Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Email Drew here.
In case you missed it, here’s a clip from last week of that poor schmuck from Utah who dropped the ball, mic-style, before getting into the end zone, which allowed Oregon to return the ball 100 yards back for a 14-point swing…
Oregon, of course, went on to crush Utah in this game. I’ve had a few days to stew on it, and that might be the single biggest fuck-up I’ve seen in football. Not only does Kaelin Clay let go of the ball, but he’s so busy celebrating the touchdown that he doesn’t run back downfield to cover the return. I wanna feel bad for Clay here, but come on. What a fucking moron. He’s not blind! He has the ability to look at the goal line, safely cross it, and then drop the ball. Stop fucking around with the ball before you score, man.
As a SNARKY BLOG SNARKER, I am pre-programmed to automatically disagree with the Baylesses and Cowherds of the world, because they suck and I hate them. But once in a while, there comes a time when I cannot play the contrarian card … when, deep down, my red state instincts kick in and I must agree that the young GLORY BOY showing off before he gets to the end zone got precisely what was coming to him. I have more than a few lingering, old man takes on sports, and I think it’s time to disclose them here:
- You should run to first base. This was an old Phil Mushnick gripe that he beat into the ground, and I hate to agree with him, but it’s true. You’re just leaving runs on the fucking table when you pose at the plate. I object to preening strictly on a strategic basis, and not a moral one.
- No hockey fighting. I don’t need an extra stoppage in play. This rink is cold. Hurry up so I can go home. No one is impressed that you were able to pull the other guy’s jersey over his head.
- Richard Sherman is annoying.
- The standard Gregggggggg blitz complaint: If it’s 3rd and 13, don’t fucking send the house and leave every wideout on the opposing offense in one-on-one coverage. I don’t even bother waiting for the ball to be caught anymore. The second I see my stupid team send in everyone but the fucking Sno Cone guy, it’s a first down. I can write it in my notebook and everything.
- A title really does validate your career.
- Derrick Rose is soft as hell.
- Peyton Manning chokes because he’s a control freak who can’t handle it when every little thing doesn’t go exactly as he planned it.
- Interleague play is dumb and makes the World Series less special.
- Carmelo Anthony is a ball hog.
- Steroids ruined all the cool baseball records and that’s kind of shitty.
- Kobe Bryant is selfish, and even if he breaks the league scoring record, he’ll never be Jordan.
- I hate it when NERDY STAT NERDS devalue the postseason because they say it’s a small sample size and therefore a crapshoot. You know what? FUCK YOU. I’ve spent 38 years of my life investing in the idea of a title meaning something, so don’t bring your cynical sports atheism to my fucking house. I don’t wanna hear another guy complain that a title game is low quality because two wild card teams lucked their way into it. I still like underdogs. They are GRITTY and SCRAPPY and got to the title game because HEART. Stop turding up the punch bowl.
- Tim Tebow wasn’t THAT bad.
- There are too many asshole drunks at the stadium who can’t handle their liquor and make it impossible to bring your kids to the games.
- Rasheed Wallace was a fucking dickface.
- Some athletes, like Jordan, really were, like, MORE competitive.
- You shouldn’t wear earrings on the field of play. What if your earring gets ripped out, man? And your earlobe gets all torn and bloody? GAHHHHHHHH!
- Russell Wilson is running the ball way too much and the only way you can consistently contend in the NFL is with a classic dropback passer.
- Sometimes my wife will wanna talk about scheduling playdates while the game is on and I have to explain that FOOTBALL TIME IS MAN TIME.
I think that’s it. By all means, your old man takes are welcome down in the bowels of Kinja. Go on. Sometimes it feels good to let the Prisco in you come out.
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Eagles at Packers: The beauty of the Chip Kelly offense is that other NFL teams can’t simply copy it, because the Chip Kelly offense consists of Chip Kelly talking into your headset for 15 seconds, telling you where to throw the ball. He’s like a little pilot dude working the controls inside a Giant Mark Sanchez Jaeger bot. God, I would love to hear audio of Kelly working Sanchez’s puppet strings. He could also coach up Sanchez during dates. It would be like watching Roxanne.
KELLY (hiding behind a very large plant): Tell her you’re afraid. You’re afraid of words.
SANCHEZ: I’m afraid of worms, Roxanne! Worms!
