We apologize: we have not covered the Favre goat story in the two whole days it has existed on the Internet. This is due both to our collective Favre fatigue and the inability of our resident goat-bondage expert PUNTE to weigh in on the subject.  There are some pending criminal charges in South Carolina that keep him from sharing his expertise.

Anyway, it seems like only yesterday we were still talking about the woman who was traveling to Minneapolis with a live purple- and gold-painted goat with the number 4 shaved into its sides tied down in her trunk, with the apparent intent to sacrifice it near Brett Favre’s preseason debut on Friday.

However, as we all know, the goat was saved by fortuitous car trouble and the altruistic mechanics at Tires Plus in Winona, Minnesota — a tough blow for the subset of society that believes in a Chicago Cubs-like curse on the Vikings and also enjoys a good goat sacrifice.  Moreover, the would-be blood offering to the football gods has been named Brett and is now living in Packers country, at the very same Favre-lovin’ farm that chose to make a Brett Favre corn maze last year instead of planting crops. (Native Americans call it “maize”) — it’s a small world when everyone’s insane about the same washed-up, self-centered quarterback.  We can only guess that Brett the Goat will live happily on the farm for several months before he un-retires and ends up tied down in another car’s trunk.  The first step to curing addiction is admitting you have a problem.

As we sift through the untidy aftermath of news stories dedicated to A FREAKING GOAT TIED UP IN A TRUNK JUST BECAUSE IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH FAVRE, perhaps the greatest development in this was MyFox New York’s decision to segue this story into a sport that dates back to 13th century Afghanistan.  Because it involves goats, you see:

Goats also play a major role in Afghanistan’s national sport — Buzkashi. Translated into English, Buzkashi means “goat grabbing” or “goat killing.”

Not to be confused with the Irish national sport, Boozekakke.

And finally, no Internet story is complete without mention of fainting goats.  They’re the Tarvaris Jackson of sacrificial goats!

What a blessed day this is, NFL fans.  After years of waiting, we finally have a go-to Steelers picture to replace the morbidly obese Steelers chick.  This dog is aroused. Even our own Christmas Ape is re-thinking his cat person status.

I love everything about this dog.  It’s like James Harrison, but less likely to punch his girlfriend in the face.  Fun fact: You can actually take Steelers poodle and the poodle horse –

– and recreate Joey Porter’s dog killing the miniature horse.  It’s like a metaphor or something.

Bonus insanity:

(Photographs: Ron Netherland at the Daily Mail. Also seen at Buzzfeed and psamp.)

- Marmalard is a very rich man this morning, having agreed to a contract extension with the Chargers worth $92 million over the next seven years. The contract includes a guaranteed payout of $38.5 million and, most importantly, it means that he’ll now be the second highest paid* member of the ’04 quarterback class. Suck on that, Rapelisberger!

Read the rest of this entry »

Wade: My, oh my. Look at this new stadium! Hoo wee! I gotta hand it to the Big Feller. Gotta hand it to him. This new place is a peach!

(settles into new desk chair)

Ooh, listen to the hiss of that leather! I feel like I’m sittin’ inside a brand new Cadillac. If only my Daddy could see me now! These are the kind of days where I feel honored and privileged to be the head coach of the Dallas Cowboys. Yessir, thick and thin, I dare say that a work space like this is downright INSPIRING. I feel inspired! Haven’t felt that way in ages.

Let’s put in some tape and whip up some new schemes. I wanna give these people a show! Let me just get the ol’ Smartfood bag here.

(opens bag of popcorn)

Mmmmm… popcorn. Hey, what the…

(door flies open)

Read the rest of this entry »

What news!

Ravagings were rendert to the throwing joint of the head quarterbacksman, leaving Good Sir Palmer rheumy about the oculars and with marked dryness about the vaginal lips. I spake to him as he lay upon to greensward, “Good Sir Palmer, do husband your strength. Your labors require potency in the throwing arm. Is it rubella? Your eyes have yet to roll behind their lids, there is still time. Maintain pressure on the joint until we can apply leaches and allow my haymakers to triumph in your wake.” His rejoinder to me came thusly: “Where are the trainers? Can someone get this incomprehensible mick off me?” Unappreciative lout, how I knit my brows at his person!

But where Crisis has befallen he, the divine mistress of Opportunity has belavisht me with her grace. Here, only when my mind was blackent and consumpt with ideas that the Lord had smote me through continuous potato famine and six wives all lost to complications of child birth, now I am tasked with leading the first team offense into the heat of preseasonal conflict.

