Do you see now, people? Have you finally fucking figured it out?

I do not like football. I don’t know how much clearer I can make that point. This sport blows. Everyone’s running around and hitting each other… yikes. All I wanted when I was a kid was to hang out with my mom in the kitchen and make some zucchini bread. But nooooo, everyone’s all like, “You’re a Manning. You should play football!”

Fuck that. You should hear my dad in interviews. “We never pushed football on the boys…” Yeah right, old man. I just fell into this shit naturally. It had nothing to do with the family football games we played every afternoon for SEVENTEEN FUCKING YEARS, Dad. Or the film study sessions after dinner. No, that was for fun. Ass.

And Peyton! Guhhhhh, what a fucking dickwad. “Hey, Dad! I’ve memorized the playbook!” “Hey Dad, want to go look at your old game films?” “Hey Dad, I audibled to a slant-and-go pattern!” Fucking brownnoser. Hey Peyton, I just threw two picks and blew a game to Tennessee because I’m not as good as you! Isn’t that exciting? Fuckface.

But those two aren’t even the worst offenders in my family. No, I always get Cripple Boy pulling me aside and spouting off some shit like, “Cherish these games, Eli. You’re lucky to be playing in them.” Oh, yeah? I got crazed loons like Albert Haynesworth trying to chase me down and stomp on my fucking nuts. Does that sound like fun to you, Cooper? You get to sell real estate and ride Jet Skis on weekends. Meanwhile, I got Coach Stalin chewing me out and the New York tabloids writing punny headlines telling everyone what a dipshit I am. Oh yeah, bro. I’ll cherish these moments. They’re fucking sterling.

God dammit, do I look like I enjoy playing this game? Have you ever seen me smile? Have you even ever seen my expression change? No. I always look like someone just asked me to solve a trigonometry formula. I only play this game because everyone expected me to. I don’t like hanging out in the locker room. I don’t like slapping asses after a win. I don’t like any of that shit.

Give me squash. There’s a sport. You got two guys in a box swatting at a dead superball. Now THAT I can get on board with. No coaches. No annoying family members telling you about how “great the game is”. None of that crap. Just you, some other sweaty guy, and lots of grunting. Bliss.

I got a bigass signing bonus, you know. I could play that shit all day. All I have to do is prove to everyone that I’m not good enough to play this bullshit football. Critics say I’m inaccurate. Wanna bet? I’m the most accurate fucking passer in the world, people. Those aren’t interceptions I’m throwing. They are FUCKING CRIES FOR HELP.

Don’t you get it? I don’t want to do this anymore. Let some other moron run sit back in the pocket, waiting to get jacked. If only I could just quit, like that dipshit Tiki. He says he’s quitting and the entire media slobs his knob for going out “before he does permanent damage to his body”. Whore. If I quit tomorrow, everyone would call me a gutless pussy. What a bunch of bullshit. Eat shit, Tiki. Eat my shit.

I’m gonna get out of this game. And if it means throwing another 20 dead-on picks and costing the Giants the playoffs, then fuck it. I’m doing it. You can’t stop me. Nothing will keep Eli from that squash court.

I have a list of teams that are woefully undercovered on this site that I’d like to get to (Cleveland, Denver, and any other team you commenters would like to see get some attention), but I have to call attention to UM’s favorite team right now. Largely to make him suffer more, which is terrific fun.

You might think we blog folk exist just to rip on everything and say everyone sucks. Not so. In the giant ocean of suckitude that is sports journalism, some work stands out, and Tom Friend’s ESPN.com article on the Skins is one of those works. Read it here. Friend takes the pulse of the Skins locker room and coaching staff, and what comes out is a portrait of an organization that, apart from Detroit, is the worst run in the NFL. Particularly damning is the portrayal of defensive coordinator Gregg Williams, who comes across a thoroughly arrogant prick. Some of the lowlights:

Williams told people that the offense was almost “high school” that first year.

Williams was heard bragging that he made more money than the head coaches he was recruiting against, that he carried more lumber than some head coaches in the league.

