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Big Daddy Drew's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo previews the upcoming weekend of the NFL every, well, every Thursday afternoon.

The NFL playoffs are a bittersweet time for fans such as myself. Nothing beats a good playoff game, but I know in the back of my mind that this 2007 season is now officially living on borrowed time. It won't be long now before football is gone once again, and I am left alone, bereft, with only a wife, a daughter, and an extended network of family and friends to comfort me. And that blows.


There are now only 11 games left in the NFL season. Spread out over a period of five weeks. That ain't many. Just last weekend, there were sixteen games going on all over the place. Now there are just over half that many left to go. And, if one of them sucks, I can't go flipping around to find a better one. I'm stuck with that shitty Titans-Chargers game, and there's nothing I can do about it. It almost seems unfair.

Seasons tend to go by faster in my old age. I swear it was just days ago that Charlie Frye was the Browns starting quarterback, or that the Chargers were in complete disarray, or that Brett Favre's gin-soaked body was blissfully decaying before my very eyes. These days, it feels like Week 1 becomes Week 16 in a relative snap. It gets me thinking that there are a finite number of NFL seasons in my lifetime, and that they are flying by faster than I can keep up with them. And that makes me want to drink. Heavily.


I remember watching the World Series one year. And, after the Series had ended, I heard Pat O'Brien whisper to the audience in the post-game show, "Bad news, baseball fans: baseball season is over." And I remember thinking, "About fucking time. They play 5,000,000 baseball games a year." Not so with the NFL. You only get that shit once a week for a handful of months. And then it's gone. Baseball, by comparison, hangs around like a goddamn plantar wart.

That's why I feel compelled to treat each of these remaining 11 games with great care. To cherish them before they pass by. These are your last games of the year. Savor them, my friends. Savor them like a warm glass of Haffenreffer Private Stock. It's playoff time, bitches!


Playoff Game Picks and Predictions

All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And I'm boldly forging ahead and making picks and predicting EXACTLY what will occur.


Five Throwgasms

Jaguars 28, Steelers 10. Najeh Davenport learns how to metaphorically shit the bed. Big Ben's partially functional nervous system causes him to begin uncontrollably dropping the ball without warning or provocation. Christmas Ape doesn't speak to me for the entire offseason.


Four Throwgasms

Seahawks 31, Redskins 10. They lose by 21! It's a sign from above!


Three Throwgasms

Bucs 24, Giants 16 Underrated Bucs defense helps Eli Manning feel like his old self again. Tom Coughlin blames all his players and you, yes you, the reader, for the loss. Jeff Garcia declares in the post-game show that his teammates all call him Pegboy.


Two Throwgasms

Chargers 37, Titans 3 Norv Turner savors his last playoff victory as a head coach. Chargers GM AJ Smith spends new extension money to build a four-star luxury villa inside his own ass, where he takes up permanent residence. Vince Young dramatically clenches a body part and grimaces.


Playoff Pick Record: 0-0

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

"Midlife Crisis" by Faith No More. Thanks to "Epic," FNM is largely credited with creating the whole rap-rock movement, something I'm quite sure they would like to take back. It's an odd designation, since FNM was such an underrated and wonderfully odd band. You haven't lived until you've listened to Angel Dust WHILE on Angel Dust. Bonus points in this video for the drawing and quartering.


FNM lead singer Mike Patton is a huge fan of menstruation. HUGE fan. Not only is it mentioned in the chorus of "Midlife Crisis," he even wrote a whole song about with his other band, Mr. Bungle. The name of that song? You guessed it. "Bloody Mary. Lyrics, please!

One day God had to get off his ass

He had to walk to the kitchen and get his own glass

To this glass he had to pour his own booze

For this, his woman had to pay the dues

Now all women must pay this terrible bill

That arrives every month against their will

A crescent hang over, half-irritated smirk

Full migraine cramps, and Maxi-pads don't work!


That's so wrong, it's right.

Embarassing Cassingle I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"The Ballad Of Jayne," by LA Guns. LA Guns guitarist Tracii Guns (The extra I is for Intriguing!) was an original member of Guns 'N' Roses (formed by the merging of LA Guns with Axl Rose and Izzy Stradlin's band, Hollywood Rose). But Guns quickly quit the band because he hated Axl and formed a new LA Guns to record this song. Holy shit, did you make a mistake, Tracii. Surely it was worth enduring the occasional broken bottle attack from Axl to stick around for some sick, sick "Appetite" royalties.


