For all the things that there are to love about the NFL—idiotic and wholly unaccountable leadership, a profoundly malfunctioning moral compass, the new rules that no one even knows how to enforce, the whole Nathan Peterman Thing—the purest pleasure it offers is the chance to be wrong as hell about it. There are some things about the NFL that everyone knows are good and fun and worth all the bluster and grossness, but honestly a decent percentage of those wind up busting and being replaced with good things no one expected. The fun stuff is always what we don’t know, and being wrong is what this whole thing is about and mostly where the fun is.
And with the 2018 NFL season now just about here, What We Don’t Know covers just about everything. We know that at some point this season television cameras will capture Bill Belichick looking like he’s passing a kidney stone the size of Rex Burkhead while his team is up by four scores. We can know, with a reasonable amount of certainty, that Aaron Rodgers and Joey Bosa and DeAndre Hopkins and Jalen Ramsey and Alvin Kamara and Khalil Mack are going to fuck some people up and that the Bills and Bucs and the timewarp Gruden-afflicted Raiders are going to fuck up just in general. The rest of it is blue sky, a series of contingencies subject to the whims of dumb rich people and bad rules and a violent game and cruel fate. The natural response to this, of course, is having our resident NFL genius Dom Cosentino onto the podcast so that all of us can kind of talk about what’s coming like we have any idea what’s going to happen, after first talking about sandwiches for what’s honestly a longish period of time.
There is more to this than Drew’s arithmetically plausible NFL picks and deeply conflicted crush on Patrick Mahomes II, though. There is, for one thing, a frank discussion of our extremely exciting and extremely reasonably priced live podcast and Monday Night Football watch-and-bullshit event in Chicago on September 17. There is also all the usual bullshit—the latest on Papa John’s twilight struggle to destroy everything he ever built and also some conjecture about him attempting to snort his sad viscous garlic sauce like a puffier Scarface, the Trump question of the week, and the aforementioned searingly honest talk about sandwiches that have been dipped in meat juice. You are forgiven if all of this—the sandwich talk and the wrongness, the Trump speculation and the Schnatter fixation—sounds familiar. It is, but also it’s different. The NFL is back. Being wrong is fun again.
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