation from someone I trust. “Read the whole thread,” they say, and so I do. It’s not optimal to post an essay in a series of 140-character tidbits, interspersed with replies from Nazi Pepe fuckheads and amateur Tom Friedmans, and yet a tweetstorm will trick your brain into thinking you’re about to read a very, very important missive. Oh wow, this guy couldn’t contain his thoughts to just one tweet! And he was too impatient to get proper editing! He must have some really important shit to get off his chest! I’ve fallen for it. Hell, I’ve almost certainly indulged in the practice myself. If Twitter is like being on a soapbox, then a tweetstorm is like being on a soapbox and having 10 megaphones lined up single-file in front of your mouth. You get to mainline the attention-whoring directly into your bloodstream


And that’s how you end up with Heer—whose avatar looks exactly like someone you don’t want cutting in on a cocktail party discussion doing just that—composing diarrheal tweetstorms virtually every day…


There are a lot of reasons I lost all faith in humanity this year, and tweetstorms certainly don’t help my outlook. Apart from the tab on the top of this page that has my name on it, I can’t think of a better symbol of the ongoing futility of online discourse than some asshole screaming into the void in 48 separate parts.


Tweetstorms have been a subject of ridicule for a while now, and yet that doesn’t stop people from cooking them up, eliciting groans every time they add a number to a post. Even the good ones are worthless. I remember any number of tweetstorms from Elizabeth Warren that supposedly ANNIHILATED Donald Trump. Oh yeah, she really sent him home with his tail between his legs. Did they have any effect? No. Of course not. One good tweetstorm has roughly .00001% of the effectiveness of a live Trump rally. It’s proof that, more than ever, people violently overestimate their own words and thoughts. Everybody wants to think their tweeted musings will lead to change in the tangible world, but they never do. Thoughts are NEVER enough. And everybody should know that by now.

So if you wanna write something, write something. Put it together and put it somewhere where people can see it. Knock yourself out. Get yourself off when someone other than a bot makes a comment. And if you wanna tweet something, tweet it. But don’t try to mash the two forms together into some kind of mutant, asshole form of writing that pleases you and only you. I can smell the vanity from a mile away. In fact, it reminds me of both Doctor Strange and the McKinley assassination. Let me expound on that a bit…(1/?)


The Games

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

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Five Throwgasms

Chiefs at Falcons: The Chiefs ran a 13-play drive with three minutes left at the end of a game and somehow came out of it with a touchdown, and now I’m ready to question EVERYTHING. The way things normally go, they uphold the ruling that Tyreek Hill is down before the goal line, and the clock runs out, and Andy Reid leaves the field with another Andy Reid masterpiece under his XXXXXXXL belt. But no! No, no somehow I have entered an alternate dimension where Reid milks the clock to perfection. I feel dizzy.


Giants at Steelers: Giants-Patriots III is an actual possibility right now. The Giants even have the pass rush to make it happen. What if they beat New England in the Super Bowl AGAIN? I’ll fucking die laughing. I’ll just scream and then there’ll be a cloud of blood mist where I was once sitting. It’s not the worst way to go out tbh.

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Four Throwgasms

Dolphins at Ravens: LeBron James is executive producing a new game show called The Wall. Go look at the video and tell me that isn’t Plinko. It’s Plinko! How the fuck has LeBron not been sued into oblivion by The Price Is Right already? I’m outraged and I don’t even know why.


Bills at Raiders

Bucs at Chargers

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Three Throwgasms

Texans at Packers: I still have questions about Aaron Rodgers’s mystery tent from Monday Night, even though AJ Hawk was kind enough to explain it: 


That’s fine. I get why you’d want to have a tent handy so that a player could go peepee or poopoo without running all the way through the stadium tunnel to the locker room, with any number of brown mishaps possibly occurring along the way. And since Rodgers was hurt during that game, he almost certainly ducked inside the princess castle to get a gallon of Toradol injected directly into his hamstring.


