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Super Bowl Salvation. The Final Jamboroo

Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Find more of his stuff at his Twitter feed.

The following is a very loose account:

-The snow began here in DC on Friday afternoon, with TV and radio stations all across the mid-Atlantic warning everyone to stay inside and not try driving in the snow, because people in the mid-Atlantic can't drive for shit.

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-I live in a house that is susceptible to the occasional power outage, which is fine. They usually don't last long. But I fucking dread blackouts with every fiber of my being. On Friday night, the snowfall totals made a blackout all but inevitable. During the course of the night, I kept waking up every two hours to check to see if my alarm clock was still glowing. At 1AM, it was still glowing. At 3AM, it was still glowing. At 5AM, it stopped glowing. Fuck.

-There is a certain mental protocol I go through with any blackout. Perhaps yours is different. But here is mine:

ONE MINUTE IN: Oh, fuck! Blackout! Maybe it's one of those quick ones where the power comes back on five seconds later.

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FIVE SECONDS LATER: Shit.

FIVE MINUTES IN: Call the power company. The bitchwhore auto voice asks for my account number. "It's right on your monthly statement." WELL I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK THAT IS, LADY. OPERATOR OPERATOR OPERATOR. Did you people know we have no power? I may not be able to watch TV tonight, and that would be a fucking tragedy. I DEMAND YOU PRIORITIZE MY HOME OVER ALL HOSPITALS AND FIRE HOUSES.

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TEN MINUTES IN: Call everyone else. Mom, do you have power? Yes? I fucking hate you. Jack, do you have power? No? Oh, thank God I'm not alone in my suffering. This sucks, am I right?

HALF HOUR IN: It's a law of blackouts that my phone will always be juuuust on the verge of running out of power at the precise moment the blackout hits. What will I do when there are no more illuminated screens to stare at anywhere in the house? HERE COMES THE DRINKING.

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ONE HOUR IN: Okay, power won't be back for a while. Whatever. This'll be fun! We'll light candles and carry around flashlights! And drink wine! And eat fine cheeses! And we'll talk about the kind of things that college professors surely talk in their TV-free homes at night! It'll be romantic, just like Amish living!

TWO HOURS IN: This fucking blows.

THREE HOURS IN: Power flickers back on for exactly one second, then goes back out. Worst tease ever. I'd rather be punched mid-coitus.

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FOUR HOURS IN: What kind of batteries does this flashlight take? D? Oh, Christ. D's. The freak batteries, occupants of the lower rung of battery hell, along with the goddamn 9-volt. There's nothing but AA's in this fucking house. I'll be damned if the remote runs out of juice.

FIVE HOURS IN: There's always that moment during a blackout where you're annoyed that the power hasn't come back, and then you feel like both an asshole and a pussy because you can't go five hours without power while some poor guy in Haiti is trapped underneath seven stories of rubble. They don't even have power in Rwanda, you know. I can suck it up. I really can.

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SIX HOURS IN: NO I CAN'T! GAHHHHH!!! After a few hours of any blackout, I begin to have those daymares of the power NEVER coming back. This is it. Civilization has come to an end. The grids have failed, and we are all on our own now. It won't be long until we must begin foraging for ourselves out in the open, like wild beasts. Soon, we shall all join roving hordes, eating beans out of tin cans found in dumpsters, feasting upon other humans who cross our path and feel the sting of our blades. The time of man has begun its rapid decline. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

SEVEN HOURS IN: There comes a point in any blackout where you feel the same way you feel when you're at work late. If you're at work late enough, you eventually just accept your fate and stop giving a shit. You're not going to go out drinking. You're not going to be able to watch a movie. You're just trapped and fucked. This is about when I hit that wall.

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EIGHT HOURS IN: I ask the Mrs. if she'd rather go without power for 24 hours or me for 24 hours. She says power. She is SO full of shit. Honey, I'd trade you for a working microwave in five seconds flat.

NINE HOURS IN: Better move everything in the fridge and freezer into the snow. If the ham goes bad, I'll never forgive myself.