Anyway, if you try to replicate Kelly’s offense with, say, Mike Shula, the results probably won’t be the same. Every struggling NFL team tries to grab the latest Belichick peon, and now they’re gonna move onto Kelly’s peons, and it won’t work because, in both cases, the coach IS the system.
By the way, if the Eagles somehow win a Super Bowl with Mark fucking Sanchez at QB, I think that would be the coolest thing ever. Like, Peyton Manning and Tom Brady are out there killing each other to get one more ring, and here comes Sanchez with his new life coach, just kicking the shit out of everyone on the way to a title. I would pay at least two dollars to see that.
Lions at Cardinals: After Carson Palmer tore up his knee last week, the world was treated to this Strong Take from beat writer Kent Somers…
I really don’t know how this kind of press mentality still exists. That Palmer sure was brave to try to walk off a torn ACL, but you know what makes him even braver? THE FACT THAT HE WAS WILLING TO FACE MY POISON PEN! It doesn’t get must more Lupica than that. You’re not a real man until you explain your injury to the dude with the notepad who was hogging all the free Aquafina five minutes before the conference started.
Patriots at Colts: I would like to petition the White House to end ALL Mic’ed Up segments across all sports. The NFL thinks you are so thirsty for the NFL that they need to put a camera and a mic up everyone’s ass, but they’re killing it. The second you put a mic on a player, he knows it. He can’t swear. He can’t be himself. He has to "perform," which is the last thing that should be in your head when you have to run out onto the field and make sure no one breaks your fucking neck. Look at poor Andy Dalton, having to be aware of his own stupidity:
I’m surprised he didn’t throw a million more interceptions that night. Stop mic’ing up people. With the exception of, like, Steve Smith, there’s not a fucking thing I need to hear any athlete ever say.
Seahawks at Chiefs: There have been zero 200-yard rushing games this season. Even after the Seahawks ran for four billion yards against the Giants last week, they distributed the ball evenly enough between Marshawn and Manic Pixie Dream QB to keep either of them from busting the 200 mark. There were three 200-yard games last season, and eight the year before. The last time the NFL went a full season without a dude rushing for over 200 yards in one game was 15 years ago. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!
I’ll tell you what it means: 1) Running backs are still terrible people, and coaches are terrible people for splitting up their workload, and 2) I am being deprived of the chance to jump up and say HOLY SHIT when I see a TODAY’S LEADERS graphic showing a 200-yard rushing performance. I always act like free tacos just showed up at my door when that happens. WOW LOOK AT THAT!
Bengals at Saints: There needs to be some kind of extra penalty for offensive pass interference, because when you shove off of a guy and catch a pass you weren’t supposed to catch, you are a horrible COCKTEASE who has conned America into believing that your Hail Mary was legit. That means you, Jimmy Graham. You dick. A long time ago, a reader here said OPI should be a fucking turnover, and he was right. The offense gets the ball at the spot of the foul. Why not give it to the defense for OPI? I’ll tell you why: Because the NFL is weak and gutless.
Bills at Dolphins: Everyone sent me this Washington Post story from earlier in the week, in which the powers at BIG MAYO (Hellman’s, mostly) are suing to keep the makers of Just Mayo (sounds like the worst fucking thing ever) from calling their product mayo, because it doesn’t have eggs in it and mayonnaise must have eggs in it to be mayonnaise. So let me resolve the issue now: If it’s white and creamy and it’s fucking disgusting, it’s mayo. There. Just Mayo is mayo. Miracle Whip is mayo. It’s all mayo to me, and it’s fucking poison. Look at this tweet…
Look at how much fucking mayo is on that sandwich. How could you possibly need that much fucking mayo on that sandwich? Are you really that desperate for moisture? Ruined a perfectly nice piece of bologna in the process, too. You fucking mayo lovers. Go to hell.
Broncos at Rams: Speaking of the Washington Post, that guy Ben Bradlee died a few weeks ago, and of course there’s nothing journalists love to cover more than the death of a another journalist. Like so…
Whether he was talking about his friend JFK, or Johnson or Nixon, or worrying about the European culture that he loved, or passing on gossip about some errant senator – there was always gossip - he was a man who made life seem better, every time.
