Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Email Drew here.
When I was in college, I called a phone sex line one night (this was pre-internet, so phone sex was a somewhat-viable option for the horny teenager) and, after navigating through 18 different voice menus promising me hot action, I got hooked up with a live lady on the other end. I asked her what she was wearing. Of course I did. That's standard phone sex etiquette. And then, when she was done revving me up with an imaginary teddy, she asked ME what I was wearing.
"Urrr durrr I dunno…"
"Do you play football, Harvey?" (Harvey was the name I gave her)
"Do you wear those little… what do you call those strappy things?"
"Yeah. Do you wear a jockstrap?"
"Yeah. I'm wearing that now actually." (Lie.)
"(giggles) That sounds way hot."
"Oh yeah. (giggles)"
Thirty seconds later I was hanging up the phone and cleaning myself off. After that, any time I wore a jock in the locker room, I thought about phone sex. It was an awkward place to be thinking about phone sex.
But that's the thing with a jock: It's a RIDICULOUS piece of equipment. It's a nut bra. If you wear one backwards, it's a dickless thong. There is no other piece of athletic equipment that is as vital to your well-being that is also that silly looking. It's an instant reminder that, like all other guys, you are hairy and pasty and have a zitty ass.
Pretty much every other piece of athletic equipment is cool. Pads are cool. Cleats are cool. Jerseys are way cool. But before you put that shit on, you gotta sheepishly step into a jock, hoist your nuts up, let your ass hang out, and hope no one doused the thing in Liquid Heat. When I was in high school, the equipment manager was in charge of the jocks. You threw your dirty jock in the bin, and then he washed all of them together (possibly using battery acid as detergent), and then issued you a new one. So every jock got worn by every guy. Unless you re-used your jock, which I occasionally did, because I am gross.
But you gotta wear one. You can't just let your dick and balls dangle down for an entire football or soccer or baseball game, exposed in the field of play. Every man's worst fear is to take a line drive to the nuts. A jock lessens the risk of that happening, whether you wear a cup with it or not (no one I played with used a cup; they tend to dig into you). And it keeps your shit CONTAINED. It keeps your balls out of your way, which is good because balls tend to get in the way of everything.
Anyway, I was thinking about this because I got a vasectomy a couple weeks ago and post-vasectomy recovery requires that you wear tight undies or a jock for a full week afterward. And because I had… complications (getting better!)… I had to go buy a bunch of jocks and wear them for two weeks to keep the swelling down. I am never not conscious of the fact that I have one of these things on. I walked outside the other day and my ass felt cold as hell. There are two elastic straps digging in under your cheeks, like the least sexy garter belts in history. Every time my old lady sees me rocking the jock, she has to stifle her laughter. It's not a dignified way of going about your business.
But for the task required, a jock is still the best tool for the job. No one has come up with a better way of protecting the male anatomy from typical male behavior, and they probably won't. Athletes will continue suffering the indignity (and mild delusions of sexiness!) that comes with wearing your standard nut bra, from now through sporting eternity. I asked readers to submit their worst jockstrap horror stories. Here now are a few of them:
7th grade - I'm 4'10", 67 lbs worth of brace-toothed, bespectacled, VO5'd pre-man. We had to take a jock to gym class, even though at the time I had absolutely nothing to strap. Sitting behind me in Latin class was Lou who went through puberty at 8 and probably had been getting laid since he was 10. He reaches into my boy scout back pack, pulls out my jock strap and shouts "Hey, What's this? A pea shooter?" The girls all laughed. I didn't. 50 years later I remember it like it was yesterday. Oh yeah, my mom was the teacher.
During high school football training camp, we buddy started chaffing from his jock strap and developed some raw skin on his taint and balls. He went to the trainer looking for anything to provide some relief. The trainer wasn't around but he found a bottle of skin lotion and applied it generously to the effected area. What my buddy didn't know was that the trainer had packed bio freeze (icy hot) in an empty lotion bottle for his travel bag of supplies. Our training camp was 45 min away at a prep school and we lived in dorms for a week. My buddy missed the remaining practices that day while nursing his balls in the ice bath and spent that night in agony.
My HS gym coach was nicknamed Jocko. He was a retired Army drill sergeant, of course.
In retrospect, his nickname might have been based on the fact he: 1) insisted we all wear jock straps; and 2) personally inspected us for compliance.