One player on Williams and the coaching staff: They think they’re f—— geniuses, thinking they can just let guys go and get away with handling people badly.

The Redskins’ safeties and corners do not meet together, which is practically unheard of.

There’s also a brutal assessment of safety coach Steve Jackson. Read on:

Other defensive coaches became officially peeved at Jackson for making Taylor “play like a robot,” and for turning him into a confused, regressing player who now tunes out coaches and teammates.

“And then Steve Jackson began pouting at practice,” the player said. “He pouts at practice. He’ll stand by himself and won’t coach anybody. This last game in Tampa, we had a player at halftime go up to him and say, ‘Are you going to just sit there and pout, or are you gonna f—— coach your guys up?’”

It gets worse. Reading the whole article, if you hate the Skins, is a joy. Brilliant work by Friend. If Peter King wrote this article, he’d spend 7 paragraphs telling you about an omelet he ate that morning.

Thanksgiving isn’t just about the NFL. All across the nation, Turkey Day is one of the biggest days in high school football. Rivalry games, playoff games and championship games are often played early on Thanksgiving, so that millions of the high school football players that come out on the losing end of things will contemplate suicide during the bird carving.

If you were watching SportsCenter back in 1994, you may remember these highlights from the Plano East-John Tyler game. Plano East trailed in this game 41-13 with just under three minutes to go. What happened next is the kind of thing that happens in one out of every one billion football games, if that. And, if it ever happens again, it probably won’t be presided over by two of the biggest redneck, stereotype-justifying yokel announcers you’ll ever hear. If you haven’t seen this clip, take a deep breath. It’s my favorite sports highlight ever. Enjoy.

The rest of the KSK Gay Mafia, presently face down in puddles of turkey giblet infused vomit (or in Drew’s case, regurgitated breadwiches) have left the damn dirty ape at the controls today. And, come hell or hangover, I’m gonna get you your Friday cheerleader fix. I’m stuck at work, and I’ll be fucked in the ear if I’m getting anything productive done today while everyone else in America is busy rioting at Best Buy.

I had wanted to do a gamebook on the inaugural NFL Network regular season game last night, but, like many of you out there, I don’t get the channel. I did, in fact, until roughly three days before the first game of the season, when I moved into my new place. Now I am sans premium channel football goodness. Woe is me to the third degree.

What I missed, besides a Gumbel-induced migraine, was a fine curb-stomping by the suddenly ascendant Chiefs administered to the quickly fading Denver Broncos. I remember catching heat a few weeks ago for stating that the Broncos defense was nowhere nearly as good as the Bears’. Well, I got some Thanksgiving leftovers for you in a few hours. I’ll leave it in Drew’s Tupperware container for you.

Anyway, on this post-Thanksgiving Day we wish to honor the Chiefs’ victory and the noble Native Americans, who received forks up their asses from the white man 50 300 years ago, by presenting a couple pasty white Chiefs cheerleaders.

The one on the far right looks eerily like the slightly hotter of the Bush twins. The one on left is about as Plain Jane as they come by NFL standards. And the second from left resembles a young Sandra Bernhard. Nnnyyyuuuuhhh. That leaves you, blonde cheerleader with the fake tan. You’re the one for me!

Enjoy your weekend.

You’ve survived another Thanksgiving and its attendant glut of crappy butternut squash, pontificating relatives and lopsided football games. What awaits you now is a year’s worth of schmaltz and cheap sentiment tightly packed into the next month. There are many things that will drive you up the fucking wall in the following weeks and chief among them are, other than unending hype about the Bears, Colts, Tony Romo and Jake Plummer (just funnin’, Broncos fans - he’s terrible), constant exhortations to do goodly shit you would never consider otherwise because it’s “the holidays,” agonizing about how you’re going to spend less on gifts for other people than they do on you without looking like a cheapskate and that local radio station that plays 58 shitty soft rock artists covering seven Christmas songs.