BUT… let’s say he did go in there for a potty break. Look at how small that tent is! You can’t stand in it. I’m not even sure you can sit down inside it and not have you head poke up through the roof. We need to get these men a bigger tent so that they can do their business in comfort. And WHERE do they go if they have to go? Was Rodgers shitting into a ceramic bowl? I’ll be upset if the poor bastard had to waddle into a makeshift army tent to use a chamber pot. That’s not right for a working professional. I hope he wiped his ass with a Surface tablet.

By the way, the Texans should not be allowed to make the playoffs. Even if they “win” their division, there should be a style committee on hand to rule them out on aesthetic grounds. Playoff spots are precious. We can’t waste them on Brock Osweiler and the gang. If the Titans somehow finish behind them (and I already know they’ll find a way to do just that), I demand the committee put them in ahead of Houston anyway.


Panthers at Seahawks: During the last Sunday Night game, they had injury monitors on the sideline and Tirico pointed them out, nearly aping the copy on those Future of Football ads that run during every game broadcast. That’s not a coincidence, folks. THIS GOES ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP! Roger Goodell put those dopey ads on the air, and is now forcing the broadcast talents to regurgitate all his talking points about the NFL’s proactivity when it comes to player safety. Meanwhile, the concussion protocol still consists of an intern forcing a brain-addled player to complete a maze on a Denny’s kiddie placemat.

Cowboys at Vikings: I’m now at the “embarrassed my team is playing on national television” stage of the season. That’s always a rough a moment, when you know your team is going to eat shit in front of EVERYONE, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I wanna hide my team. I wanna give them wrong directions to the stadium and hope they don’t figure out the ruse until the game has already been forfeited.


And I was so, so proud earlier this season, too. Things started off so well. There was that little glimmer of hope that this might be “it.” Every fan of a star-crossed team knows that feeling, when you don’t want to buy in, but you kinda do because things SEEM different this time. This time, your team has been blessed by a magic fairy who will open up every running lane and trip every opposing wideout using a Hold Person spell. I was nearly there. I was ready to become fully deluded. And why not? We’re coming out of a year where both the Chicago Cubs and the city of Cleveland—the losingest losers who have ever lost—won it all. That should cure anyone of their belief in cursed and jinxes and bad juju.

But I wasn’t entirely convinced. A friend of mine started talking about Minnesota going to the Super Bowl and I told him to shut his face, because I am old and bitter and have seen this movie before. He disagreed, basically arguing that fatalism among fans is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you keep expecting them to fail, then they probably will. But if you BELIEVE… if you summon confidence in your team in the face of history, then that confidence will somehow be absorbed by them, and things will go better.


Turns out he was wrong. That’s all bullshit. Hope is for suckers. Confidence is for other, luckier people. Optimism is a luxury for the spoiled. From now on, I embrace my fatalism entirely. Fuck this goddamn team.

Lions at Saints

Skins at Cardinals

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Two Throwgasms

Eagles at Bengals: I was on the road a while back and I had a joint on me. Normally, if I happen to be in possession of THE GANJA—I hear the kids call it that!—I like to make plans involving that weed. I’ll smoke weed and then listen to music, or smoke weed and then go to the beach and stare at the water (man, look at that water), or smoke weed and then eat my weight in chips, or smoke weed and then drink, or smoke weed and then go to a concert, or smoke weed and then watch Planet Earth and marvel at, like, nature and shit. You can pair weed with pretty much any activity and have it come out swimmingly.


But I didn’t do any of those things. It was 8 p.m. but I was on the West Coast and already exhausted from jet lag. So you know what I did? I smoked that J and then went right to bed. No music. No TV. No extra booze. I didn’t even beat off. No, wait… (remembers)… okay I definitely beat off. But other than that, NOTHING. I sank into the hotel bed and closed my eyes and everything was fluffy and warm and wonderful. I fell asleep within seconds—which is a big deal when you’re 40 and even basic functions like sleep can be a struggle—and I woke up the next morning feeling like a goddamn champ. I should do this more often. We all should! Let’s all resolve to smoke more weed just before bedtime. Smoking weed before bed rules.