We seriously had to line up and pull open the front of our gym shorts while he walked down the line to make sure we were good to go. He'd snap them once in awhile for good measure.
Ah, Catholic HS. I'm sure it didn't mess me up at all.
My dad ran track in college, and was running the 1600m this particular day. Hurdles were set up in the outside lanes in preparation for the next event and when he went wide to pass a guy on the second to last lap, his shorts caught the edge of a hurdle. His shorts ripped completely off and he ran the last 400m in only his jock strap - bare ass and everything. He said he just kept running past the finish line to the locker room, changed, and went back to his apartment without talking to anyone.
Cup checks were a frequent practice ritual. They were administered by a grown-ass-man kicking a child in the nuts. I was the runt of the team, so they never picked on me, which was good because I rarely wore a cup due to the fact that I was 11, and that kind friction would usually give me a totally-unwanted boner.
Since I didn't want anyone to notice my boner, I usually tucked it under the cup and between my legs. I eventually got kicked in the nuts, with a boner tucked under my cup and clenched between my butt cheeks.
The boner broke, and I cried like a girl for a solid 15-20 minutes. I never played organized football again.
One of my goalies seems normal, even well-adjusted, at least outwardly: Stanford undergrad, Northwestern MBA/JD, member of exclusive athletic club. He is not. He plays goalie on our shitty beer league team without a cup, because "he moves better without it." Anyways, this guy pales in comparison to the goalie on our other team, whom I'll call "Teddy."
As a teenager, he took a slap shot that shattered his cup. One of the shards impacted his scrotum, causing a Testicular Hydrocele. He has never had it drained, so his sac is still the size of a large grapefruit, 20 years later.
When I was 10 years old, I decided I wanted to play catcher on my little league baseball team, mostly because I’d get to wear a bunch of cool extra equipment. The league wisely required that I wear a cup while playing this position, so I headed off to the sporting goods store with my parents to purchase my first jock strap and cup. Because I was one of those overgrown kids who always looked about two grade levels older than my classmates, I had mostly grown out of kids clothing and was starting to wear adult sizes already. So sticking with this pattern, my parents bought me the adult sized jock strap and cup combo.
My chubby waist and legs did, indeed, require the adult jock strap, which fit perfectly. The cup, was another matter altogether, though. It was gigantic and didn’t fit me at all. Crouching into position was wickedly painful, as the cup would lodge between my legs and pry them apart, rubbing on my skin the entire time. It was awful. I nonetheless played a quarter of a season in remarkable discomfort before finally breaking down and asking my parents to take me back to the sporting goods store to buy a different sized cup. Why did I wait so long? Because no male–apparently not even a 10-year-old boy–wants to admit that he needs a much smaller device for protecting his genitalia.
Back in junior high/middle school our gym teacher was strict about wearing the gym uniforms every class. If someone happened to forget their uniform after taking them home for a washing over the weekend they would have to borrow "community" gym clothes from the teacher. This included a bright yellow shirt, gray (usually short) shorts, and the required jock strap. If someone were to forget any of these things, they had to be borrowed. If someone had PE at a later hour in the day, there were slim pickins in the community basket. This meant as a 6'5" teenage giant I was stuck wearing small shorts that barely covered my undercheek and a jock that squeezed one nut out of the side of the pouch. This seemed like a worse situation for my testicles, than not wearing a jock strap.
Mr. Gym Teacher made sure nobody got around the jockstrap requirement by doing jock checks on a regular basis. This involved pulling out the side strap from the leg hole to prove a jock was being worn. I guess 13-15 year old kids prefer to have their balls free while doing physical activities, or they just didn't want to wear a jock strap that cupped the balls of 1000 other pre-pubescent boys.
Back in the 80’s I played one year of JV High School Football. Every week the Seniors on the Varsity would pick some guy on the JV to give an atomic-wedgie. Two of them came up to my friend and me. I must have had more fear in my eyes because they decided that I was going to get my peaches sliced that day.
I tried hard to resist the scrambling hands finding and yanking on the jockstrap. The fun continued with the one fellow dragging me around the room by my jock strap yelling and laughing with those around him laughing and yelling too.
That elasticity of that jock strap was never to return so I had to throw it away and practice commando which is not a lot of fun with an “Indian” burn on your taint.
Back when I was about 12 and in little league baseball, I was the catcher for my team. One day, I couldn't find my cup, and it was getting close to game time, so I asked my older brother if I could borrow his. He said no, because he had a hockey game later. But he decided to let me borrow his old cup, which was old and cracked. It bugged me that he was giving me this piece of shit to use, but I sucked it up because my mom was already in the car with my brother ready to leave, so I put it on and left.