"The Ballad Of Jayne" was written as a tribute to Jayne Mansfield (link NSFW - Yay, old porn!). But you won't find Mansfield and her extremely large breasts anywhere in the video for this song. Instead you will find a band that kind of looks like Motley Crue but is not Motley Crue playing by a very large pool. You'll also find lead singer Phil Lewis rocking that must-have fashion accessory of the late 80's, the oversized top hat. If you're wearing an oversized top hat, and your name is not Saul Hudson, you are a fucking douche.

More stuff worth pointing out here. The bass player is wearing gloves WHILE he plays the bass. I always thought the bass was the most unchallenging instrument to play, and now I have proof. Also here: Tracii Guns rocking Chrissy Hynde's bangs, and smoking throughout the entire video. Smoking on the set? That guy don't give a fuck about nothin'! (swoons)


Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death

The fantasy season's over, so throughout the playoffs we'll be highlighting one player from each week who's egregious fuckups cost his team the win. For Week 17, that player is Troy Williamson for the Vikings. Fuck you, Troy Williamson. You fucking suck. I'm surprised you can hold onto your toothbrush while brushing your teeth in the morning. I'm surprised you can eat a bite of food without it falling right into your lap. You fuck. I hope the next thing you catch is gonorrhea. And that you don't drop it.

Five Potential Key Injuries

• Jeff Garcia (back)

• Vince Young (hangnail)

• Eli Manning (advanced erraticism)

• Shaun Alexander (Denver Boot around leg)

• Philip Rivers (grief after discovering Nantucket red shorts are missing from locker)


Actual Wild Card Of The Week

Each week until all Wild Card teams are eliminated, I'll be picking an actual Wild Card of the week. This week's is George "The Animal" Steele.


My goodness, he certainly is unorthodox!

Suicide Pick Roundup

Last week's suicide pool pick of Tampa Bay was incorrect. Off the board now are Tampa Bay, Minnesota, Baltimore, Tennessee, Jacksonville, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, New Orleans, San Diego, Cleveland, Washington, Chicago, Seattle, Denver, Dallas, Green Bay and New England. Final record for the year: 10-7. Jesus, that is fucking awful. I said it before, but it bears repeating: Betting in suicide pools is dumb.


No more suicide picks for this year. But I shall leave you with one final way to commit suicide, and that is to close your garage door and leave the engine running. Does this actually work? If so, I'd totally pick this as my way of committing suicide. Carbon monoxide poisoning is an insidious way of dying. You don't even know you're dying. You just nod right off, and BOOM! You're off to meet Gandhi and Dorothy Stratton. Nice. Sounds quick and painless to me. I may try it this weekend, just for fun.

Gametime Snack Of The Week


The classic Chicken Finger Sub. I ordered enough chicken finger subs in college to support the entire Maine economy for two full decades. And I never ate them for a meal. No, no, no. The chicken finger sub was deployed strictly as a between-meal hold-me-over. It's not like I didn't take advantage of the school dining facilities. I did. Often. And it's not as if I didn't eat enough while at the dining hall. It was always all-you-can-eat. They never pulled a Frying Dutchman on me. And yet, I'd inevitably get back to the dorm and have this conversation with my roommate:

ME: What do you want to do?

ROOMMATE: I dunno. Wanna order?


Every college student has their staple go-to food. For some, it's the steak and cheese sub. For others, it's a sausage calzone. College students are very much creatures of habit. Once they settle into a groove with one item on Romeo And Juliet's Pizza And Subs (or whatever your pizza/sub place is called) menu, they stick with it. I was no different. The beauty of the chicken finger sub is that it combines the appeal of a "basket" appetizer with the substantive qualities of a really fucking large sandwich. I was not above ordering one, finishing it, and then immediately ordering another. The delivery guy looks at you real funny when you do that.


Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week


Natural Light. You'll notice that there's a Natural Light beer and a Natural Ice beer (which really does taste like it's had ice melted directly into it), but there is no regular Natural Beer. Perhaps there is a legal reason behind this. Perhaps the ATF requires that Anheuser Busch place a word directly between "natural" and "beer," because I can't think of any LESS natural beer than Natural Light.

For you 12-year-olds reading out there (and Sitemeter indicates that you comprise 98 percent of the reading audience for this column), Natural Light (or Beast) is likely to be the very first beer that you get drunk off of. There are two main reasons for this. One: Natural Light is cheap, and the sibling/senior who is nice enough to get you beer isn't gonna waste good beer on you. The second reason is that businesses that sell Natural Light are 85 percent more likely to employ a person who is unable to read the letters or numerals on a person's ID. As long as you have a shiny hologram on that thing, you should be all set.


