It’s time to STFU about the Patriots’ soft balls

 

A lot of people hate the New England Patriots. Big fucking deal. Every sports team is going to have a grand army of haters. More so when the team’s successful. The Patriots will give haters no shortage of material: Bill Belichick’s philandering, Tom Brady’s Uggs, Brady’s waterslide, Brady being a little bitch on the sidelines, pretty much just everything Tom Brady-related.

Which is what makes this latest hogpile on the Patriots for deflating their footballs in the AFC Championship game such an exercise in complete and utter bullshit.

So apparently, the Patriots deflated their footballs by about 2lbs of air pressure. Deflated balls equal softer balls, which in turn equal grippier balls. Easier to throw, easier to catch. That’s what I read anyway, I have no idea, I’ve never played football at any level.

And of course this is against the rules of the sport.

Cue the angry mouthbreathing public mob decrying the Patriots for CHEATING. “ZOMG, cheating iz soo bad, you guys. So not fair, so cheeky, so awful, such an egregious violation of all that is sacred in football, everything is horrible!!!”

You know what, shut the fuck up.

Because guess what: everybody cheats, stupid. Get the fuck over it.

No sooner did the Patriots get busted for their soft balls, Aaron Rodgers the almighty got called out for having his balls overinflated. (I’ll give you a minute to get over chuckling at that one.) Then Brad Johnson bragged about how he bribed someone to scuff up his footballs in the Super Bowl. The Super Bowl!!! That’s bigger than a conference championship game! Where’s the fucking outrage for Brad Johnson? I mean, there was even a fucking bribe involved! Brad fucking doubled down on that one.

Then you get shitbag Matt Leinart coming out and practically carpetbombing the entire quarterback squad in the NFL, claiming all of them – with the exception of holier-than-thou blockhead Kurt Warner, apparently – fucked with their footballs. I’m not sure why I give a shit about anything Matt Leinart has to say about anything because Matt Leinart is useless, but in this case, his assertion supports the point I’m trying to make.

Here’s the thing: if you’re gonna lose your shit about a team or player playing outside the rules, don’t get mad because they’re doing it, wag your finger because they’re stupid enough to get caught doing it. This is professional sports, for fuck’s sake. This is about money. This is about the business of winning by any means possible. Winning = revenue = the whole fucking point, last time I looked.  Goody gum drops if you think you wanna try and win without using any unfair advantage whatsoever.  That’s not how the rest of the world runs, noob.

You check into professional sports and you come looking for some moral high ground? Do you also believe in the tooth fairy and leprechauns?

These shitheads got caught, that’s the only thing that’s out of norm here. Just like when Michael Pineda of the Yankees got caught with pine tar on his neck when he was on the mound. Sure, pine tar’s banned and all, but shit, EVERYBODY uses pine tar in Major League Baseball, for fuck’s sake. Bats and helmets are dripping with the stuff. But Pineda was an asshole for being so brazen about his pine tar use, and for that, he deserved to get busted.

Also like when Bill Belichick and the Patriots were busted for secretly filming the Jets (the motherfucking Jets, of all teams!). YOU DON’T NEED TO CHEAT TO BEAT THE JETS!!! They’re the Jets, they’re going to work very, very hard to easily lose to you spectacularly, so what the fuck are you doing trying to film them? All you’re gonna end up with is hours of footage of how NOT to play football. And that’s what the $750,000 combined fine should’ve been for – not for secretly filming your opponent, but for the fact that they did it against the goddamn Jets. A fine for stupidity, not for cheating.

Yet, $750,000 is such a paltry amount when you consider the bar set the McLaren team in Formula One. Also, when it comes to cheating scandals, this one took the motherfucking cake. You’re talking about a multi-billion dollar global sport here in which one team – McLaren – were actively stealing engineering secrets from another team, Ferrari. This isn’t like listening in to another team’s radio transmission during a race to predict when their race car was going to pit. And it’s certainly a different caliber to the Patriots filming the Jets. This was proper industrial espionage. Way more impressive than letting the air out of some balls. And the penalty? A $100 million fine and the exclusion from the 2007 world championship, which resulted in further loss many, many millions of dollars in race result revenue. $100 million.  You wanna kick a cheating team in the balls, that’s how you kick a cheating team in the balls.