Okay, here’s my thing: Why are dead people always praised for gossiping? "Oh, he LOVED to gossip!" You don’t see currently alive people being praised for that. No one is like, "Oh, that Harvey Levin! Great man! LOVES TO GOSSIP! He gossips the right way!" You gotta wait until you are cold and dead in the ground before people take your zeal for unsubstantiated horseshit and spin it into something magical. We should praise people for gossiping while they’re still here. I want brownie points for my unrelenting quest to find out which NFL players have banged other NFL player’s wives.
Texans at Browns: I think Brian Hoyer is pretty good and I am impressed by his quick release. I think that’ll do for the football analysis this week. GOOD NUGGET.
Niners at Giants: I was on the road a couple weeks ago and I had to stop for lunch, and the first joint that came up on the Maps search was a place called Yocco’s Hot Dogs. I am pro-hot dog, so it seemed as good a place as any. Plus … four stars on Yelp! Yelpers are assholes, so four stars must mean it’s decent, right? Well, this is what a Yocco’s hot dog looks like (NOTE: Photo snagged from GIS) …
These were the saddest hot dogs I ever ate. Like, they couldn’t even give me a proper helping of the diarrhea chili. They just streak your hot dog with the diarrhea chili. I want full diarrhea. Anyway, I got where I was going and told some people I ate at Yocco’s and they were like, "Yeah no, don’t eat there." So remember: online reviews are fucking worthless. Even the star rating aggregation is worthless. You are far better off looking at a picture of the food, or a menu, or walking into the joint and then running away in terror.
Vikings at Bears: Something tells me the Vikings will NOT be the third team in a row to hang 50 on the Bears.
Steelers at Titans: Has Jeff Fisher had Botox? He looks botoxed, man. Under that ‘stache, he’s got some suspiciously smoothed out wrinkles. Normally, Fisher looks like one of the henchmen in a 1980s Eddie Murphy action comedy. Now he looks like a HOLLYWOOD GLOREEE BOY.
Falcons at Panthers
Bucs at Magua
Raiders at Chargers
“Lightsaber Cocksucker Blues” by McClusky. From Corbett:
I'm getting old and fat, but if I were ever to start lifting again (would never happen in a million years), I'd do so with McLusky on full blast.
Can’t argue with that. The title of the song alone is worth the price of admission, even if the video appears to have the Quizno’s spongemonkeys in it.
By the way, quick CORRECTION to last week: the video I embedded for Diarrhea Planet’s “Lite Dream” was actually just a bunch of clips from the movie Heavy Metal. I didn’t know this, because I am lame. My deepest apologies to both the makers of Heavy Metal and to Diarrhea Planet. True Diarrhea Planet fans (Poopboys?) would have known better.
Last week’s picks of the Denver, Arizona, Green Bay went 3-0, making me 21-10 for the year. Time again to pick three teams for your suicide pool and one thing that makes you want to commit suicide. This week’s picks are Pittsburgh, Washington, San Francisco, and James Harden’s feet. You already know that James Harden has giant fleas doing high dives off of his skull, but that’s nothing compared to his fucking feet. Google them if you dare. He has bus station hobo feet. What the fuck happened to his feet? Did someone burn his toes off? James Harden has terrifying feet. It’s like watching the salon scene in Dumb & Dumber. Stay away from me with those feet, James Harden.
Also, those Jublia ads for foot fungus medication are the fucking worst. All foot fungus ads should be banned. I never need to see that.
There’s a whole Interstellar section to this week’s TMQ and nope, no I won’t be doing that to myself. Travel through a wormhole? THE AUTHENTIC SCIENCE GODS CHORTLE HOHOHO. By the way, a quick search reveals that “Your Columnist” is used by Gregggggggg five times this week. So now we can cover all of Gregg’s alter egos:
Anyway, here’s fucking Gregg yammering on about how he’s right about something:
Some political consultants say "debt doesn't poll," meaning voters refuse to think about the red-ink issue. Your columnist thinks at either the conscious or subconscious level, voters across the spectrum are spooked by combination of rising debt and no evidence of anything being built.
So true. Your columnist can see inside AND outside the mind of every single American voter. Honestly, why even bother voting when you can have Gregggggg vote for you? You could count on him to scan your mind and vote your conscience on the important issues, like Authentic Wins, and why all first round picks should be immediately jailed, and which aliens get the "Jesus talk."