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TWELVE HOURS IN: Okay, let's do the whole romantic wine with candles thing while we eat cold soup out of can. This will be fun!

FOURTEEN HOURS IN: This is not fun. This house is getting really fucking cold. It's amazing how a normal, warm home can assume Baltimore crackhouse ambience within mere hours of losing power. WE ARE LIVING LIKE FUCKING VERMIN HERE.

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POWER FINALLY BACK ON: Thank fucking CHRIST. Sometimes, the power will go back on during your little romantic candle thing, and you'll happily cast aside that bullshit to turn the TV back on. Regardless of when it goes back on, I'm always eternally grateful I have power to begin with, and then go back to taking it for granted five seconds later.

-So that's the mental protocol. Only our power never came back on last weekend. We spent Friday night sleeping in eight layers of clothing and wool hats. It made me feel like a hobo, in kind of a cool way. I totally wanted to start a fire on the floor of the bedroom.

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This blackout me put my family and I in grave danger… of not being able to watch the Super Bowl. And that would be horrid. I was never going to let that happen. So I said to the Mrs., "We have to get out of here. FOR THE KID'S SAFETY." Or something made up like that. And so, on Sunday morning, we made the decision to make a break from the powerless house and try and get to my in-laws' home ten minutes away. They had power, and television, and hot food. All good things.

-After getting stuck on an unplowed road roughly 73 times on the way to the in-laws, we finally make it. Power. Warmth. Hot chocolate. FUCK AND YES.

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-Mere hours after reaching our in-laws, both my wife and I come down with the single worst case of stomach flu I've ever had. In fact, a little research of the symptoms after the fact reveals the formal name of gastroenteritis, the same illness you get when you're stuck on a cruise ships with a bunch of filthy old people. You do not want gastroenteritis. Every trip to the bathroom presented me with the delightful choice of either pissing my insides out of my ass, or heaving until my throat was dangling out of my mouth. There's no real way you can win with that decision. Either way, it's going to be unpleasant. And it was! My wife, for her part, went to the bathroom, got sick, and fainted. I heaved and shat 900 times and began violently shaking. Usually, throwing up makes you feel better, as when you are shitfaced. You feel bad, throw up, and then PRESTO! You're a new man. You could still hook up tonight! Not so with this. More vomiting just induces more vomiting. My father-in-law, a very good man, walked by the bathroom and saw me, in my boxers, crumpled on the floor, shaking, the toilet rimmed with my filth.

HIM: You don't look good, Drew. Maybe you should go to the hospital.

ME: Super Buhhhhh. Super Buhhhhh…

-My father-in-law looks up home remedies to help cease vomiting, because I cannot stop and have not stopped for hours. He finds that hot water with a teaspoon of cinnamon is said to work. He gives it to me. It seems to work. Thirty seconds later, I throw it all back up. It gives my vomit a pleasant, coffee cakish scent. Nice change of pace.

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-Due to the fact that I was shoveling snow most of Sunday morning, and vomiting most of Sunday afternoon, all of the muscles in my limbs cease working. Quite literally. I lack the power to stand. My hands and feet feel like they are vibrating, which is kind of cool. I cannot decide if I am freezing to death or burning to death. It seems to alternate.

-My daughter also begins throwing up. Sunday was her birthday. Happy Birthday, kid. I got you East African deathworm. There are three toilets in my in-laws home, and they are now all occupied with people puking and shitting their guts out. Now, imagine taking in house guests and seeing them immediately blast fluid out of every orifice of their bodies in your home. That would be unpleasant. And I vomit LOUD. Sounds like I'm going down a roller coaster. HUNHWAAAAAAAAA!!!!! OH GOD HERE COMES ANOTHER ONE HUNHWAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

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-There is a point in any stomach flu in which all you can think about is how fucking sick you are, and that just makes you even more sick. I started throwing up and then I just kept thinking about throwing up, then I thought about shit that would make me want to throw up, like artichoke dip, or aspic, or reading something on Bleacher Report. And thus the cycle continued. You need distractions. You need something to take your mind off of your own twisted insides. And, while I would prefer to never have stomach flu, it's a nice stroke of luck to contract it at the precise moment that the biggest sporting event of year - a broadcast in which even the advertisements, while overrated, make for compelling viewing - is taking place for the next four hours.