Wondering how many beers it takes to get you drunk the first time? I'm glad you asked. When I was a freshman in Minnesota, I got a ride home with a senior from swim practice. If you were wondering what I might have looked like in a Speedo back then, here is a visual indicator:


If there had been rosemary in the pool, I would have been delicious. But I digress: The senior told me I should get drunk some time.

ME: But how many beers does that take?

SENIOR: You? Two beers. Tops.

I was insulted by this assessment. I was a big guy. A really, really, big guy. Very sturdy. Very hefty. Surely I could hold out longer than that. A couple weeks later, I was at my first house party with booze. My friend had managed to get his brother to buy a Coors Light Party Ball for the house. The Party Ball was invented specifically for teenagers too poor to afford a quarter barrel. It was basically a goldfish bowl with a tap. Anyway, this was my opportunity to show everyone I could hold my liquor. After two sips, I was buzzed. After half a cup, I was drunk. After two beers, I was fucking shithoused. I ended up whipping my cock out in front of a girl named Cindy and then threw up onto my cock. I call that move the Traditional English Trifle Cock. Your first drinking experience will likely produce similar results.


For you ladies out there planning on drinking Natural Light, I strongly suggest you put your hair in a ponytail for the evening.

(Ed. Note: Any mention of Natural Light requires a link to this picture of Bryan Leitch.)


Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Dolphins Fans


The Godfather. Let us take a moment to reflect on Kay Adams, the single most gullible chick in the history of cinema. I'd like to talk about two moments in particular. The first is when Kay and Michael are hanging out at Connie's wedding, and Kay asks about Luca Brasi. Michael then tells her this charming little anecdote:

"Luca Brasi held a gun to his head and my father assured him that either his brains, or his signature, would be on the contract. That's a true story."


Okay, well that's rather alarming. Shouldn't you be heading for the exits right about now, Kay?

"That's my family, Kay. It's not me."

Oh well, that's reassuring! You see, Kay, only my FAMILY are murderous thugs. I just happen to share their blood, and therefore many of their characteristics. I'm also extremely close to them. No chance I'll end up just like them!


Fast forward to the scene where Michael, fresh off of returning from Sicily, sneaks up on Kay in the park. And Kay is all like, "Where the fuck have you been? I called and wrote and shit!" Then Michael springs this one on her:

"I mean in five years, the Corleone Family is going to be completely legitimate. Trust me. That's all I can tell you about my business."


Okay, so maybe my family is still garroting people and shooting politicians in the head. But I swear, in FIVE GODDAMN years, we totally will stop doing it cold turkey. That's all I can tell you, sweetheart. Don't go asking me any more than that, or you'll taste the back of my hand. But trust me! I'm good for it!

And what does Kay do after this? She drops everything and gets in the fucking car with him! Are you shitting me, girlfriend? Are you really falling for that, "I came here because I need you. Because I care for you" shit? Listen ladies: when a stoic ex-boyfriend of yours who works for a notorious Sicilian crime syndicate disappears for a year, right after a police chief and gang leader have been slain, without so much as a phone call, then shows up out of the fucking blue one day, won't tell you anything about what happened, and claims he wants to marry you and bear his kids, FUCKING SLEEP ON IT.


What a dumbass. Great flick, though.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote

"The wars of the future will not be fought on the battlefield, or at sea. They will be fought in space, or possibly on top of a very tall mountain. In either case, most of the actual fighting will be done by small robots. And, as you go forth today, remember always your duty is clear: To build and maintain those robots. Thank you."


Halftime Masturbation Kit

• For the guys: A classic Britney Spears photo from an old Esquire magazine shoot. Yes, she's been completely ruined now, and they probably had to Photoshop out 30 extra pounds, 4,000 cellulite dimples and 12 assorted mustard stains from this photo. But when you put a woman in a white sweater and white pumps and nothing else, my peepee can phase all that out. It has a tremendous ability to focus when surrounded by distraction. I could masturbate in the middle of a street riot if necessary.

• For the gals: A shirtless Chris Klein. Chris ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but at least he withdrew from Katie Holmes before the thetans wafted inside of her.

Blatantly False, ProFootballTalk-Style, Fred Edelstein-esque Rumor Of The Week

WE HEAR... that when the Ravens fired Brian Billick, team brass needed three hours to explain the concept to him.


Your Motivational Pregame Quote for The Weekend

"Who wants it more?"

-The NFL's slogan for the playoffs. I don't get it. Doesn't every team pretty much want it the same? If the Jaguars lose to the Patriots, I'm pretty it's because the Patriots were way fucking better, and not because the Jags out-desired them. And why do you even have to advertise the NFL playoffs? Is playoff game awareness some sort of nagging problem? Annoying.

Enjoy the games, everyone.

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