The premise of every TMQ column is that ONLY Gregg Easterbrook knows the shit Gregg Easterbrook knows. You could be eating breakfast with him (terrible idea), and he’d be like, "For years, your breakfast companion has long touted the idea of eating cereal with milk, and studies now show that Americans are eating more cereal with milk than ever before. Why haven’t the DEBTSTREAM MEDIA covered this more? (farts)"
"This week, I like the Steelers (-5.5) on the road in Tennessippi! I know a lot of people think the Streamers were distractored last week when Justin Beefer showed up to the team faculty. PLEASE. JUSTIN BEEFER ISN’T DISTRACTORING ANYONE. Back when I was with the Cowboys, we had all kinds of sellerbitties visit the team! We had Jorst Clooey visit! We had Delta Burn! And Tom Croops! We had the entire cast of The Simperins! And you like music? Boy, we had mewshittins come to almost every practice! Bell Bin DeFoe! Toni Baxter! Metal Attica! Tone Smoke! Barber Strikesand! NerveAnal! Poouwinny! The Gurve! The Box Junts! Fickki Drain and the Housewhips! EVEN KURLCLITTY! So get out of here with all this Justin Beefer nonsense. I’ll show you REAL sellerbitties!"
2014 Emmitt Smith record: 6-6
A lady in North Carolina was attacked by a wildebeest at a zoo called Zootastic. I do not trust any zoo named Zootastic. That sounds like a for-profit venture where giraffes turn grey after being fed nothing but Reese’s cups while in captivity.
By the way, a wildebeest is clearly a filler animal for that zoo. No one goes to the zoo to see a wildebeest. You go for monkeys and lions and giraffes and elephants and tigers and zebras and pandas. You only check out the wildebeest if every other exhibit is too crowded. "Hey look! No one’s over there! Oh, it’s because it’s a stupid wildebeest."
Have we done Toby Gerhart yet? Is he even alive? Man, someone out there actually drafted Gerhart and thought he might be good. Even I didn’t do that, and my fantasy team is in the fucking gutter. Not drafting Gerhart is the only thing I can hang my hat on.
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 2014 chopping block:
(*potential midseason firing)
I think we can safely remove the title "guru" from Marc Trestman now. Why is it that only the worst coaches get that title? Trestman, Mike Martz, NORV. I don’t want a guru. I just want someone who isn’t a fucking idiot. Also, reader Jeff hates Marvin Lewis:
His coaching record is barely above .500, he's 0-5 in the playoffs, and in the game against Cleveland last night managed to make Adam Schefter opine on Twitter that perhaps Brian Hoyer deserved Andy Dalton money. Ugh.
Meanwhile, Mike Brown doesn't have the balls to fire him or buy him out, and Lewis will never quit. When his contract was up a couple years back, Mike Brown acted like they might not bring Lewis back, while Lewis insinuated that he might not want to coach this awful team anymore. Of course, they both just stared each other down while simultaneously both blinking and not blinking, and signed a new contract. This team is doomed.
Sounds about right. Best coach in team history!
Reader Joe sends in this story I call SUMMA POOP LAUDE:
While in college I was dating this girl who was always on some kind of fad diet (despite not being overweight) and was always trying to eat healthy. Anyway one night we were out late and got pretty fucking hammered and retired to the dorm room. After having sex we both decide that we are starving. All I had in my room was Easy Mac, Tostitos, and some random assortment of candy. She decides to throw the diet thing out the window and we both chow down on the junk food in the room.
Before we go to bed she leaves to go to her room and returns and takes some medicine from her room. She tells me that all that junk food is going to give her terrible cramps in the morning so she's going to take this to help prevent it. I ask if she is sure that it is a good idea to take it with all the alcohol we had been drinking and she says that it will be fine (spoiler alert: it wasn't)
Around 6am I wake up, I feel like dog shit as we had only gone to bed about 2 hours earlier but something is keeping me from falling back asleep. It's at this point that I realize my girlfriend had shit the bed, ALOT. Again these are dorm room beds so the only way for 2 people to sleep in one is essentially to spoon with her ass pressed against my crotch. Both of us are covered in shit. I wake her up and she is immediately hysterical out of embarrassment. Turns out the "medicine" she took the night before was a stool softener so that she wouldn't be cramped in the morning.