Okay, that was Gloria Estefan singing “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.” Up next, we have Michael McDonald with “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.” After that Bing Crosby, Clay Aiken, Aretha Franklin and Rosemary Clooney sing, you guessed it, “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.” We can keep this up all day, people. Call the station and complain why don’cha? I’ll tell you why: I’ll play a block of Burl Ives for an hour. That’s why. I work for Clear Channel and I’m not afraid to die.

Worse still are the omnipresent holiday jewelry ads. These are the most cynical and insulting things on TV, save maybe beer commercials, and not just to women. But unlike beer commercials, they don’t have the saving grace of being occasionally funny. The men are all gawking, emasculated, clueless submorons while the women are calculating, hypermaterialistic rockfiends who can only be appeased by being handed a diamond locket in front of a roaring fireplace with a tinkling piano overlay every fifteen minutes leading up to December 25.

The fundamental problem I have with them is that they operate under the notion that anyone is stupid enough to have a clear preference in crappy chain jewelry stores. I mean, you’re getting something substandard regardless. It’s like having an adamant desire for signing a particular journeyman quarterback. I can see the ad now - a woman slaps a bumbling GM, who then turns to the camera and exclaims, “Aww, I knew I shoulda signed Steve Beuerlein.”

Of course, if I had my druthers (whatever it is druthers are) the following two ads would play on loop during every commercial break throughout December.

Why, yes, I am single. However did you guess? That’s okay. My customary masterbation gruel will suffice, thank you.

Anyway, I’m still a wee woozy on tryptophan and several kinds of alcohol, so this isn’t the most football intensive post ever. Feel free to speculate in the comments on which store Peyton Manning goes to for Kenny Chesney’s diamond-encrusted cock ring. I’m leaning toward Zales.

Dennis Green will not return to the Cardinals next season.

Oh my God this is shocking. This blows my fucking mind. I knew Bruce Willis was dead halfway through The Sixth Sense, and I had a feeling about 9/11, but this… This. Wow. I did not see this coming, not after the Monday night meltdown where the Bears didn’t even need an offensive touchdown to mount a huge comeback, and certainly not after losing to the Raiders.

The Buzzsaw is reportedly looking for a replacement, and the early favorite is Steve Mariucci. If they can’t get Mariucci, they’ll settle for anybody who sucks between one-third and three-fourths as much as Green. So Mike Martz is probably on the list.

Happy Thanksgiving, Denny. This year, you should be thankful that you lasted as long as you did. And also Fishing Across America. But we’re all thankful for Fishing Across America.

p.s. Anybody who picked the Cards for the playoffs this year: stand up and let us mock you now. You know who you are.

Hello, friends. It’s that special time of year again. The time of year to gather round loved ones, share a hot meal, have a good laugh, say one appropriate thing after having too much wine, have your mother overreact, tell her she’s a goddamn micromanager and that she should mind her own fucking business, listen to your sister pipe in with some whiny bullshit, and then leave town early.

I keed, I keed. I’d say, by the time you hit your 20’s, you make the transition to enjoying Thanksgiving more than Christmas. It really is the best holiday in the history of everything ever. There’s food, wine, football, napping, and at least one family member who accidentally farts, triggering a round of farting and laughing from everyone else in your clan. What, that doesn’t happen at your house? Pfft. Whatever.

Now, we all know the tradition behind Thanksgiving. I learned it in kindergarten. The Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock because the English made fun of their gay shiny shoe buckles. Then they met up with the savage Indians. But they managed to tame the wild beasts with delicious brown whiskey and games of chance. Then Squanto taught the Pilgrims how to plant corn by putting dead fish in the ground. Then they all sat at a big table and broke bread. Then John Smith nailed the shit out of Pocahontas after dessert. Then the Indians busted out the peyote and moonshine and they all played dice. That’s what I was taught, so it must be true.

And, in that same tradition, I will share with you my schedule for tomorrow’s Turkey Day festivities. I’m a dad, so I wake up early now. Your schedule may vary. Feel free to post yours in the comments.