Later on during the game, I was sitting behind the plate catching a few errant pitches from my teammate, when the kid pitched one that was low to the ground. I attempted to raise up a bit to catch it on the bounce, only for the ball to spring straight up into my nuts. This wouldn't have been a problem normally, but of course having been using an old, shitty jockstrap, that thing was going to bust at some point, and that point was now. The cup splintered, and while it didn't cut me or even pierce the skin, the pain from the vibrations was excruciating beyond anything I had ever felt in my life up until that time.
Jockstraps were a required part of my high school's gym uniform back in the '80's. I never really gave it much thought until one day as a freshman I decided to get a boner right before gym class. I somehow successfully hid my boner from my classmates as we were changing, but then I was confronted with the fact that there wasn't really enough space in the pouch for it. I couldn't fold it and allowing it to stick out the side of the pouch would just make it obvious I had a boner sticking out of my jock, so I reluctantly let it stick up under the old-school 3-inch elastic waistband. It wasn't comfortable having that elastic pressing against it, but I thought I could manage until it died down and I could discreetly rearrange it.
That day was the day I got to hold the bottom of the rope for the rope-climb ("Two hands, DaveW!") so no discreetly rearranging my package for me. Sure enough, my boner did die down, and when my glans slipped back into my foreskin I thought I'd soon be home free. Did I mention this was an old-school jock with the very bottom of the waistband reinforced with an extra layer of elastic? Yeah, the tip of my foreskin never made it past it. Spent the last 10 minutes of my rope duty feeling like someone was leading me around by the foreskin with a pair of tweezers.
I was playing ice hockey in a decent, not great, rec. league in New York. The pass in our end came to one of the opposing team's point men and I skated up to take away the shot/passing lanes towards the net. Rather than look for other options, he decides to just blast a slapshot directly into my junk. I fold, but don't go down because I'm a hockey player (or I'm insane, take your pick). Now with this particular cup, I had a tendency to slip out, so not only did I take a heavy rubber disk to the groin area, but the cup itself did its best to guillotine my dick. The edges to those things are always padded and rounded, but let me tell you, this does not help.
I played for the baseball team my sophomore year of high school. Ever since I was about 11 or 12, and an errant bounce on a ground ball gave me my first direct nut shot, I was unable to play infield without a cup. I didn't care if a ball hit me in the face, throat, wherever, just not there. Seeing as I played infield, I always wore a cup. I wore it in one of those underwear/jockstrap hybrids. Because I was lazy and also wanted to prevent chafing, I would throw that sucker on over my boxer shorts. It looked ridiculous, but who would ever see, right? One day at practice, our coach made us go outside and run timed laps around the track (because baseball requires too much running of course). It was a hot day, and I was wearing breakaway pants, so I thought it wise to unbutton the bottom 2 buttons on each leg to let some more air in.
So I start running with a group, and since high school is stupidly competitive, I wanted to finish first for no reason. I'm sprinting around the track when I feel a little too much air going up my legs and notice that a couple more buttons have gone. Worried, but almost done with the lap, I figured I could make it without fully depantsing. I was wrong. Right as I crossed the "finish line", one half of my breakaway pants completely breaks away, leaving me in nothing but scrunched up boxers under jockstrap/whitey tighties. You might think a regular jockstrap would have been more embarrassing, but you would have been wrong. The kicker here is that the entire sophomore cheerleading squad (because it had to be the girls in my grade), were practicing inside of the track, right by where the incident occurred. Then the jackass coach called the rest of the team outside to point and laugh at me. The story spread so quickly that even my mom knew by the time I got home and promptly made fun of me. High school is the worst.
As a lacrosse goalie, my "game plan" was always compression shorts, then cup, then jock strap to hold the cup in place. Playing club lacrosse in college, games were usually played severely hungover on Saturday mornings. After a long drive to an away game, I realized I'd forgotten my compression shorts. I stupidly figured that regular old boxers would be fine as a base layer, not thinking the fly on the boxers would cause an issue.