I tried to console her for a few minutes but then realized that my roommate had spent the night with another girl but would be back soon as he had to be to work by 9am. We grab a garbage bag and stuff it with our shit covered clothes, the sheets, blankets, and pillow cases. Then we both wrap ourselves in towels and run to bathrooms to shower quickly. We then return to the room and take the garbage bag to the nearest laundramat, while she washes everything on the hottest cycle possible, I drive to the grocery store and buy a jug of anmonia, lysol, and bleach. I then swing back to the laundromat and pick her up with the newly washed sheets and clothes. We return to the room, which reeks, and put all the fans we can find by the window blowing out to get rid of the stench. We scrub the bed, floors, pillow, wall, everything down with the various cleaning supplies. She then goes to her room and gets as many scented candles as she can find and we light and place them all over the room (it looked like Seal was going to shoot a music video). At this point we are so exhausted that we both pass out on the bed we had just re-made.
Within about 25 minutes my roommate walks in (moment of truth) looks around and says "Man it smells great in here, did you guys sleep with all these candles burning, that shit's dangerous." I have never told anyone this story and doubt very much she has either.
Ham. Just one big country ham. I bought a ham Sunday night and baked it. No holiday. No extended family visiting. Just me and a big fucking ham, which my wife and kids didn’t eat that much of. The rest? MINE. I’m picking at it in the morning and making sandwiches with it in the afternoon and cutting off a few pieces for a pre-dinner Hors d'oeuvre. I’ve almost finished it off. It was nine pounds. I AM BECOME HAM. You will never regret having a ham all to yourself.
BEAR BEER! From Tim:
Bear Beer! I found this while in Sierra Leone several months ago (pre-Ebola), although the can said it was brewed in Denmark. The brewer decided to balance the high alcohol content by loading it up with an ungodly amount of sugar. It had the sweetness of children's cough syrup and the flavor profile of a half-drunk 40 that has been lying in the gutter for a week. I tried drinking it while on a boat, but ended up pouring most of it into the ocean. They also make a Bear Stout, which I am pretty sure is diabetes in a can.
Well, it could be worse. It could come in a carton, like Chibuku, the worst beer in Africa. But I do admire the fact that EXTRA STRONG appears three times on that can. They’re not fucking around with Bear Beer. They want you to know that this is a quality beer for killing yourself. I MUST HAVE IT.
Time to start thinking about this season's candidates for the NFL's MVP award. Every week, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.
"Baby, my favorite for MVP is Andrew Luck of the Colts! Now, let me tell you about a dear, dear friend of mine: Russian President Vladimir Putin! Strong? YOU BET! Knows his pictures? YOU’D BE SURPRISED! Whenever Putin comes to America to kidnap teenagers and send them back over to Russia in a shipping container, he always pays a visit to Woodland. And I always make sure to set up a private screening for him! He loves all the great old directors: Hitchcock, Wilder, Ford, Curtiz, Reifenstahl… But do you what movie he loves the most? RED DAWN. Hand to my ticker, baby! He’s seen it at least 50 times! Knows the dialogue by heart! And whenever he watches it at Woodland, he strips down completely naked, has sex with at least three escorts or more, and curses at the screen for the full 90 minutes! IN ENGLISH! I came back from making an old fashioned at the wet bar and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t shouting, 'How you like this, Patrick Swayze? I am fucking American woman and you are dead. IS PUTIN TIME NOW.' Whole other way of experiencing that picture."
Snowpiercer. This was the best movie I’ve seen this year. Granted, I’ve only seen, like, three movies this year. But I doubt I’ll see another movie where people kick the shit out of each other with hatchets on a bullet train. No way Foxcatcher has any scenes like that. I have not seen John Wick, but I assume that movie and Snowpiercer will be the only movies nominated for Best Picture at the end of the year.
God, I hope Greggggg doesn’t see this movie. I will forcibly restrain him from seeing this movie. "Verily, how doth one maintain a 300,000km track on a frozen planet with no outside maintenance?" SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP IT’S PRETEND SHUT UP.
"Okay, let's go over the ground rules. You can't leave first until you chug a beer. Any man scoring has to chug a beer. You have to chug a beer at the top of all odd-numbered innings. Oh, and the fourth inning is the beer inning."
Enjoy the games, everyone.
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can also buy Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.