Which brings us to our current sitch. If you must punish the Patriots for their soft balls – and you probably should, not because they actually deflated the balls, but because they were stupid enough to get caught – what’s the right penalty? A fine? Unless it’s $100 million, who gives a shit. Loss of draft picks? Warmer, but again, who gives a shit because the free agency market can help backfill that. Pull them from the Super Bowl and sub in the Colts? That would be hilarious.

However the NFL act – or don’t act, as is typical with the NFL – on this, it doesn’t matter that the Patriots played AFC championship game, or any other game leading up to that one, with their soft balls. Stop crying about it.

Because you’re missing the whole fucking point.

 

 

The New York Jets: A Love Story

The New York Jets are my second favorite football team. That’s the goddamn truth. Right after the Pittsburgh Steelers, I HEART the Jets. I heart them so much.

As I sit here to watch the final game the Jets will play in 2014, I’m experiencing this weird blend of joy and longing.

My love for the Pittsburgh Steelers is quite one-dimensional. The Steelers are the team that I root for, and I bank on them to win. But also, despite my not being from Pittsburgh, long ago I pinned my fandom on the Steelers when I was in college while trying to impress my then-girlfriend-now-wife, who is properly from Pittsburgh.  So there’s that.  (In case you’re wondering, she couldn’t possibly give less of a shit about the Steelers – worst Yinzer ever.)

On the other hand, the joy I get from the New York Jets is so wonderful and complex, I’m frankly I quite astonished that I can process such thought and emotion.

Quite simply, the Jets are by far the absolute most hilarious professional sports team in the world, and I’m a sucker for top-shelf comedy.

In my entire life of watching sports on TV, I have never seen another team more hilariously horrible as the Jets. There are so many persistently awful teams in American sports, but none of them are horrible the way the Jets are. The Chicago Cubs? Frankly, I find them quite lovable in their aww-shucks brand of loserdom. The Cleveland Browns? As much as they lose, as corrupt as their owner might be, they’ll forever get a pass in my book because the Baltimore Ravens are the most despicable relocation team of all time. Of. All. Fucking. Time. (I’d like to take a brief moment here to digress: fuck the Baltimore Ravens forever.)

There are so many ways to love the Jets.

Let’s start with the fans. The best thing about actual Jets fans? That insane, delusional hope each year that their team are going to turn things around. That somehow, a new coach or a new draft pick is going to be their ticket to back to a winning season. “This is the year is going to be different.” “This is year is when we turn things around.” It’s like a very real pathological case of mass amnesia through allegiance – somehow Jets fans completely forget that they’re backing the New York fucking Jets, a team created for the sole purpose of masterfully fucking things up 24/7, 365 day a year, every year.

That’s why I’m happy for Jets fans when the Jets actually win a game once in a while. This year, when they were working so hard to lose, they beat the Steelers, but even I couldn’t be bummed by that. I hate seeing the Steelers lose, but to see that glimmer of delusional hope in the eyes of Jets fans – “OMG, we beat the Steelers, we’re practically in the Super Bowl now!” – knowing that there’s only crushing defeat and a return to tears and gnashing of teeth for these Jets fans is so, so sweet.  There is no nectar on this earth sweeter than a bowl of Jets fans’ tears.  Try it, it’s delicious.

On the subject of fans, there’s the Jets’ number-one-cheerleader-best-fan-forever, that Fireman Ed asshole. Look at his stupid face.  Seriously, fuck this guy. This is their number one fan. The embodiment of their fan base in one fat, bald sack of shit. This asshole’s only life accomplishment is that he can scream four letters of the alphabet repeatedly for three hours on a given autumn Sunday in New Jersey. He is supposedly their number one fan, and he fucking gave up on going to their games ever again. He cited that his fellow Jets fans were all assholes (shocker) at the game, so he ditched his season tickets. Waahhhh! So even though he might be the single-most irritating fuckwit in the part of the hemisphere, he might also be the smartest Jets fan in decades. Which, by definition, no longer makes him an actual Jets fan.

Can anyone think of anything the team management have done that ISN’T a complete fuckwit move? That Fireman Ed shithead cried all the way home, and the Jets actually tried to get this guy to come back to the games by taking him out to lunch. They tried to woo a fan, for fuck’s sake. Who does that.