Fast foward to the fourth quarter of some meaningless club game. Some roided out frat guy fires a low-to-high laser that I decide to stop with my crotch while in a deep lunge. On a normal day, a painful "walk it off" experience. On this fateful day, however, Little Kevin had decided he needed a breather, and snuck out through the fly in the boxers. Fratty's shot proceeded to accelerate the inner surface of my cup into my unprotected skin flute. I immediately scooped up the ball (having heroically made the save), chucked it out of bounds, and sprinted into the woods to puke, leaving my team without a goalie and the puzzled referee deciding to simply end the game.
I spent the next several weeks dealing with the swelling and coloration that resembled a Firecracker Popsicle in my pants. My then-girlfriend (now wife) couldn't keep a straight face about it for weeks.
I went out for cross country my sophomore year of high school. My dad took me took an athletic supply store to get running shoes and whatnot, and he threw a teen-size jock strap in the shopping basket too. I was a combination of mortified and confused, and started to protest, but he insisted. I never once put it on. Honestly, who the fuck puts on a jock strap to go running?
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Seahawks at Eagles: Both the Seahawks and Cardinals have three games left against winning teams, plus the Rams, who are terrifying. If the Cardinals somehow hang on to win that division, they'll probably keep Seattle out of the playoffs, in which case everyone else in the NFC playoff field should send Bruce Arians a pie. Because the Cardinals aren't winning jack shit in the playoffs.
Patriots at Chargers: I think I've had enough of Angry Tom Brady sideline shots. They show him yelling on the sidelines and suddenly Twitter is like OOOH HE'S ANGRY NOW HE HAS SUPERPOWERS. He's not the first football player to get angry about stuff, people. Jesus. Show Dez Bryant pissed on the sidelines and people are like WHOA HEY SOMEONE GET CONTROL OF DEZ BEFORE HE ROBS ANOTHER JEWELER. But show Brady doing the same thing and people treat it like he suddenly acquired Super Mario powers.
Also, no complaining about that Bieber/Gronk photo. You people have no right to complain about anything. Try being a Jaguars fan. It's like 9,000 Bieber photos a day.
Cowboys at Bears: You probably won't believe me, but I still think Deion Sanders is really good when he's the second guy on highlight packages. All the other NFL Network analysts like Mooch and LDT are fucking terrible, but Deion's about as close to Barkley as NFL commentary is gonna get, because he'll actually make fun of players and coaches when they do stupid shit (He'll also throw out a token "prayin' for ya!" any time someone gets hurt, regardless of the severity of the injury… if you get your head ripped off on the field and die, Deion will say PRAYIN' FOR YA! and move on like it was nothing). He's still nowhere near close to Barkley, but that's how low the bar for NFL commentary has been set. I mean, look at the alternative:
I don't know what it is about pregame shows that turn normally serious former coaches into needy, failed Vaudeville performers. Get Mooch out of there so he can go look in a scrap heap for his dignity, and just let Deion and the studio guy do all the highlights.
Ravens at Dolphins: This probably isn't feasible, but I would like a radar gun used on all passing plays. Maybe there's a program you can create that instantly calculates the velocity of the throw by measuring the distance and the time it spent flying through the air. I want that during an NFL game. I want to see just how much harder Joe Flacco can throw the ball compared to Philip Rivers or some other Floatball King. We always measure arm strength by distance, but SPEED is what really matters. I wanna know which QBs average the highest velocity over the course of a game, season, etc. It's a useful tool for determining manliness and elite-itude.
Steelers at Bengals: My wife bought a ice cube tray at Target the other week that makes bigass cocktail ice cubes. This one was only, like, eight bucks. You can buy fancypants cocktail ice cube makers that cost a shitload more and promise no clouding (God forbid) in your ice cube, but I'm too cheap for those.
Anyway, making a cocktail with a big fucking ice cube in it makes you feel all suave and cosmopolitan. I just stare at the ice cube now and watch it dissolve. Look at that big ice cube. That is big! It's more amusing than it has any right to be.
Colts at Browns: Fox now deploys a little tractor beam to single out players during halftime highlights, because apparently my eyes are ineffective when it comes to noticing which running back has broken free for an 89-yard touchdown. For real though, it really does look like a spaceship is gonna suck each player up into the sky when they use it.
Bills at Broncos: I've had that Star Wars trailer in my head ever since it came out.
I know the prequels were terrible and nothing is ever as good as when you saw it as a kid for the first time. BUT… but half the fun of being a dipshit Star Wars fanboy is investing in that 0.000001% chance that things actually will end up turning out as well as you hope. It's like buying a lottery ticket. I have spent the whole week imagining all the cool shit that will fill the gaps between the images in that trailer. And if the real deal ends up being a disappointment, at least I got to toy with it in my mind for a little while. We're at the point now where the buildup to any movie is far more exciting than the movie itself.