Being a first team quartered back is a station of immense responsibility. Therefore, to saw that I am a Man of Distinction I bought my first comb and toothstring, so as to make my appearance less “gruesome” “grueful” and “marked by grue”. It seems some had taken note of mine efforts. Whilst cording my tattering pant string, I was approached by a toff representing a three-lettered entity he said was known to all and sundry as “HBO”. This “HBO”, he said, would make a projected story of our trainings by use of moving daguerrotype. I promised to make winner’s pose prior to each haymaker, for this the camera likes.

One practice was particularly eventful. I could feel the moving daguerrotype channel its attention on my visage. How the cigarette girls would swoon when next I came upon the boulevard! Feeling flush with vainglory, I removed my claddings in the locker quarters when I was approached by the Black of Assumed Spaniard Surname.

He spake things to me of indeterminate subject. So flummoxed was I that I feigned understanding rather than ask elucidation.

“Child Please,” he exclaimed.

“Begging your pardon. Do you address me in the manner of an unruly urchin?” I puzzled.

“Child Please,” he repeated, as if I had said nothing at all.

“Sir!” I thundered. “Though it is my sworn mission to deliver you footballs on the field of play, your manner in the dressing quarters strikes me as irksome! Cease this irksomeness!”

“Man, Child Please,” he said, defiantly.

As I reared back to deliver the mother of all haymakers to this senseless ruffian, I was restrained from behind by the steady arm of headmaster Lewis. With one look I knew I risked more than sourness in the haymaker hand if I followed through on my swing. The Fake Spaniard took advantage of the momentary stillness to chase after a thing emitting a shiny light, whereafter Headmaster Lewis drew me aside and assured me that if anyone would strike this man-child, it would be he.

It was the first time I’d seen him serious.

You could stash Tony Romo in those chinos. COINCIDENCE?

From reader John B. via Barstool Sports.

NEW YORK- Sources within the commissioner’s office report that Roger Goodell is launching an internal investigation into the possible gang related activities of NFL superstar Adrian Peterson. Suspicions arose when images of the Minnesota Vikings running back surfaced on the internet blog site Gobbler Country showed him holding a large firearm alongside his similarly attired friends.

While Peterson’s associates cannot be identified in the photos it’s apparent by their matching outfits that they are a fellow members of the football player’s illicit organization. Gangs such as Peterson’s typically feature specific colors by which members are recognized and rivals are identified. In this case the Commissioner’s office has reason to believe Peterson has started a camouflage gang, all the better to stay hidden from authorities while remaining in plain sight.

No one within the NFL could be reached for comment.

[Gobbler Country]

When we last left jelly-hoofed deer-murderer Peter King, he was contemplating staging a personal boycott of Westin Hotels after they screwed him out of a room. DID HE DARE FOLLOW THROUGH ON SUCH A DEVASTATING EMBARGO? We find out this week! It’s true! Hold onto your luggage!

You know, if it was ANYONE else besides Peter King, I’d have sympathy for someone getting hosed out of a hotel room late at night and then given wrong directions to a make-good hotel. That would suck if it happened to, like, my friend Jesse. But such is my disdain for Peter King that I will happily defend those against whom he has a justifiable gripe. What’s that? Peter was struck by a drunk driver running a red light? KEEP YOUR HEAD ON A SWIVEL, KING. YOU DUMBASS! When it comes to Peter King, rational sympathy goes right out the window.

Anyway, this week’s MMQB is shockingly short, but still plenty long on idiocy. Here we go.

Read the rest of this entry »

ONE LAST TRICK FOR THIS BOOK WHORE. A bunch of filthy tech geek electro-hippies with their libraries in their bookPods were bugging me this week about when my book was going to be out for the Kindle. After a whole four days of delay, it is now available, so download away. Remember though, you can only throw the Kindle at someone’s face once (max twice) before it breaks. The Luddites win again! Anyway, if you want to hear me jabber on more about the book and football, I was on both Shutdown Corner‘s and FanHouse‘s podcast today. Also, I was on James Carville’s satellite radio show this morning, which I can’t link to, but I mention because he called the Redskins “the biggest crap organization in all of sports”. I knew there was a reason to like that guy.

This week’s Sexy Friday was supposed to feature our second sexy slideshow set to go-go, but YouTube decided to shit all over my dreams because apparently uploading a 20 year-old song is a crime. So instead of some of the internet’s finest ass shots set to EU‘s Da Butt we’ll have to settle for a pictorial featuring one of the NFL’s most adorable cheerleaders. Continue after the jump for more of Lilly Robbins.

Read the rest of this entry »