I’ll tell you who – a group of fuckwits led by Woody Johnson, that’s who. Was there a better Woody moment than when he told the press that he didn’t want to sign Tim Tebow, but his team went ahead and fucking did so anyway?   Imagine megalomaniacs like Jerry Jones or Bob Kraft admitting to such a thing, that your team probably thinks that you’re just some senile old man so they ignore the living shit out of you and get up to their own bullshit anyway. You’re the one signing all the checks, yet no one gives a shit what you think. Even the Wilpons weren’t blown off, but instead held a firm hand in driving the New York Mets right into the fucking ground. I’ll bet Woody Johnson still snacks on paint chips he peels off in his office.

You know who’s not snacking as much? Dear Rex Ryan. Oh shit, I am going to miss that guy. Seriously, I am. When I think of colossal Jets coaching failures, first my head spins with so many names and faces that I fucking black out, but when I come to, there’s only Rex Ryan’s stupid jowly mug. You think your Jets were scary bad under Bruce Coslet or Rich Kottite? Holy shit, at least those guys had the decency to shut the fuck up while they were shitting the bed. Not so with Rex. In fact, no spawn of Buddy Ryan ever shuts the fuck up about anything (oh hey, Rob, how’s it going!). The hollow promises, the toe-sucking adventures, the Mark Sanchez jersey tattoo… I mean, holy shit, the most coked-up Hollywood writer couldn’t come up with a character this who’s this much of a shitshow. I’m gonna fucking miss Rex Ryan.

Rex Ryan was a big part of what made the Jets of recent years the best Jets ever. With him, the Jets have been in peak Jets form for a while now. Rex Ryan. Sanchize. The Buttfumble. Tim Tebow and the time they had like 10 quarterbacks on the team. Joe Namath and Suzy Kolber (OK, I’m cheating a little on this one, but that shit was awesome). I mean, they’re just Jetsing so fucking hard right now. And I never want it to end.

If it were up to me, Rex Ryan would be head coach for life. Tim Tebow would return as quarterback for life. That fireman dickhead would return to the stadium each home game, scream his balls off, then have to be carried outta there in the crushing shambles of defeat. Each year, they’d single-handedly earn the top draft pick, and they’d blow their first three rounds on shitty quarterbacks.  And each year, my Jets friends will regale me with high hopes and dreams that they’ve “definitely got a chance this year.”

If it were up to me, the New York Jets would never, ever fucking change.

 

 

 

Dear Jets fans

Why do you do it?

I’m writing this to you on Black Friday. Or as it should now forever be known within your circle, “The Day After The Hilarious Thanksgiving Day Massacre.” Part of me does feel bad that your beloved Jets had to play a game on Thanksgiving Day when they didn’t really need to – Thanksgiving is traditionally reserved for annual losses for the Detroit Lions and the Dallas Cowboys. Detroit and Dallas Ls are as American as a turducken. Thanksgiving is THEIR time.

But the greedy fucks at the NFL just HAD to squeeze in one more game. Probably based on enough market research that show that by the late afternoon/early evening, the American public are so fat and bloated from gorging on Thanksgiving dinner (America, fuck yeah!), closely resembling the humans in Wall-E, that they’d be too ossified to do anything other than dissolve into the couch with football on TV. Can’t even be arsed to tap the remote to change the channel.

By know, you already know that you support the single-most comical team in the history of time. A team whose entire heritage, relevance, and foreseeable future can be summed up in one play.

Why do you continue to be a Jets fan?

In my 20 years or so of following the NFL, I can think of no other team that has had more seasons of pure hilarity and humiliation as the Jets. Of course there are other awful teams in the NFL, but none of them are so completely devoid of saving graces as the Jets. You can try and call out the Cleveland Browns, but you’d be wrong. You see, the Browns are lovable losers. And you can thank dead asshole Art Modell for that. Art Modell martyred the team, and committed the Browns to football sainthood when he packed up and moved his business to Baltimore. You don’t fuck with NFL legacy like that. So as horrible as the hapless Browns will be in the foreseeable future, it’ll always be OK to root for the Browns because they got fucked by an owner.

No such compassion for the Jets, I’m afraid. Your Jets haven’t had anything catastrophic happen to them. Everything the Jets have fucked up, they’ve done to themselves. No mercy, no sympathy. And they’ve not earned anything in their past to be able to lean your adoration on. Please do fuck off with Super Bowl 3 – you look up “fluke” in the dictionary, and Joe Namath’s whisky-marinated douche face is what you’ll find. Is that the crock of shit what you fuckers are pinning our fandom on? That’s fucking pathetic.