Rams at Patriots

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One Throwgasm

Broncos at Jaguars: Speaking of sleep, I was drunk with a bunch of friends (different night than the weed night) and we came to realize that we all had the exact same sleeping habit of sticking one foot out from under the covers. Not both feet. Just one. I like sticking one leg out from the comforter as a kind of temperature grounding. If I’m hot, the exposed foot keeps me cool. If I’m cold, the exposed foot… well, it does nothing. Still, I like having it out there. If a burglar every broke into our room I would at least have one part of my body already out and ready to FIGHT.


Jets at Colts

Niners at Bears

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

“Son of Sam,” by Violent Soho! OH FUCK YEAH THIS IS WHAT I’M ABOUT. From Zach:

As someone who clearly appreciates a kickass rock song, you should try Violent Soho. I can’t recommend their whole catalog highly enough. But this one is the most for running through brick walls. I’m gonna defend the video beyond saying that they’re an Aussie band that isn’t huge outside their home country. It looks like one of their “mates” filmed it on VHS for them in 1997. Regardless, it kicks ass.


It sure as hell does. I don’t even have a problem with the video. Music videos SHOULD be cheap. I want you spending money on drugs and amps and not GLORY BOY directors. Every video should look like it was filmed in 1992.

Gregg Easterbrook Memorial Haughty Dipshit Of The Week

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Ladies, meet Andy Prosserman…

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That’s a grown man cradling a fucking head of kale. Did I mention that, like Jeet Heer, Andy is Canadian? Suddenly I feel much better about Trump being President. Anyway, this Thirsty Kale Ally was part of a Toronto Star article about the difficulties women face when they want to get sterilized. But that wasn’t a problem for Andy. No, Andy got his tubes tied straight away and can now enjoy the finer things in life. Why DID Andy want to be sterilized? And why is that such a positive development for the rest of us?

The 31-year-old Torontonian commemorated his recent vasectomy with a celebratory photo shoot. In one photo, he tenderly cradles a head of kale like a green, leafy infant. In others, he clutches a bottle of scotch, a Nintendo controller, and his Canadian passport — all things he’ll have time to enjoy in the absence of parental responsibilities.


Can’t argue with a man who wants to make more time for drinking and video games, really. But Prosserman isn’t alone in needing to spend more time with fibrous greens. He’s another dirty Canadian explaining his choice:

“I want to travel, I want to open a small brewery, I want to ride across the continent on my motorcycle, and kids just don’t fit into that.”


“Guys, I don’t have time for kids. I have HUGE plans. I want to, like, start a grow room. I also want to do some of the things that, like, Steve Jobs did. It simply wouldn’t be fair to raise a child in that kind of whirlwind environment.”

In other take news, here’s syndicated columnist Christine M. Flowers, who has some TOUGH LOVE for people upset about the coming Trump Presidency:

I won’t legitimize illegitimate fears

Oh yeah. That’s the shit. We’re already in good hands.

“You’re white, Christine. You don’t get it.”

“You’re straight, Christine. You don’t get it.”

“You’re not a Muslim, Christine. You don’t get it.”

“You’re a citizen, Christine. You don’t get it.”

Lot of people seem to think that Christine does not get it. But what if I told you that THEY were the ones who don’t get it? What would you think of that little twist?

I apparently don’t “get” why people were trembling and angry and marching after Donald Trump’s presidential election victory because I am not a part of a vulnerable group, at least to the extent that vulnerable encompasses race, religion, sexual orientation and Hillary Clinton voters…In some of the Facebook groups to which I belong…


You don’t say.