7AM - The Girl (my daughter) wakes up. Lie perfectly still so that Mrs. Drew thinks I’m still asleep and goes to get her.

7:05AM - Mrs. Drew goes to get Girl.

7:06AM - Masturbate. Fall back asleep.

8:00AM - Wake up for real. Go downstairs. Check email. Get glare from Mrs. Drew. Stop checking email and feign being a good husband and father. Consider having first drink.

8:05AM - Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

9:30AM - Put Girl down for 1st nap. Check fantasy lineup. KJ is out. I’m officially uninterested in Dolphins-Lions.

9:35AM - Uh… what do I do now? Okay, okay. I take it back. I’ll watch a shitty football game. When does it start? Three fucking hours from now? Christ.

10AM - Wait.

10:05AM - Wait more.

10:10AM - Watch the Macy’s Parade on TV. Listen to Meredith Vieira use the same script for the Bart Simpson balloon that’s been used every year since 1990: “Cowabunga, dudes! Bart Simpson is hanging loose up over 5th Avenue. Don’t have a cow, man!” Those morning show anchors just exude spontaneity.

11:00AM - The Girl wakes up. Change her diaper and her outfit. Bring her downstairs. Have Mrs. Drew tell me the Girl’s outfit isn’t acceptable. Let out five-minute, audible sigh. Go back and change her again. Repeat as necessary.

11:30AM - Eat bagel and omelet for light snack.

Noon - Turn on NFL Countdown.

12:01PM - Turn off NFL Countdown. Wonder why I even fucking bothered.

12:30PM - Lions-Dolphins kick off. Yay, I can start drinking!

12:32PM - Dolphins 23, Lions 0 (They get a safety in there somewhere).

12:37PM - Flip around. That Barefoot Contessa is a fucking snob. Not all of us live in East Hampton like you and your precious Jeffrey, slutbag. And, while I’m at it, fuck Alton Brown. Bossy sack of shit.

12:45PM - Ooohhh, Death to Smoochy is on Comedy Central!

1:00PM - Start making stuffing. I volunteer to make stuffing every year. I’ve heard of people who put oysters in their stuffing. That’s fucking gross. I’ve never eaten stuffing and thought to myself, “Hey, you know what would improve this? Shellfish.” Why don’t I make shrimp raisin bread while I’m at it? Disgusting.

2:00PM - Halftime. Dolphins 97, Lions -1. Matt Millen gets a seven-year extension and is legally adopted by William Clay Ford.

2:30PM - Pack up shit for 15-minute drive to the in-laws. Make sure there’s backup wine for the backup wine.

2:45PM - Arrive. My mother-in-law has the appetizer spread already set out. Fucking tremendous. Scoop entire bowl of hummus onto single piece of pita bread and eat it.

2:50PM - Watch the end of Dolphins-Lions. Final score: Dolphins 156, Lions -39 (in overtime).

3:30PM - Start of Bucs-Cowboys. I have TO on my fantasy team, so this game actually interests me. Except when the Bucs are on offense, in which case it can fuck off. I’d also like to announce that I will, from here on out, refer to Bill Parcells as the Titty Monster.

3:31PM - Fall asleep.

4:30PM - Mrs. Drew wakes me up for a haircut. Yes, Mrs. Drew cuts my hair. No one crimps like Mrs. Drew.

5:00PM - Haircut over. Shower. Officially allowed to start binge drinking. Grab beer and head downstairs.

5:01PM - Cowboys 14, Bucs 0. TO has already caught one TD pass and dropped seven others.

5:02PM - Mrs. Drew tells me to turn off the TV and come upstairs to be social with everyone. Oh, okay.

5:59PM - Hey, I’m drunk! Nice.

6:00PM - Dinner. Do you like white meat? Then fuck off. I’m a dark meat man. None of this bland white meat shit. Dark meat is moister and has more fat. It’s like Kate Winslet. And who doesn’t enjoy Kate Winslet?