By the way, the Lucas parody version of the trailer is great, not only because it showed how Lucas fucked up all the prequels (by barfing up a million stupid images on the screen at once), but because it shows how clean and iconic the Abrams trailer is. Every shot has one thing in it, and no other crap littering the screen. It looks 50 times better that way.
Chiefs at Cardinals
Falcons at Packers
Bucs at Lions: I wanna meet the creative team that came up with those new Pizza Hut ads. "Guys, let's go to Italy and horrify all the locals with our shitty mass-produced pizza. That'll get people to want to eat it!" Really whets my appetite to know that you CPK'ed your pizza up so that people with good taste barely recognize it. Why, there are over twenty new ingredients, half of which can also be found in industrial roof cleaning products!
Rams at Harvest Fest: You should read this hilarious Jason Reid article over at the WaPo if you'd like an idea of just how delusional people in DC can be about this team:
Jay Gruden’s benching of Robert Griffin III should end any doubts about whether the Washington Redskins are united behind their rookie head coach…. By consensus-building to make the tough call on Griffin, he’s demonstrated he’s ready to do more.
O RLY? Any pud could have watched RG3 hand out written invitations to be sacked and deduced that he probably needed to have a seat. That team is 3-9. What the fuck has Jay Gruden ever done to deserve SUPREME EXECUTIVE POWER? Jay Gruden is a boob, and I bet he's got his brother's affinity for cycling through quarterbacks. You will see six different random assholes start for that team within the next two years. It's a lock. They'll probably even bring the Sex Cannon back.
I know Ryan Leaf and JaMarcus Russell are your consensus choices for worst busts of all time. But I'm not sure I've ever witnessed anything as catastrophic happen to a fanbase as this whole RG3 thing. Between trading so much to get him, and then seeing him flourish, and then seeing Mike Shanahan kill him, and then see him get drummed out of town two years later (RG3 will end up spending one season here per first rounder they gave up)… You take that to the grave. You spend your whole life wishing you never lived through that.
Texans at Jaguars: The internet is right: J.J. Watt should be listed as a TE in fantasy football, if only so some smug asshole in your league can pick him up, lord it over you, and then watch in horror as he never plays another offensive snap this year.
Giants at Titans
Panthers at Saints
Niners at Raiders: What is Jim Harbaugh worth if you know he's only gonna last three or four seasons before burning everyone out? Is that worth two first rounders? The Pats gave up only one first rounder to get Bill Belichick, and he's lasted fifteen years and counting. The Bucs gave up two firsts and two seconds for Jon Gruden (Plus $8 million in cash! Holy crap!), but at least they got a title out of it. These coaches are so important now that I bet Belichick would fetch three or four first rounders if he ever went on the block again. But again, Harbaugh is an existential rental. You won't get a decade out of him, especially not in New York. You'll get three awesome years, and then he'll die of a skull clot. I don't think you can trade two first rounders for that, man. I bet the price ends up being lower than it ought to be. God, I bet he's a prick and a half.
Jets at Vikings: SI's Richard "Thirsty Dick" Deitsch says that Rex Ryan could command up to $5 million a year if he goes to TV after getting shitcanned. First of all… five million dollars to work four months a year is some seriously cushy work. I want that cushy work. People hate broadcasters specifically because their work is that cushy. Secondly, if paying Rex that much money means the demise of Phil Simms or Jon Gruden, I would personally kick in money to help pay his salary.
"Play Ball," by AC/DC. This isn't exactly revolutionary shit, but the video DOES include hot women doing sports stuff, which I assume Slate finds highly problematic. Also, note how the band floats around on the screen, just like in old school 80s videos. Throw in a couple of star wipes and it's like traveling back in time!
By the way, Grantland wrote about AC/DC this week. Here is a real thing that Steven Hyden wrote:
I have an alternate, completely unsubstantiated theory for explaining why The Razors Edge was a hit, and it centers on Julia Roberts playing a prostitute in a starmaking romantic comedy six months before the album was released.