I am persona non grating on every blessed nerve because I refuse to let testy women tell me that I’m blinded by white privilege, cisgender privilege, U.S. passport privilege and all the other “privileges” the good fairies dumped in my bassinet when I was just a mewling infant.

Not impressed, not buying your hysteria, not bowing and scraping in acquiescence to your pain.


Finally, someone is here to tell it like it is: That everyone is a pussy, and that compassion is for the weak and useless. Sorry I don’t “get” date rape, folks. Take your concern trolling elsewhere!

I get that there are some serious issues that need to be addressed, particularly in the field of immigration, and I do not doubt the genuine distress that some of the good people in this country are feeling about imminent deportation.


Oh okay, so what the fuck was that Bob Knight routine above?

As an immigration lawyer…


I’m dealing with it and I’m ready to stand between Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents and my clients and use every legal weapon at my disposal. I do not underestimate the panic.


Sorry, folks. Not gonna buy your hysteria. Take it elsewhere. Also, I TOTALLY get why you’re scared of the man who said he would deport everyone deporting everyone.

I have no time for actors on Broadway who think it’s important to lecture future vice presidents.

And if you have a problem with my lack of empathy, you might not want to continue reading, because it really gets good.


I stopped reading.

Curt Schilling’s Facebook Lock Of The Week: Giants (+6)

Meme by Patty Red
Meme by Patty Red

Schilling 2016 record: 6-5-1 (red hot!)

Fantasy Player Who Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

Allen Robinson and the majority of the Jacksonville offense. Why are you all so fucking terrible? I understand the Jags being 2-9, because that’s what the Jags do. But usually they pile up enough garbage-time stats to justify their existence. This season, they can’t even extend me THAT courtesy. It’s a disgrace. We’re long overdue for this pathetic team to be liquidated so that I never have to hear from them or their stupid Duval County fans with their inferiority complexes ever again.


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 2016 chopping block:

John Fox

Jeff Fisher*****

Mike McCarthy

Ron Rivera

Marvin Lewis

Todd Bowles

Hue Jackson

Gus Bradley*

Chip Kelly

Bill O’Brien

Gary Kubiak

Mike Tomlin

Chuck Pagano

(*-potential midseason firing)

I can pretty much guarantee that the Bengals don’t fire Marvin Lewis because they never have and they never will. It’s the perfect arrangement, really. They sign him to a one-year extension every year, and he’s always forced to take it because he has nowhere else to go. They’re so perfectly cheap and miserable together. It’s like the couple you regret inviting over to dinner.


Great Moments In Poop History

Reader Chris sends in this story I call POOPER AND ME:

I went to college in Flint, and the laundry room there was overpriced as all hell, with nothing to do while you waited for the slow machines to clean your clothes. Thankfully, my mom lived relatively close to the campus, so I would take a quick drive down the highway to wash every last piece of clothing I owned every couple weeks. This saved money, but the downside was I had to lug 3 hampers cramped full of clothes across the parking lot and up 4 flights of stairs to my dorm room.

Well, one term I decided to load up on Taco Bell (Mistake number 1) and eat dinner while my clothes were in the dryer. And by load up, I mean load up. Standard Taco Bell order for me at the time was:

· Crunchwrap Supreme

· 4 Spicy Potato Soft Tacos

· Chalupa Supreme

· Caramel Apple Empanada

· Largest Wild Cherry they could legally sell without being sued for causing Diabetic spikes

Ordinarily, my gut could handle this assault, but for whatever reason this Sunday night was different. About halfway home my stomach starts to gurgle uncontrollably. It wasn’t my first time, so I thought I was prepared to weather this like the others. I stomped the accelerator, prayed there were no cops, and finished the drive as quickly as humanly possible.

I threw the car in Park and struggled to unload my three hampers (Mistake Number Two) full of clothes without moving in such a way as to give my GI tract a straight shot. At this point I’m actively sweating, and I haven’t even gotten to the stairs yet. The outside door was electronically locked, and instead of drop everything to fish for my key card I awkwardly raised my leg like a ballerina to get the damn thing to read. There’s a few awkward moments where I have to jump and hold my ass together, but I got it unlocked and tore up the stairs three at a time. A couple pairs of socks tumbled down behind me but there was no time to go back for them.