Face it, there hasn’t been a single memorable thing – I’m talking about a good memorable thing here, not your unintentional hilarious performance on the field each week – the Jets can boast of in the past 20 years. Shit, even the pathetic Browns managed to get Peyton Hillis on the cover of Madden one year. (By the way, that Madden curse? TOTALLY REAL.) The Jets? Anything memorable? Some distinct event that rises above the rest? NOTHING.

And don’t give me your Bill Parcells years. The only thing Bill Parcells did right with your team was redesign your uniforms from looking like ‘80s mall chic to something barely resembling a highs school football team. And even so, your uniform blows. I mean, it seriously fucking blows chunks. I see that shitty emerald green and I wanna puke my eyes out. I stand by my argument that teams in the shitty uniforms don’t win shit. The Jets have massively shitty uniforms.

Which I suppose is befitting the caliber of players the team will rush out to sign each year. It’s like some otherworldly system designed to help the rest of us easily pick out which are worst players in the NFL – no need to look to hard, they all wear Jets green. At some point, I think the entire Kansas City Chiefs team will be absorbed into the Jets.

Who else but the Jets would do the Jetsiest thing ever and sign a quarterback who isn’t allowed to throw a football? What other team would you expect to have a player declare a jihad on the press after a win? What other team has its own meme – LOLJETS – on Deadspin? Any other team got a loudmouth coach (well-publicized foot fetish aside) that tries to pull a Namath guarantee each week only to have to eat shit the Monday after?

Why do you continue to be a Jets fan, after all this? I just don’t get it.

Yes, part of me is trolling here, because let’s face it, this is easier to do than betting if Lindsay Lohan gets arrested again before the year is out. The other part of me is genuinely fascinated by this willingness to put a stranglehold on hopelessness and humiliation? Seriously, why the fuck do you put up with it?

I pose that question with some ethical dilemma because I think switching teams is bullshit (I have first-hand experience with this, but more on that at another time, I promise). That said, if there is one market in which you’re allowed to switch teams with little recourse, it’s New York. No one would blame you for burning your green paraphernalia and treating yourself to some fresh gear in blue. (At this point, I need to clarify that I hate the Giants as well; these fucking guys and their herpy-derpy-derp-derp-doo Eli – fuck the Giants). My point is, you fucking guys have a legitimate out and you won’t take it.

What the fuck?

 

[EDIT – November 26, 2012]: It appears that your annoying-as-fuck human bullhorn, Fireman Ed (what a wanky nickname), has decided to call it quits. This fucker, arguably the most delusional human being associated with the Jets who is not on the Jets’ payroll, has decided to come to his senses. If even this douchetard can see the futility of it all, what the hell is wrong with you? More importantly, when a bonehead fan can make the news off the field, doesn’t it speak volumes for the ineptitude of the team on the field? For fuck’s sake, you people.

 

 

That’s not how you use the “Rudy” theme. We have rules for that.

Every time “Rudy” is on TV, I drop everything and I have to watch it.  Even though I’ve watched it about a hundred times by now.  And every fucking time, it makes me cry, right at the end.  I’m an enormous pussy like that.  But then again, I understand that this movie has the same effect on a lot of dudes.  Even some die-hard life-long Notre Dame haters.

“Rudy” is one of the greatest films ever made.  Shut up, ‘cause I’m not taking any argument about this.

So Game 1 of the 2012 World Series rolls around, we cut to a commercial break and I hear the “Rudy” theme.  It’s quick cut footage of kids and grown-ups, all doing every manner of sport.  90-seconds later, the end frame reveals that it’s a spot for Dick’s Sporting Goods.  90-seconds of growing aural exhilaration and it’s a giant cock tease for a shitty sporting goods chain store.

Fuck. That.

You can’t fucking do that.  The “Rudy” theme carries meaning.  It has a certain quality to it.  In fact, it’s got lots of qualities to it because of the film: tenacity, redemption, grit, glory.  NONE of which apply to a sporting goods chain store.  So, fuck Dick’s (that sounds weird).

There are very limited occasions in which you’re allowed to use the “Rudy” theme.  Here are the very few occasions the “Rudy” theme is be allowed.