Last week’s picks of St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Indy went 3-0, making me 28-12 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 New Orleans, Minnesota (I'll regret that), Houston, and car math. My family all came down to visit for Thanksgiving, and every excursion out of the house required ninety minutes of car math. "Well, the van seats seven. But it has two car seats. So only five adults can fit in it. So if Grandpa goes in the other car and Grandma squeezes in the back, we can make room for three kids plus four cats and the parrot. OH WAIT WE FORGOT ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS TREE THAT ALSO HAS TO FIT INSIDE." No more. It got to the point where I just opened the door and said to everyone, "Just get in the damn cars and figure it out." I don't care if Mom ends up sitting on the roof. Let's just fucking leave, please.
Hey, let's see what your favorite SPORTS TOUT had to say about the recent death of poet Mark Strand:
Your columnist knew Strand slightly and once had the honor of arguing with him.
Oh, of course you did. A fine argument. A GENTLEMAN'S ARGUMENT. Why, I bet Gregggggg spends all day in his parlor, scheduling fabulous arguments with America's best and brightest.
Strand's philosophy can be summed up in the lines below from his 1990 work "The Continuous Life," among the most important American poems. In the verses, the speaker advises parents to teach children the bittersweet nature of existence:
"Explain that you live between two great darks, the first with an ending, the second without one. That the luckiest thing is having been born, that you live in a blur of hours and days, months and years, and believe it has meaning despite the occasional fear you are slipping away with nothing completed, nothing to prove you existed."
Oh well, that's quite a pretty poem. What did you think of it, TMQ?
I disagree with this view, and for anyone who may be interested, detailed my disagreement with Strand in my 1998 book "Beside Still Waters."
OH MY FUCKING GOD. You gotta be kidding me. "Hey, this really nice poet died. Here's a piece of his poetry that I think was shitty. BUY MY BOOK TO HONOR THE MEMORY OF MY ARGUMENT WITH HIM." If you have purchased "Beside Still Waters," please don't spoil the disagreement for the rest of us! I want to discover for myself Gregg's argument against the idea that life is precious but fleeting!
One other thing from that column, because I hate myself:
The worlds of sports and social media went bonkers over the fantastic catch by the Giants' Odell Beckham versus the Cowboys. Two weeks earlier, Brent Grimes of the Dolphins made a nearly identical catch, and only the world of TMQ seemed to notice. Why the difference? Beckham is a first-round draft choice who plays for the New York media's favorite team, and he made his catch in a prime-time game. Grimes is an undrafted free agent from Division II Shippensburg who made his catch in a contest broadcast regionally. Beckham had the power of the press on his side. The power of the press might not be what it used to be but does still exist.
They were not identical. Grimes secured the ball with both hands on the way down. Beckham used three fingers the whole way through. OH BUT IT'S A CONSPIRACY BY THE FIRST-ROUND MEDIA TO KEEP A FINE YOUNG SCRAPPER DOWN. I guess Shippensburg College is beneath you, NBC! Have you no shame?! Only TMQ notices good interceptions that get played on many highlight reels! It was a more AUTHENTIC CATCH. Beckham was just doing his for show!
HATE HATE HATE HATE ANGER HATE.
"This week, I like Cold McAvoy and the Washington Ramekins (+2.5) to win at home against the Rams! If I could take a moment to be serious, I'd like to talk about Ferguson. Do you know what I think? I think that we are a nation that is entertained by conflict, so when we see riots on the streets and we police spokesmen issuing flame-fanning missives, we think that our differences our irreconcilable, that black culture and white culture will never have compassion for one another, nor will they ever share the same goals or customs. But that's not what I see. What I see is an anomaly. Because every day, I go out and I see black and white schoolkids hanging out together. I see business partners of all colors gathering together in hotels and restaurants to do their jobs. I see pop culture becoming a confluence of black and white and Asian and Latin influences. I see all the good, and people don't really pay attention to that because it's dull. But mark my words: the world is a good place, and it is getting better. It's not perfect, and injustice will always be a scourge, but if you just have to stop and look around, you will see progress. And that warms my fart."
2014 Emmitt Smith record: 7-9
Here's a bigass stick bug:
Frankly, that might just be a plain old stick. It's so stick-like that I'm not even scared of it. I would just put a marshmallow on that stick bug and go to town. Massive stick bug and I are all right. I'll take him over massive spider any day of the week.
Zac Stacy. I wonder if anyone out there managed to draft both Zac Stacy and Montee Ball. Imagine that being the story of your fantasy season. God, that would be 17 weeks of pure anguish. It's one thing to draft a bust, but then to watch as the bust's replacement becomes a fucking INSTA-STUD, God it hurts. It just hurts so bad. Why does it hurt so bad? Does the hurt end?
