Every so often, a sports team or figure arrives that is so successful, yet so loathsome, that my only consolation is to remind myself of the fleeting nature of athletic prowess. “Just wait,” I tell myself. “They will be out of the league sooner or later.” Example: I hated Bill Laimbeer so much when I was a kid, all I could do was tell myself that one day his skills would diminish and he would be cast out of the game and I would never have to think about him again. Later in the late 1990s, when the wheezy old Dallas Cowboys warhorse finally ran itself into the ground, my friends and I toasted their demise with many rounds of bourbon shots.
I mention this now because I am absolutely giddy over the events that are about to unfold. You see, the Patriots’ run at or near the top of the league is just about over. They are done. Finished. His-toe-ree. Read the rest of this entry »
Wade: Well, well! That was a heckuva turnaround, wasn’t it? I’ll be. We did it! We came together and won this dang division. Lotta people said we couldn’t do it! Lotta people said we weren’t gonna win anything in December. But we showed them, didn’t we Roscoe?
Roscoe: RUFF!
Wade: You’re darn right, boy.
Roscoe: RUFF!
Wade: Yeah, I know. NOW COMES THE HARD PART! Taking on those pesky Eagles again. Won’t be a walk in the park like last time! But you know what, Roscoe? I feel pretty daggone good. I think I’ve proven myself. I think I’m ready to show everyone that Wade Phillips is a coach to be reckoned with in this here league.
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
Now merely a week away from the start of the postseason, the hopes of many have been stoked, only so that they can soon be dashed to our everlasting cackling delight. While only two playoff berths remain to be secured, there can still be a good deal of movement among those assured to be alive past the first week of January (isn’t it so much less clunky when the regular season ends in December?). To help untangle the Gordian knot of playoff scenarios, we unpack how the events of Week 17 can impact those teams still in the running.
NFC
THE SAINTS HAVE HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE PROVIDED: Tom Benson remembers where he put the keys to the team bus when he sobers up.
THE EAGLES CAN CLINCH A FIRST-ROUND BYE IF: God hates us.
AND
He wishes us ill.
AND
Flipadelphia poisons Dallas.
THE CARDINALS CAN CLINCH A FIRST-ROUND BYE IF: They win and the Eagles lose.
OR
They are this year’s Arizona.
THE VIKINGS HAVE CLINCHED: A first-round loss at home.
THE COWBOYS HAVE CLINCHED: A first-round loss on the road or possibly one at home.
SHOULD THE COWBOYS AND VIKINGS MEET IN THE FIRST ROUND: The winner will be determined by an advantage in two of the following three categories:
- Number of Favres on roster.
- Number of Romos on roster.
- Amount of players wearing dew-proof gloves.
THE PACKERS CAN DO ANYTHING THEY WANT IF: They make this stop.
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
INT Giants’ Practice Facility. Friday. 4:38 AM.
[Giants defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo unlocks the front door, and walks in]
Two more days of prep and then we face the Eagles. Yeah, sure, it’s only McNabb and Andy Reid that we’re up against, but you never know when those meatheads are gonna wake up and actually play like they’re supposed to. Nobody wants to be McNabb’s bitch, and it’s not happening on us this weekend. It’s our last day of prep today, then a walkthrough tomorrow. Game on Sunday. Time to get your gameface on, Steve. Get fired up.
Sigh. I’m exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy about still being in the hunt, but I’m ready for a break. I’m so worn out. I haven’t seen my wife in a month. And I’m sick of looking at these same assholes day after day. I wish I…I really wish I wasn’t so lonely right now.
[stops at receptionist's desk]
Hey, there’s a donut left over from yesterday. Chocolate covered, too. My favorite. Wait, it’s not cream-filled. Still a nice surprise, though. Amazing that Coach Gilbride didn’t eat that donut and the box with it. Thank you, donut. You’re a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
[pulls donut out of box]
Oh, my, donut. You’re so firm and [licks fingers] sugary. I bet your other 11 friends weren’t so sweet, were they? Hey relax, donut, it’s just me. Don’t act like you do around those other guys. Spags wants the real deal, you dirty bitch.
Tell me how you like it, you little chocolate whore. Don’t act you can’t feel what’s going on between us. As soon as I get these pants off, you’re gonna see a stunt package you’ll never for—mmm, there it is.
Damn, donut, you feel so good. I like the way your glaze flakes off onto my scrote. It tickles so damn good. Maybe someday you can meet my mother, and you two can talk about yeast and all that shit. Let’s go a little faster now…
Oh, God, donut, you’re gonna make me come. Oh, that’s it. Don’t — Aw, don’t stop.
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
Vince Young: You know, it’s been hard for me to come to grips with it, but I’m happy for what you’ve done with this team. I’m a competitive dude and I’d love to be out there on that field with a chance to shine on the big stage. But the time was right for you, man. I give you a lot of credit sticking around as long as you have.
Kerry Collins: …
Vince: I mean, who knows what’s gonna happen? Maybe you’ll win it for us this year and you’ll ride off a champ. Maybe even if you win, you stick around for a few years. Either way, you’ve shown me I’ll get mine once the time is right.
Kerry: …
Vince: Yo, man. Something wrong?
