Hi, it’s Jimmy Football here!

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With the arrival of the new NFL season also brings a first glimpse at the slate of ads that will run practically on loop during broadcasts throughout the year. So far, we got familiar retreads on Coors Light coach ads (the Romeo Crennel one was actually decent) as well more lecturing from DirecTV spokespeople. The Guitar Hero ad with Hugh Hefner and a bunch of Playmates doing the Risky Business thing was light chuckleworthy boner fuel. And, of course, nothing would be the same if were deprived of $10 discount mall douchecut Dan Hesse, CEO of Sprint.

But the true star of the night was schlubby, stubbly multi-chinned guy with the great versatility of eyewear. For the role of sarcastic guy in the PS3 ad (above), he knows it requires the big plastic frames, because nothing complements a Keyboard Cat shirt quite the same.

But for sarcastic guy giving a dry answer to his friend in the TGI Friday ad? No, don’t change that shirt (maybe button it up a little though), but slip on the wireframes. Because we know gamer nerd is digging into a box of 30 frozen taquitos. But the TGI Friday’s guy, he’s eating out, probably after work, where he has to look distinguished (insofar as schlubby fat guy can – and still without shaving), so the wireframes it is.

Didn’t bother to notice such tiny, but significant, details during last night’s game? That’s why you’re not a pro like this guy. I wonder if his reign over our televisions this fall will be a merciful one.

Brooke Shields: An epidemic is sweeping the nation. U.S. birthrates are at a 35-year high. Is it out of love? No. Is it for companionship? Wrong. Is this the next baby boom? Yes. It’s the Routan Boom.

More and more people are having babies simply for German engineering. Take this couple.

Willis McGahee: That’s right. This shit hot.

All you gotta do is knock a bitch up and they give you one a’ these, right?

Brooke: But…

Uh…

this is…

McGahee: Oh yeah, this gone look rull good in the driveway next to the three Escalades I got for them other kids.

So does it matter the color of the bitch? Like, if I gave it to you without wrapping it up, would I get a white car?

Brooke: No, it doesn’t work that way.

McGahee: Thank goodness. Them white cars is impossible to keep clean. Almost as bad as having to raise a kid. That’s for punks. I just have kids for the cars. Keep the car, ditch the kid. Gotta make payments on both, though, which sucks.

Kind of a shame about the color thing. I could go for one in red. And I’ve never had the privilege of knocking up an Indian girl. Feather, not dot. Dot I’ve done.

Brooke: I don’t really think you know what we’re going for here. This is an ad campaign. The gimmick is people are having kids just to justify buying a van. You’re supposed to deny you’re having a kid to get the car.

McGahee: Yeah, I know. I’m with you. It’s cool. I was kidding anyway. I don’t baby up a bitch for cars. I can buy them shits on my own. And I sure as shit wouldn’t be doing it for a fucking Routan. They’re Joe Flacco gay.

He has been known to enjoy ham and cheese on white bread with miracle whip alongside a tall glass of warm milk.

He began puberty at the age of ten, but he didn’t finish until he was twenty-six.

His imaginary friend has a Masters degree in applied mathematics and suffers from social anxiety disorder.

He is from New Orleans, but his personality screams “Mississippi!”

He doesn’t just pose for the cover of Men’s Vogue, he is Men’s Vogue.

On his honeymoon he mastered Sudoku for Kids.

He is the inspiration behind the Banana Guard.

He is the least interesting man in the world…
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[Joe's Diner]

Matt: Evah notice ha’ cawnfurunce title games ah often bettah than the Sooper Bowl? Is it because a’ the familiarity within tha cawnfurunces? ‘Cass the cowmpetition knows each other sah well? Maybe ‘cass there’s nat two weeks to lose ya mind abaat the game?

Joe Montana: Eh. I don’t know about that. In ‘88, we blew out the Bears in the NFC Title Game then had to come from behind to edge the Bengals in Super Bowl XXIII. In ‘81, the conference title game was classic and the Super Bowl was tight. In ‘84 and ‘89, we won by blowouts in the conference championships, then won by blowouts two weeks later.

Matt: Ha abaat ya just say samthing ta sapport mah fackin aggyament, ’stead a’ making me look like a jerk, Haaaannuh Maaantanah? Lemme tell ya ‘nother thing: Auld Billie Walsh a’ been damn ashamed a’ these eggs flaaarentine ya made today. Taste like ya fried up a lil’ baby Brady meconium and cooked it with ya mah’s discaaarded yeast. Least ya coulda done was addad sahm fresh spinach.

Montana: Real cute. You are free to leave whenever, you know? Been hanging around here, what? Like three, four solid months now? Don’t you have a job or something? A girlfriend? A car getting towed?

Matt: Far as you’re concerned, Maaantanah, my jab is tah hang around this fine estaaablishment and dispense my wry observations on tha game. Ya jab is ta sling that hash and keep tha Irish caaaffees comin’. Says right there on tha windaa “We never close.” Kinda showt yaself in tha dick with that one, huh? Who’s gonna make me go, Ronnie Lott? I dan’t see tha four-fingahed daaarkie hereuh, do ya?