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)
As of right now, I think there are five coaches who are definitely going by the end of the season: Ryan, Harbaugh, Smith, Rivera, and Coughlin. Add in Dennis Allen and that's six job openings. Throw in your standard surprise firing (Gruden!), and you've got seven. Not a bad haul! Good firing season, people. I look forward to Giants fans being like, "Get Cowher in here to right the ship!" I love it when fans pine for Cowher and Gruden. GRUHER WILL SOLVE EVERYTHING.
Reader Frank sends in this story I call THIS BOY'S POOP:
I fractured my leg about fifteen years ago during a tackling drill at football practice. At the time I was rather thin compared to the other players, so my tackling technique usually consisted of me wrapping my arms around the ball carrier and letting him run me over as I pulled him to the ground. While it was effective, it left me open to injury, and that's how it happened. After being taken to the hospital soon after for x-rays, things suddenly took a turn for the worse. I was struck with intense diarrhea pains. Without a word to the technician, I climbed off the table and hopped down the hall in search of the nearest toilet. But alas, it wasn't to be. I didn't make it in time. Still though, even with this undeniable fact, my adolescent self-consciousness kept me from disclosing this information to my parents. On the car ride home from the hospital my Dad made several comments along the lines of, "Is it just me, or does it smell like absolute shit in here?" "Did one of you step in dog shit?" But again, my embarrassment kept me tight lipped. As soon as we got inside the house, my mom instructed my dad to take me up to the bathroom to help me get out of the remaining pads I had on my lower body. He had to cut them off with scissors due to my injury. Upon seeing the dried up diarrhea on my legs, his face turned ashen. It resembled the look of a young soldier who had just witnessed some sort of war atrocity. He then looked me directly in the eyes, and with a hint of disappointment in his voice, he said, "Jesus Christ, you shit your pants?!" It was the most embarrassed I had been since he caught me masturbating earlier that same year (but that is a topic for another email).
Toffee pudding! Say what you will about English cuisine, but fuck you if you don't like toffee in pudding form. First place to offer a toffee pudding milkshake gets all of my money.
Gordon Finest Chrome! From Jay:
I was in Provence, France for two weeks in October. It is a wasteland for beer, but this was one of the two most intriguing local brews. Cheap enough even against the Euro.
Mmmmm… tastes like metal. Ain't no classier hobo beer than French hobo beer. That 10.5% ABV is downright evil. That's why the can says eXXXtra strong. You get three Xs for that. JE DOIS L'AVOIR.
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 still Aaron Rodgers of the Packers! Everyone out there has a Bill Murray story, baby? Funny? YOU BET! Mercurial? HARDER TO READ THAN A BOB TOWNE SCREENPLAY. 1985. City of Angels. I'm throwing a holiday party at Woodland: nude elves, lobsters stuffed with raw oysters, Gene Hackman duct taped to the ceiling, etc. Well, I'm sitting there, talking off Sissy Spacek's clothing, when I turn around and Murray is right behind me! How'd he get past the guard? And the dogs? And the snipers? NO MATTER. He stands there and just stares straight ahead. Doesn't say a word! FOR THREE HOURS! Started to creep me out, if I'm being honest! After a while, I give up getting him to talk and go back to Sissy and her star assets. An hour later, Bill taps me on the shoulder. He nods over to Nicholson, who's naked over in the corner, dry humping one of the velvet curtains on my fireplace. 'Now I'm gonna do a bit of magic,' Murray says! He takes out a quarter, and says, 'I'm gonna make this quarter disappear.' And he walks over and stuffs that quarter right up Nicholson's ass! Then he turns around and says… 'See? MAGIC.' I didn't stop laughing for a week. Nicholson still keeps that quarter under his pillow!"
Whiplash, which is probably Bill Parcells's favorite movie. This is a movie that toys with the idea that you can't draw greatness of out people without being a cruel dick to them. This isn't true in my experience at all (read my book to find out why!), but it sure as hell makes for compelling entertainment.
This is also a fairly accurate representation of what it's like to live in New York as some poor-ass student who has to trudge out around shitty pizza parlors and dirty apartment building hallways. That's good New Yorking, right there.
"They took the foam off the market because they found out it was poisonous, but if you ask me, if you're dumb enough to eat it, you deserve to die."
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.