The rest of the evening’s menu:

-Stuffing
-German stuffing (It’s stuffing, but with bacon. I approve of that addition.)
-Cranberries
-Sweet potatoes (which get cold in exactly 4 seconds)
-White trash church basement green bean casserole (the one with cream of mushroom soup and fried onions. So. Fucking. Good.)
-Gravy (NOTE: There is never enough gravy at Thanksgiving. Everyone says, “Hey, don’t use too much gravy.” God dammit, it’s Thanksgiving. I want to rub gravy all over my body and lick myself clean. Make more gravy, people.)
-Pumpkin pie

Pretty simple. If we were at my folks’ house, there would also be mashed potatoes (good) and creamed onions (guhhhhhh).

6:30PM - Fourths.

6:35PM - Check final score. Cowboys 28, Bucs 3. Since Madden left FOX, I think Aikman gives out an award for the best Thanksgiving Day player. I think it’s a crystal scrotal clamp, but I don’t remember.

6:45PM - Bourbon. Chocolate.

7:00PM - Leave.

7:15PM - Bathe Girl. Feed Girl. Put Girl to bed.

7:30PM - More bourbon.

8:00PM - Watch Broncos-Chiefs. This is the only good game of the day. My eyelids barely function.

8:01PM - Plummer throws an interception. Mike Shanahan benches all his running backs and throws in Sammy Winder, just to fuck more with Tatum Bell owners like myself.

9:00PM - Interrupt Broncos-Chiefs for Mrs. Drew’s 2-hour Grey’s Anatomy event. Shit. Hey, people with TiVo: I fucking hate you. I’m assuming George’s dad dies because the uptight Asian doctor lets the black guy with bad hand operate on him. What a bitch.

11:00PM - Turn back to Broncos-Chiefs. Broncos 28, Chiefs 27. Amazing finish. I missed it.

11:01PM - Biiiiiiiiiiiiig dump.

11:15PM - Throw up.

11:16PM - In bed. Thanksgiving rules.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. Hope you all have a great time with family and friends. And, if you’re traveling, I hope your trip is as painless as humanly possible. Enjoy the food and games, everybody.

If you’ve got cable and you want to Run to the Playoffs with the NFL Network you might have to run to the nearest sports bar. The lucky ones are those of us who have Comcast, and we already know what it’s like to be anally violated by a demonic corporate beast (What the fuck is a service charge? The only service they provide is the not-quite-optional reacharound from the ex-con fixing your cable)…fuckers.

As you probably know by now, this Thursday marks the debut of the NFL Network’s live televised NFL action…what a concept. The downside here is that this Thursday is also Thanksgiving, and there’s no way in hell I could ever go to a sports bar on Thanksgiving…usually I’m drunk and drugged by the 8 pm. So the millions of subscribers to other company’s services are pretty much shit out of luck. But here’s the best part…nobody cares.

Another beautiful example of a professional sports league bending their loyal fan base over a barrel in the pursuit of extra revenue. I’m starting to think Roger Goodell might be a member of the tribe after all (“They have return! And they shape shift!”). The most troubling part of all is of course the reaction of us, the fans. If Seth Sutel’s article from Business Week is any indication, we are long overdue for a shit storm (literal not figurative you pussies) outside the offices of the offending cable companies and the NFL Network (which are in Los Angeles…their assholes but their sense of irony is spot on).

The cable companies are in a tough spot on this dispute. If hard-core fans can’t see the games they want, the complaints could start pouring in — something Time Warner says hasn’t happened yet. On the other hand, no one’s going to like it if the cable companies pass along the costs by raising rates.

Seriously, people aren’t even complaining enough to draw attention. Consider this a call to arms to all my brothers (and sexy sexy sisters) on these here ebays of the internets. You can write, you can call, or you can just be a man (or a sexy sexy woman) and start flinging all your spare fecal matter at the offending parties. This cannot fail.