-I drag myself on my big fat belly down the stairs to the basement and put the game on. I should be having chili with this game. But that's likely a bad idea. I call Ufford on the phone and he says I sound like I just ran 200 yards. You would think, given my girth, this is how I usually sound when indulging in any physical movement. But this labored breathing is a bit more severe than my usual shit.

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-The game begins and I can barely make out the teams. My father-in-law places a bucket near me on the couch. I don't remember much about the first half, except that the Go Daddy ad was a piece of shit, because it's always a piece of shit.

-I fall asleep during The Who. I am told this was not unusual among even the non-ill.

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-The third quarter begins and I'm still feeling like driftwood when Nantz's voice cracks on the onside kick call, and my eyes blast open. At first, it seems like the Colts were going to recover. Then the Saints turn out to have the ball, and I do the most pathetic little fist pump ever seen. They score, and suddenly a game which started out 10-0 and appeared destined to end boringly and exactly as most everyone predicted, begins to kick ass.

-I started drinking water. Shitloads of it. Even if it came back up, I felt like I needed to do it, lest I pull a Korey Stringer. My body had nothing in it. I keep drinking. I stop puking. My rectum finally retreats back into my body. I'm feeling better just as the game is starting to get really good.

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-By the time Tracy Porter picks off Manning and seals the game, I can finally jump to my feet and say HOLY FUCKING SHIT. The storm in my body has passed, and the Saints are about to become Super Bowl champs. Also, I can go the fuck to bed now.

At last I am fully recovered, my ass no longermaking like a fire hydrant. And so, as we bring this NFL season to close, you will find few folks out there more appreciative of the restorative effect the NFL has both on one's soul and one's digestive tract than I. I thought I was about to fucking die on Sunday. This is because I am a pussy. But, thanks to one kickass final football game of the year, I did NOT die. And I got to see Peyton Manning suck it. So thank you, NFL. Once again, your powers know no bounds. Thank you. A million times, thank you.

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Now come back fucking soon, or I'll be really mad. With all that said, let's close down the Jamboroo.

The Games

None. Time to pack the throwgasms away. Oh, how I will miss you, dear throwgasms. There is only one real plus to the Super Bowl being over, and it is this: No more radio interviews with old assholes who won the Super Bowl for another 51 weeks. God, how I hate that. Every year, all these old pricks descend on radio row to try and claw back into the public consciousness. It's horrible. "Welcome to the program, JEFF BOSTIC! LET'S TALK WITH JEFF BOSTIC FOR AN HOUR! HOW ABOUT THAT SUPER BOWL YOU GUYS WON A ZILLION YEARS AGO, JEFF?" Guhhhhhh.

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In fact, when I listen to sports talk radio, I never want to hear anyone interviewed. Ever. Not players. Not coaches. Certainly not old and crippled players I no longer care about. Interviews are a waste of fucking time. If you're a sports talk radio station, please stop interviewing people and go back to your regular schedule of arguing about sports movies, ranking quarterbacks, and doing all the pointless shit you usually do. That's all I ever want out of a sports talk radio station.

Last Week: 1-0 (1-0 vs. spread)
Postseason: 6-5 (5-6 vs. spread)

Song To Get You Through The Offseason

"California," by Low. No more running through brick walls for a while. One day, when I have a billion dollars and the Jamboroo rights have been licensed in Borneo and 57 other countries, I will spend the entire NFL offseason somewhere warm and pleasant all year round. There, I will drink, eat grilled meats, and smoke pot until my butler tells me it's time to start watching football again.

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Electric Boys Video Of The Week

"All Lips And Hips," by Electric Boys. Few bands can pull off using a sitar successfully. Electric Boys were not one of them. Anyone ever go to a place where there's a belly dancer and get pissed after five minutes that the belly dancer isn't a real stripper? I get like that.