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddaaaaaayyyyyyyy

AH HELP EVERYBODY’S FREAKING OUT THERE’S A LITE BRITE BOMB IN BOSTON!

Ahahaha. Fuck this lame-ass city.

Nice little coffee klatsch we got going on here, chatty Cathys. It’s like the white people equivalent of a barbershop, without the ethnic yukyuks and the low-grade despair. So, what’s going on? Gabbing about the current events of the day? Airing your dim insights confidently about things way beyond your ken? That’s cool. My masturbation technique usually involves yelling at my dick after playoff victories, but to each their own and all that.

[Slaps Matt on back, laughs in his face]

Might be mistaken, but I reckon I heard you spouting a little racism as I was coming in.

Heh. [shakes head] Yankees.

I’M FROM COUSINFUCKING ALABAMA! WE INVENTED THAT SHIT! WE COULD HANG YOUR MEALY-MOUTHED BEHIND-CLOSED-DOORS RACISM FROM A COLD SASSY TREE AND GIVE IT A NEW LAST NAME! WE COULD BURN CROSSES ON YOUR RACISM’S FRONT LAWN! WE COULD MAKE YOUR RACISM SO INSECURE THAT IT WOULD ONLY BE ATTRACTED TO OUR RACISM’S WOMEN AND THEN WE’D KILL YOUR RACISM FOR ACTING ON THAT BRAINWASHING, YOU DUMB FUCKING POTATO-HUMPING MICK!

Matt: Hey, you’re-er-ah that Philip Rivahs, ain’t ya? Ya gawt abaat a queer’s chance in Quincy this weekend against the Pahfect Paytree-uts, shitbawx.

[Rivers smacks Matt across the face with a metal coffee pot then pours the remaining boiling liquid on his collapsed body with laughing maniacally. He lofts in the pot toward the wall. It floats for 30 seconds and falls at his feet.]

Rivers: It’s you I came for, Montana. You’re the original Brady. You, and you alone, hold the keys to helping me beat him.

Montana: I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s just another in a line of generation defining quarterbacks. Sure, we’ve both seen our share of success, but he’s his own man. I don’t really even know the guy.

Rivers: Oh. Well. Teehee. Guess I’ll be screwing off, then, huh? Joe? Huh? FUCK YOU

TELL ME HOW I CAN SUCCEED WHERE SO MANY OTHERS HAVE FAILED! LET YOUR MIND AND MINE BE AS ONE

Montana: All right. It’s like this: You remember all Joe Cool stuff I was heaped with back in the day? Do you know why that is?

Rivers: ‘Cause you was calmer than a roofied-up girl after an ACC game?

Montana: No. Nonono. I was a dithering disaster. Always a bundle of nerves before every game. Beset with insecurity. But it was the ’80s, so it was socially acceptable in certain circles to wear Garfield and Snoopy shirts. Man, I rode that scene hard. I loved that beagle and I embraced his alter ego, Joe Cool, until it became my own. Almost ate me up in the end. But I drew strength from that Joe Cool shirt.

It’s still seared into my memory to this day. I mean, he had sunglasses on! And a shirt with his name on the front! He was changing the way we thought about a rakish indifference to the opinions of others. Perched on his left leg and leaning to the right; the laws of physics say he should topple over, but he was held upright by the sheer force of his own coolness.

Rivers: WHAT IN THE NAME OF JUMBLY FUCK? You’ve lost it, old-timer. You’ve gone the way of Namath: punchdrunk, fucked in the head and tickled in the balls by dotage and unfortunate endorsements. Snoopy couldn’t sell me Met-Life, how is he supposed to help me win a game?

Montana: That’s just the thing. Every great quarterback has that certain something, seemingly juvenile, that serves as a calming influence. For Starr, it was the Buck Rogers watch. For Staubach, it was his chalice of children’s blood. For Bradshaw, it was the coloring book he never finished reading. Brady has something. I’m sure of it. Finding that is the key to unraveling him.

[stares down over counter]

You’re a fucking Olympic-sized swimming pool of douchejuice, Rivers, doomed to being a footnote in hissy fit history. But I’ve had to deal with this Masshole since he showed up as soon as the Red Sox season was over. And I can’t have Brady joining me in the four title club. Sharing that shit with Bradshaw is bad enough. So you’re all I got, Marmatard.

[Patriots locker room, Sunday]

Brady: Guys! Guys! Where is it? Where’s my buddy? Guys!

Rodney HGHarrison: Your buddy, who? The fuck you going on about, man? It’s game time, baby! WWWOOOOOO! Best get your ass out to the tunnel before I hit you with the lateness.

Brady: But…but…?

…Where?

My Buddy…

[Brady stares panic-striken at his trembling hands]

Brady: Shit!

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I guess you’ll have to do.

Is it possible that the Manning family is growing tired of all this football business? Well now that Eli has overtaken Peyton as the dominant brother under center the whole family is poised for a move in a whole new direction.