• Football games.  Of course, part of it is the theme’s pedigree – it’s football music for a football film.  But it can only be used with football.  Not hockey, not basketball, not baseball, not any other sporting event – despite what Dick’s wants to sell you.  A lot of that has to do with the late, great Steve Sabol, who with his dad, perfected the art of overdramatic football film.  The Sabols had this remarkable talent to slow down film and make even the derpiest football action look like a Wachowski action sequence.  And not to get all band geek here, but mostly because the “Rudy” theme is a bit of a march.  No other sport has in-game action that mimics a march like football does.  No other sport has such military-esque assembly in which such attention is paid to orchestration and timing.  No football, no “Rudy”.

• Weddings.  Specifically as the bride walks down the aisle.  Shut up and stop being so selfish, girls, let the groom have this one.  The whole fucking day’s already all about you chicks.  For some reason, dudes always are nervous as shit on their wedding day (I have no idea why – I got married in my mid-20s and it was a fucking breeze).  So the least the guy can have is a cool-ass theme song as his bride walks down the aisle.  It’s a fucking kick ass piece of music, it’ll pump up the dude and get rid of his nerves, and it’ll be the one thing – the one fucking thing – that’s about him on that day.

• Pre-school graduations.  This is mostly for the dads who have to go to these stupid things.  As a rule, kids get too many graduation ceremonies growing up.  Pre-school graduations, kindergarten graduations, first grade ceremonies, the list goes on.  Stop making a big deal out of something the kids are SUPPOSED to do – finish the grade and move the hell on.  So for something as goddamn gratuitous as a pre-school graduation, you might as well make it kick ass for the attendees.  No “Pomp and Circumstance” – that’s college material, and you 5 years-old ingrates haven’t earned it.  No, put on the “Rudy” theme, the kids won’t know any better and every fucking dad is going to be high-fiving each other.  Everybody wins.

• After an In-N-Out Double-Double, Animal-style French fries, and a milkshake.  Because you know that meal is fucking epic.  Which means it needs to be celebrated.

So, just for good measure, here’s the ending of “Rudy”.  The bit that always makes me cry.  That’s what the “Rudy” theme means.

Goddamnit, I just cried again.

 

 

Shit I thought about when riding the subway

• This morning, I saw a dad checking to see if his kid had a poopy diaper.  No biggie, just pulled the top band and peeked into the kid’s crack.  I’m so fucking grateful I never ever have to do that again with my kids.  The next time I have to do this with my kids, the roles are gonna be reversed.

• It should be perfectly alright to make fun of a guy who wears pleated trousers.

• If you shoot a video with your camera phone in vertical orientation, the phone should prompt you, “Are you sure you wanna shoot it this way, stupid?”

• It is entirely too fucking soon to have pumpkin beer on the shelves.  It’s fucking August, for fuck’s sake.  First of all, pumpkin beer is for assholes, so let me get that out of the way.  Beer needs to taste like beer, not like a pie.  There are rules for this shit.  But if you must stock pumpkin-flavored beer, August is too soon.  Everyone bitches when Santa shoves his ass into our faces by Halloween – selling pumpkin beer before Labor Day is exactly the same fucking thing.  Fuck off with pumpkin beer.

• You know what I really need?  A Michigan filter.  This time of year, every insufferable Michigan fan farts their fandom to make sure that everyone knows that they went to Michigan.  Fuck Michigan.   No one – NO ONE – is more annoying than a Michigan fan.  They go on about the motherfucking Big House.   Good one, Michigan – the prison metaphor fits you assholes perfectly.  Yet, you’re like boneheaded Raider fans who are too pussy to earn proper criminal records.  “Go Blue” is such a fucking stupid pointless chant.  Last time I checked, this little bitch team had two colors – blue and yellow (fuck off with your “maize” – that’s corn, motherfucker).  Why the fuck are you ignoring the yellow?   Dipshit NY Giants fans also holler “Go Blue”, so way to go, Michigan.  Way to set yourselves apart.  Fuck Michigan.

Teams with shitty uniforms don’t win shit

In college, one of my fraternity brothers bestowed this nugget of wisdom with me – teams’ performances often match the appeal of their uniforms.  Well, he didn’t exactly say it that way.  He was more like, “Teams with shitty uniforms never fucking win.”  Then he probably puked out the window after downing a case of Natty Light in our booze-free dorm.