My hands were shaking as I dug out the key to my room and tried to force it in the lock. I threw the hampers into my room before hauling ass down to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall.

Here’s where I made my final mistake. I chose the bathroom with only two toilets, the rest of the space being used for showers. I kicked in the closest door, only to find that someone had already ruined the toilet. It was filled with putrid contents of shit buried under half a roll of toilet paper. There was no way that thing would flush. There was no way that it could even hold another shit.

But I’d made my choice and the pants flew down as I threw myself upon it and released the kraken. The entire time I prayed that I wouldn’t fill the toilet with so much liquid shit that it overflowed in the gap between lid and bowl. It was a hard 15 minutes, but eventually the sweating and cramps subsided with no spillage and no mess. I’d made it through successfully.

Then, basking in the afterglow, I forgot how clogged the toilet was, and I flushed it.

I don’t know how much water the toilets at school used per flush, but I swear it was easily more than five gallons by the amount of water that immediately cascaded over the edge. Liquid shit and paper geysered out of the damn thing like Ol’ Faithful. And as it sprayed everywhere, I realized I was wearing flipflops. It was all I could do to flee before it got on my feet. At one point, I literally Spider-clung to the wall as I opened the door so I could jump over the toxic mire below me. Only after I emerged into the hallway, leaving the crime scene behind me, did I pat myself down and realize I’d made it through completely unscathed. I was a miracle man.

It was only the next morning, when I got up for class, that I realized what I’d done. Guys in my hall whispered about how they went in last night only to be presented with floors and walls covered in raw human waste, and they had to walk to the other end of the building to take a shit. And the toilet itself was just covered in a black bag, condemned from what I had done to it, not fit for use by any human again. They never fixed it.

After that semester they closed the whole floor due to lack of occupants, and no one needed to use that bathroom anymore. For all I know, it’s still broken and sealed shut to this day, like a proverbial shit Hellmouth.


Still quivering at that Taco Bell order.

Gametime Snack of the Week

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Oysters! The sex food! I think oysters are tasty but it’s clear, at least to me, that Big Swinging Dicks like to order them because A) Sex, B) They’re expensive, and C) Oyster plates are fucking huge. They are the Lincoln Navigators of tableware. Even if you order three oysters, the platter of crushed ice and very small containers of mignonette dip takes up half the goddamn table. These fat cats want to colonize the whole table for themselves with their shellfish towers. I’m sick of it.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

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365! From Cambodia! Reader George sends in this terrifying can of lawless swill:


For 50 cents a can at a local market in Siem Reap, I purchased a number of these fine refreshments. First, as its name implies, it is to be enjoyed ALL 365 DAYS of the year. Which, in Cambodia, means it’s either hot, rainy, or hot and rainy. Second, it’s INSANELY STRONG. In a realistic beer review, I can honestly say it was not that bad. I’d slot it somewhere slightly below Coors Banquet beer on the ratings scale.


I could tolerate that. Gimme six of those and a machine gun and I’ll have me a good time. I MUST HAVE IT.

Jim Tomsula’s Lifehack Of The Week!

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“You know how bones can make a tasty soup? Same thing with gravel. There’s flavor in there. You just gotta be patient.”

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Browns Fans 

Contact. Ever since this movie came out, I remain convinced that there are lots of billionaires who reside permanently in the sky. They’re up there right now… flying around, watching all of us masturbate, treating us like pawns in their sick little game of billionaire chess. SHOW YOURSELVES, CLOUD MOGULS.


Gratuitous Miller’s Crossing Quote

“Maybe that’s why I like you, Tom. I’ve never met anyone who made being a son of a bitch such a point of pride.”


Enjoy the games, everyone.