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Open Mailbag Tuesdays
If you want to get into the Deadspin Tuesday Mailbag, a couple pointers. One: Try not to bring up topics from the last mailbag. It's already been covered. Two: Keep it relatively concise, unless you're that dude who knew everything about toilet testing. Three: Keep emailing. Sometimes, shit doesn't make it in simply because I don't have time to get to it. That may seem hard to believe given that my entire life consists of wasting both my time and yours, but it's the truth. Four: Using proper spelling and grammar as best you can. I'm too lazy to capitalize "I" for you. And thank you to all the emailers who have pitched in to that column. It's been a blast, and it'll be here all year round.

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
Pierre Garcon. Nice drop, fucko. And could you maybe try using a condom next time? Paul Shirley doesn't want his tax money paying for your filthy, ball-dropping offspring.

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Nazi Shark's Vegas Futures Lock Of The Week
Lots of sports sites, to demonstrate the arbitrary nature of gambling, like to have animals like monkeys pick games to see if they can outwit their human counterparts. There's no reason we at Deadspin can't also get in on the fun. So we've asked National Socialist German Workers' Party member Rolf, who also happens to be a shark, to pick one game a week. Take it away, Nazi shark.

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"Next year, I like the Dolphins at 40-1 to win Super Bowl 45. There is a new biography of Eva Braun coming out, and I think you will find it illuminating. Did you know both Eva and the Fuhrer loved architecture? It's true! So the next time you go on and on about how badddd Dachau was, maybe you should take a look at the flying buttresses and rethink your opinion."

2009 Nazi Shark Record: 9-11 (1-3 playoffs). 9-11? EERIE.

Great Moments In Poop History
Fear not. Great Moments in Poop isn't going away. It'll be back next week in the Jamboroo's replacement column.

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From reader Sam comes a story I call THREE O'CLOCK POOP:

In 8th grade typing/computer class, all of the computers were situated at the perimeter of the room, which is where we spent most of every class; though usually the first and last 5 minutes or so of each class we'd sit at our desks in middle of the room, like any other normal class.

We'd just got back to our seats in the middle of the room with a few minutes left in class. Everyone's talking, waiting for the bell to ring, when the kid right next to me let out a really loud fart, which a lot of us sitting around him heard, and laughed about. I remember the kid sitting right in front of the farter turning around and exclaiming how utterly nasty the smell was, and said something like, "you better check your pants". A few of us around him then smelled it and it was truly godawful and we let him know about it. Farter then joked, seemingly at least, about how maybe he should check his pants. We thought he was kidding.

Farter then walked up to the teacher's desk at the front of the room and I heard him mutter something to our female teacher about going to the bathroom, and I remember the teacher shaking her head and sternly saying, "please take your seat, the bell is going to ring in a minute". Farter then must have quickly whispered something or made some gesture to her, because he quickly left the room with her permission. Moments after he left, the kid next to me yelled, "OH MY GOD, HE SHIT ON THE FLOOR", while pointing to a huge pile of diarrhea sitting right in front of the teacher's desk where Farter had just been standing. Making matters worse, there were 2 other smaller, but substantial, piles of diarrhea in the aisle between the desks, one of which was a mere few feet from me. Our teacher was at a loss for words, her face beet red, as she tried to calm the students, but to no avail. Bell or not, we all bolted for the door, screaming our heads off. As all the other classes soon emptied out into the hallway, I recall most of us running around to the nonwitnesses, exclaiming how our classmate had just shit his pants/the floor.

8th grade has to be the worst grade ever to do something like that. Kindergarten? No big deal, it happens. 4th grade? Kids would've forgot, forgiven, moved away, etc. Senior year in high school? Classmates would've probably handled it more maturely, and graduation would've been around the corner. But the end of 8th grade? A mere few months before high school begins? When the girls are all starting to put out? When everyone, me included, couldn't be any more immature? Bad timing to shit yourself for sure, as the poor kid was never able to let this down throughout the next 4+ years.

I suppose had he been wearing tighty whities and/or long pants, he would've been able to keep this accident "in house", so i guess the moral of the story is that if you're going to shit yourself in class, don't wear boxers and shorts.