As for the game itself, I have Comcast…so I’m all set (suck it Manhattan!), although it’s still likely to be a painful experience. I have relatively high hopes for Bryant Gumble, he’s a professional, he gets away with calling out the NFL on their bullshit, and I’ve really missed him since Gumbel 2 Gumbel was canceled (probably by Rupurt Murdoch who owns DirecTV…it’s everywhere).

Chris Collinsworth or a drag queen in prep?
What if I told you you’re both right!

Sadly he’ll be reduced to another bland voice being steupped on by the interminable Chris Collinsworth. I would never wish death on anybody under any circumstances…but if you pressed me, CC would make the top 25 (even being a former Gator cannot save him from my godly vengence). Yes Chris we get it, you are a rare analyst insomuch as you have actual knowledge of the game and we all know how great you are on HBO (Bill Simmons and the Emmy voters just won’t shut up about it). All of this doesn’t change the fact that you are a pompous douche who’s bias shines through like misplaced spotlight off of your forehead.

The only guarantee is that the Smarmy Factor will reach new heights in that booth. I wonder how many times they’ll mention how full they are after a big pre-game dinner…as a viewer I can totally relate to that kind of shit. Thank God Dick Vermeil will be handling the Saturday night duties for the last two games of the year. I’ll take man-crying over man-impersonating any day of the week and twice on Thanksgiving.

Have you ever found yourself at a Thanksgiving function where for some incomprehensible, infathomable, inexplicable reason they don’t have the football game on the television? This happens to me almost every year, and never fails to piss me off. My in-laws have an enormous extended family and it seems every year Thanksgiving dinner is held at yet another cousin/aunt/ who-the-hell-knows’ house at some remote location in South Fucking Cackalackee.

Thanksgiving memories: “Eat faster! Holmgren’s coming!”

Regardless of which relation (who I may or may not have met years ago at the wedding and have long since forgotten) hosts Thanksgiving, two things remain consistent. First, a woefully disparate chairs-to-asses ratio. I’ll never know why someone would invite over 50 people when they have maybe a dozen chairs in the whole rinky-dink place. Is this how I am expected to spend my holiday? People are standing around eating like it’s a goddam refugee camp. Indigents at the Salvation Army have a more comfortable dining experience. Second, and far, far more egregious, is that nowhere in this grossly overcrowded shanty is a television tuned to the football game.

Apparently, Norman Rockwell started out his career painting
homo-erotic magazine covers . That pilgrim looks like Bruce Campbell.

Fortunately, I long ago overcame any reservations I may have entertained about making it perfectly clear I need to see the football game immediately. There’s no point in wasting time dropping subtle hints like, “Jesus Christ, have you hillbillies even heard of football?” These people are far too dense to pick up on nuanced cues like that. I usually just grab the remote and start clicking until I hear Jim Nantz breathlessly pimping Phil Simms’ bullshit ‘iron award’.

Occasionally, someone might squawk about my unilateral programming adjustment. What? Your kid wants to watch “A Yogi Bear & Friends Christmas”??? Fuck her. I’m sweating balls to make the playoffs in my money league, I got Kevin Jones’ raggedy ass going at 12:30, and I sure as hell intend to watch it.

Fuck. These. Guys.

However, all this self-absorbed bitching and moaning is a roundabout way of leading to what I am truly thankful for this year– the long-overdue addition of a third Thanksgiving game. Usually, the NFL, given a choice between A, B and C– “C” being a shit sandwich— will pick the latter. But adding a third Thanksgiving game is a stroke of sheer, unqualified genius. (Frankly, I am so overjoyed at the promise of the more football, that I am willing to overlook, albeit temporarily, the return to the NFL of the smarmy dickheadmanship that is Bryant Gumbel.)

“I realize many of you may not get the NFL Network.
Sucks to be you. Have fun watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’
or some other weak shit. Loser.”

For years, Thanksgiving football has provided an attractive alternative to actually carrying on a conversation with my in-laws. Now, with the addition of the prime-time game I am assured three additional hours in which I can avoid any human interaction whatsoever. And that, amigos, is something for be thankful for. Let’s play three.

“My buddy Bob Sacamano once committed career suicide.”