So, yet another unoriginal idea from me, then.  Still, I’ve always kept this concept in the back of my head as I follow different sports season in, season out, year in, year out.  And you know what – he was fucking right.

Since I work in a creative industry (hah!), I’m always drawn to aesthetics.  I think it’s mostly because I probably always wanted to be a creative person.  But since I don’t do well with rejection (“What the fuck do you mean you don’t like my idea of midgets swimming with eels as an idea to sell penis pills?!”), I never pursued it properly.  Doesn’t stop me from always judging things by their aesthetics.  You don’t have to be Steve fucking Jobs to constantly see that things can work and look better.  Case in point: bigger boobs win almost all the time.  You know I’m right.

Anyway, shitty uniforms.  My buddy Keith was fucking right – teams with shitty uniforms don’t win shit.  The sport world is absolutely littered with examples to support this.

Look at the Denver Broncos.   I’m not talking about Jesus H. Tebow.  This pre-dates him by over a decade.  This involves his boss upstairs.  Again, not talking about God, let it go already.  John Elway, bitches.  That shitty orange and royal blue with the snorting horse in the D cursed Elway for almost his entire career.  Thank fuck they went to the Cyber Bronco design just in time.  Design change = instant Super Bowls.  Two of ‘em, in fact.

 

[Side note:  While I’m so, so fucking tired of the zoo that is Tebow Time, I just need to say that if Tebow was as fucking pious as he keeps telling us, he wouldn’t have been a professional football player.  This fucker chooses the one profession outside of the clergy that absolutely requires that you work on the Sabbath.  What a dick.]

More evidence?  The Tampa Bay Bucs had the pussiest orange uniforms ever.  They were completely and utterly useless.  Until they went to the pewter helmets and red jerseys.  And they dropped the creamsicle color, the stupid swashbuckler and went with a proper pirate logo. Sure, they became much more cartoonish – they have a pirate ship with real working cannon right there in their stadium! – but that swashbuckler was such a douchebag logo.  And wasn’t (isn’t?) Jon Gruden a real-life cartoon anyway?  In any case, new uniforms = Super Bowl.

Speaking of naff-looking mascots, I present the fucking New England Patriots.  Look what happened when they dropped Paul Bunyan Revere (EDIT: idiot moment) in a three-point stance.  Flashy silver helmet, stylized logo that’s not vomit-inducing = dynasty.  Granted, it’s a dynasty of voodoo-wielding, peeping tom assholes.  But a dynasty is a dynasty anyway you get it.

 

A subtler, less successful example would be the Philadelphia Eagles.  The Eagles went from looking like green M&Ms to that slick-looking hunter green – it’s just a much cooler shade of green, isn’t it.  With that new green, they consistently marched into the playoffs (in 2011, it appears that the new uniform mojo has completely worn off).  Fuck Andy Reid, it was the uniforms.

On the other hand, teams that constantly change their colors and/or logos deserve to fuck right off.  The most egregious offenders?  The MLB and the NBA.  Bar none.  How many times have the Texas Rangers, the Arizona Diamondbacks, or the Houston Astros changed their team colors?  Or the Milwaukee Bucks or the New Jersey Nets (Brooklyn represent!)?  Fuck ‘em.  Pick your goddamn colors and stick with them.  Learn to create a fucking legacy instead of trying to be like the sports equivalent of InStyle magazine.

So by definition, if teams with cool uniforms do more winning, then the reverse has to be true – teams with shitty uniforms don’t win shit.  This elite class of failures is practically overrun with willing participant teams: the New York Mets and Jets (spiritually these two are the exact same team who happen to play with different-shaped balls), the aforementioned Milwaukee Bucks, the New York Islanders, the Miami Dolphins (their stupid cetacean is wearing a goddamn helmet… on a helmet), and the reigning king of retarded uniforms, the University of Maryland football team.  Listen, you half-shell fuckwits, if you’re gonna show up on the field looking like a truck full of Skittles slammed into your locker room before the game, you’re gonna get your asses kicked like the goddamn clowns you resemble.

Now I’m off to figure out what I can wear with my University of Texas sweatshirt which I made the mistake of buying when I visited Austin.  That burnt orange color is bullshit and matches with NOTHING.