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A sage bit of wisdom from Sam. All you eighth graders out there best heed his words, lest you dribble a trail of poop out of class like some kind of poopy Hansel and Gretl.

Offseason Warming Soup Of The Week

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Chicken soup. Warm. Inoffensive. Saved my ass this week. My actual ass.

During my bout with stomach flu, my mother-in-law baked a birthday cake for my kid, and the smell of it wafted through the house, making me feel even sicker. Such a cruel world when even the smell of golden, delicious cake is enough to turn your stomach.

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Offseason Cheap Beer Of The Week

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Blue Diamond! Described on its website as "Above average". Well, with that kind of endorsement, who are you to resist? From reader DZ:

Your toothpicks story reminds me of a game I used to play in college involving beer and potentiality for major injury/death. We called the game Blue Diamond after the beer we drank. Essentially there was a liquor store in St. Paul on Marshall Ave., the only place in the city you could get the beer. We lived across the street, so copious amounts of Blue Diamond were drunk during our college days.

Anyways our friends rented a house and in their backyard they had a trampoline. The backyard was tiny and basically consisted of this gigantic trampoline and about 10 yards by 4 yards for chairs, grills, hanging out.

One day we invented a game where about 5 of us were jumping on the trampoline some one would shake up a can of Blue Diamond, toss it into the middle of the trampoline and then 5 drunk and high college kids would jump around trying to avoid getting hit by the can. If you got hit you had to immediately roll off the trampoline grab the beer and slam it. Lots of strategery and lots of hilarity.

Also this trampoline was conveniently located next to a very old rusty fence which probably gave us several staph infections.

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I would play that game. Look at that beer. Man, that looks like shit. I MUST HAVE IT. Bonus: Blue Diamond is also the name of the folks who make those delightful smokehouse almonds. I could eat a barrel of those.

Robert Evans' MVP Watch!
Time to start thinking about who the leaders are for the NFL's MVP award in 2010. Legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans joins us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

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"Baby, my favorite for the NFL's MVP next year is… Tony Romo of the Dallas Cowboys! Feisty? You bet! A taste for blondes? Only to match ol' Evans here!

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"Well, the season is over. Time for me to retire to my vacation abode on the exotic island of Mallorca! There, my good friend Jon Voight and I will take in the fresh air, have a game of tennis, enjoy fresh manchego cheese with quince paste, and make love to some of Spain's finest young offerings! Oh, you should see Voight around a young Spanish woman. LIKE AN OWL! Focused? You bet! Vigilant? Always!

"Sometimes, Voight will tell me about his relationship with his daughter, the superstar Angelina Jolie! They don't talk much. I think that hurts him deeply. You can see it in his eyes when he says her name. His whole face just appears to sag. It's like there's a piece of his life that he knows is missing, that he set out to sea long ago that he'll never retrieve. Such a sad thing. I'll never have the heart to tell her I shtupped her during the casting process for Sliver. She didn't make the cut. Not as much of a wildcat as you might think. GIVE ME JENNIFER TILLY ANY DAY!"

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Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Everyone

The Year Of Living Dangerously. Linda Hunt plays a man in this movie. She even won an Oscar for it. I assumed, while watching the entire film, that there was going to be a scene where Hunt's character would be outed as a woman. Because it was a woman playing the character of a man. But no, she plays a little dude the whole way through. I am really, really glad that there was no such scene. "Linda Hunt nude" is about the only phrase that is NOT in my Google search history.

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Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Oh, Smithers, let's not be so cold. His spirit is my collateral."

Halftime Masturbation Kit
-For the guys: Reader bearfan24 wanted to send in the thong shot of Lisa Loeb available online. Hard to complain.
-For the gals: This guy. He's shirtless. Do with it what you will.

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Enjoy the offseason, everyone. And a very, very warm congrats to the Saints and their fans. It's easy to be Mr. Cynic and say anyone who believes a football team can give needed hope to an area devastated by a natrural disaster is a fucking idiot. But a lot of people down there believe exactly that, and who am I to argue? They're the ones who have lost so much. They're the ones who believe the Saints have helped save them. Works for me. See you at the draft Jamboroo in April.

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