 

My less-than-epic American weekend: Part 1

It started as a grand ambition.  To squeeze some major Americana into one weekend in some distant city.  I scoured the sports schedules.  MLB schedules, NFL schedules, NASCAR, you name it.   After several evenings of fucking around with dates and events, it came together:  I would go to Chicago one September weekend.  A Cubs game on the Saturday, and a NASCAR race on Sunday.  Two of the most Yanktastic sports imaginable: baseball and idiot car racing.  If we were a smarter nation, we’d combine the two – baseball car racing.  Both sports involve going around in circles anyway, how hard would it be to drop a dozen cars in the middle of a ballpark and go nuts.

Anyway.  Cubs and NASCAR.  The sports of kings.  No, I don’t mean “kings”, do I…  The sports of Larry The Cable Guy.

 

The Cubs game was superb.  The bonus bit was that the Cubs actually won (!!!).  I was convinced that they’d find a way to choke (you know, like the Mets’ season-long game plan), but holy shit, they won!  Truth be told, I didn’t give a shit if they won or lost, it was being at Wrigley Field that made it such a goddamn thrill.   The ivy-covered wall in the outfield, the absence of a blinding jumbotron or other gratuitously shiny gizmos, and… the Old Style!  Ohmigod, where have you been my whole life, Old Style?   The ridiculous cheap-ass cans, the crisp yet watery flavor, the logo that looks like it was lifted from Medieval Times?!  It fuckin’ made the ballpark for me.  It allowed me plenty of visits to Wrigley Field’s famed piss troughs.  And that was fucking awesome.

After the Cubs won, we wandered down the street and checked into some lively bar.  It was a glorious moment when I realized that we’d walked into a Michigan State bar.  Michigan State and the Indianapolis Colts bar, actually.  How the fuck you put those two together I have no idea.  But I didn’t give a shit – on every screen in this place was the Notre Dame-Michigan State football game and I was surrounded by stupid Spartan green.  Fuck it, I was going to ride this game out in this bar.  It was a peculiar thrill ‘cause I had never been around so many Michigan State fans before.  This was going to be awesome!  Many, many, many, many pints later – and some hot wings that seemed to be made of molten lava – Notre Dame soundly spanked Michigan State.  And with that, we took our leave.  But not before we were treated to some of Chicago’s finest partying heavyweights:

500 lbs of grain-fed, alcohol-marinated Iowa football fanatic, sprawled in the middle of Clark Street with such finesse and grace, it took half a dozen pedestrians (who themselves were a right mess) and two squad cars to drag this lifeless lump off the asphalt and onto the sidewalk.  Well done, Hawkeye, well done.  I, for one, have never seen a beached whale this far from the ocean.

 

But you can never get too from the hipster douchebags.  Here were two of the top candidates who sauntered right by me.  It was interesting how these two bros were playing off each other.  I really didn’t quite get the vibe they were going for as a unit.  Was there a costume party that spontaneously broke out in the middle of a Saturday afternoon?  Did Chicago have its own Running Of The Bulls event that hadn’t been savvy to?   ‘Cause I’d love to have seen that – several hundred shitheads getting mauled by tomorrow’s Applebee’s combo dinners.  What of the colossal douche in the hat, sportcoat and penny loafers?  Maybe these two assholes confused a bull run with a bull fight.  How I wish the shithead with the hat was on his way to a bullfight.  Those red shorts would be the most perfect target for getting cockpunched by a raging ox.

 

 

Tomorrow: I fail to take a bite out of the chicken-fried steak of American sport

 

A Naff Hell

[Originally posted October 2010]

Shit that drives this one casual fan completely insane about the NFL:

1.  Force-feeding the pink.

Breast cancer is serious shit.  I’m not making light of it.  I wouldn’t dare – I have enough family who’ve succumbed to cancer to take this lightly.  But October rolls in, and every marketer is cashing on breast cancer awareness to turn a buck.  But does EVERYONE need to cash in?  Pink gloves, pink cleats, pink end zones, pink armbands, pink mouthguards, are you shittin’ me?  Maybe I’m being an enormous dummy (there is ample evidence to back that up) for not getting the convergence of agendas.  But this is the NFL, for God’s sake.  It’s cartilage-crushing, maniacal rage channeled right into the sole purpose of knocking you the fuck out.  Yeah, NFL – breast cancer awareness… yeah, what an obvious fit.  Because when I see Ray Lewis screaming his head off and punching the air like an insolent child with ADHD on the 40-yard line, I think “breast cancer”.  When I think large, male-centric television audience, I think “breast cancer”.  I don’t get it.  Is this reciprocated?  When it’s prostate cancer month, is anyone clamoring to get the WNBA to don all sorts of logos and colors promoting the cause?  C’mon.  I get that breast cancer is worthy of awareness and support to find a cure.  Of course it is.  Joe Biden said best: it’s a big fucking deal.  But the NFL?!  Seriously, WTF.

2.  Primetime football.

I can’t remember the last time I watched the final seconds of the fourth quarter of a Sunday or Monday night game when I wasn’t out in L.A.  This is one of the few things that blow about living on the East Coast.  A typical game lasts what, three-and-a-half hours on average?  Longer if the defense is only slightly less crap than the offense so that they’re forcing third and fourth downs with no turnovers.  Imagine how much longer it’d be if football players had the dramatic flair for faking injuries like soccer players.

So even if a game were to start at 8pm promptly, I’m looking at wrapping it up at close to a quarter to midnight.  That is, if I can keep my eyes open that late.  And the thing is, these league and network jerkoffs are starting to creep that start time later and later.  Why, so you can cram another Faith Hill musical special down my throat before I get down to the business of Jay Cutler getting pounded into the ground like 230lbs of hamburger?  Between the inane theme songs that make you want to stab your ears with rusty spoons, the pointless sideline banter (from which you learn absolutely nothing), and same old “special-teams-are-key-and-you-must-force-the-turnovers” catchphrase bullshit from the anchors, it’s now closer to 9pm before that ball goes airborne.  At that rate, I’m going to bed the next day if I stay to the bitter end.  I envy my friends on the West Coast – by the time the final whistle is blown, they’ve still got a good part of the evening ahead of them to do anything they want – finish the rest of the 12-pack, head out to Taco Bell for that retarded “fourth meal”, walk the dog, mess with their neighbor’s sprinklers, whatever.

Why can’t the game start at 7:30pm Eastern time?  The West Coasters are used to missing the first few minutes of the game anyway, so no one’s gonna complain to hard, I suspect.  That way, the stupid game’s done around 11pm, and I can actually have the option of staying to the terrible end and not pass out on the couch (again) only to be awakened by the dog trying to scratch his back by aggressively rubbing my shin.

Put it on earlier, NFL.  Gimme a fighting chance to actually make it to the end of one of your stupid games.

3.  3D on-field advertising

U.S. sports leagues are a conundrum of contradiction.  The NFL has to lead this race.  These greedy bastards will license any NFL property to just about any schmuck who can come up with a rich dollar.  You’ll see every imaginable piece of shit covered NFL team logos.  Hey, a Ravens-logoed dogshit scooper!  Wow, a Tampa Bay Buccaneers beer coozie with pirate finger grips!

But these schmucks won’t take on-field advertising.  And I don’t mean simply painting a Doritos logo in the endzone.  (Although a Snickers-sponsored CHEFS logo in the endzone at Arrowhead Stadium would be kinda retro-cool).  That’s fine, but that’s not trying hard enough.  I say you go big with the 3D on-field logo placements as they do in Europe, on soccer and rugby pitches, and on the grassy areas of racetracks.  These guys know how to serve up branding to a television audience.  No matter what, that logo is always going to be face-on to the viewer.  It’s brilliant.

They have no qualms selling stadium rights to every half-assed department store or hemorrhoid cream, and the in-stadium signage is now approaching Times Square levels, but God forbid they actually sell ad space on the turf.  Every inch of the stadium is sold to some shitty sponsor, but the biggest billboard canvas they won’t touch?  What is that, hallowed ground?  Fuck off.

I say if you’ve already sold most of the real estate (literally and figuratively) in the league, you might as well go all the way.  Put that Durex logo in one half of the field.  That way, if the quarterback gets sacked, these cringetastic announcers can say dopey shit like, “Romo really could’ve used more protection there.”  Or the Doritos logo I talked about: “Wow, did you see that hit?  You could really feel the crunch!”  You know they’re just dying to add shit like that to their repertoire.

Just do it and stop being precious about your stupid turf.