Kerry: There ain’t a stiff enough drink to deal with you flapping your big ugly fucking jumbo tar baby lips.
Vince: The fuck you just say to me? Fuck you, you racist piece of shit. I dare you to say that again. I fucking dare you.
Kerry: And if I catch you and your jigaboo friends trying to get that bandwagon fuckwit Snoop Dogg to do a Super Bowl song for us, I’ll get my gun out of my special locker room and spray your meager shit-for-brains all over the walls and play with it.
Vince: Mike, you hearing this shit? This guy is just fucking off.
Mike Heimerdinger: Not my purview, Vince.
Vince: Not your purview? YOU’RE A COACH. Do something before I break my foot off in his ass.
Heimerdinger: You’ll have to take it up with Fisher.
Vince: Coach! Man, you got to hear what Kerry just said to me. He said -
Jeff Fisher: I know, Vince, I know. I believe you. Kerry uses racial epithets. LenDale is a gloating cockhog of a situational running back. Chris Johnson is a high-stepping little shit, too. Haynesworth stomps on people. Vanden Bosch has three servers full of kiddie porn at the team headquarters. Courtland Finnegan kicks pregnant women for his jollies. Rob Bironas plowed my wife. THE KICKER! And I go randomly skydive rather than prepare for opponents.
And you know what? That’s the way it’s going to be. ‘CAUSE. I. DON’T. GIVE. A. FLYING. FUCK.
[Pumps fist]
You know how long I’ve been coaching this goddamn team? Do you? 14 of the most miserable years of my fucking life. I took over when the team was in Houston, back before Bud Adams moved the Oilers and their history to this backwater, pissant, podunk, shitheap in the shadow of Dollywood. People hate the Colts for their skipping town, but at least Indy stole the history of someone who actually did something and not the fucking Oilers.
The only reason people don’t call me a choker is because no one gives a shit about Tennessee. And they shouldn’t. I don’t give a shit about Tennessee. That’s why I respect Kerry. He’s just hanging on for that ring, doing what he has to. That’s gonna make all this bullshit worthwhile. After that, you, Tennessee, the NFL — you can have coaches that are interested in being classy. I tried that shit. Being classy and $5 will buy you a poke with your mom.
So, why don’t you sit your prima-donna, score-of-8-on-the-Wonderlic, bust-of-a-first-round-pick, suicide-hotline-code-blue, dipshit-sidearm-delivery ass on the bench and maybe YOU might get a ring too for being nothing but a drain on my goddamn time.
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
Bob Junior: There go the Painthers, flying under the radar. Which is funny, ’cause everybody knows Carolina was FIRST IN FLIGHT! Even if the Wright Brothers were from Ohio, THEY DONE CAME DOWN TO OUR EMPTY WINDSWEPT BEACHES LIKE A BANKER LOOKING FOR A LOW COST OF LIVING!
Soon we’ll be first in football too. I cain put a Super Bowl chaimpions license plate frame around my FIRST IN FLIGHT PLATE!
Eustice: Yessir. FIRST IN FLIGHT! CRADLE OF ‘CUE! PAINTHER PRIDE!
Bob Junior: Panther pride!
Eustice: PAINTHER pride!
Bob Junior: They don’t know about no barbecue in Arizoner. Probably be tailgatin’ at the B of A with some tofu Tex-Mex bullshit.
Eustice: Keep that chili con cockmeat out of The Vault!
Bob Junior: I am worried about their quarterback though. He’s scaled the mountain. He seen the promised land.
Eustice: But Delhomme’s got experience.
Bob Junior: Oh yes. He’s bona fide.
Eustice: Definitely bona fide.
Bob Junior: What’s even more bona fide is our running game. No fly-by-night Edgerrin James fluke game out of the Caroilina ground attack. DeAngelo Williams got shortchanged on that MVP vote. JUST ‘CAUSE HE WAITED UNTIL WEEK 8 TO DO ANYTHING. WE GO AT OUR OWN PACE IN THE SOUTH! I don’t care what nobody say, he and Stewart IS THE REAL SMASH ‘N’ DASH LIKE WE WAS THE FIRST IN FLIGHT!
Eustice: WE ARE FIRST IN FLIGHT!
Bob Junior: We was robbed out of our deserved championship in 2003 by them Yankee cheaters. Not this time. All the pieces are in place for a title run. It’ll be a fine prelude to a Tar Heel national championship.
Eustice: …
Begging your pardon, friend.
Bob Junior: What?
Eustice: What’s this Tar Heel shit? We all know them Blue Devils’ll be cuttin’ down those nets this year.
Bob Junior: What you like them uppity Duke faggots for? You didn’t go there!
Eustice: YOU DIDN’T GO TO CHAPEL HILL!
Bob Junior: I WENT TO UNC-PEMBROKE! THAT’S CLOSE ENOUGH! IT’S PART OF THE STATE SYSTEM!
Eustice: Don’t got no room for Tar Heel bitches in the Panther Pride Parade!
Bob Junior: WELL THEN FUCK PANTHER PRIDE! PSYCHO T ALL DAY! FOOK DOOK!
Eustice: THEN I’LL SEE YOUR ASS FEBRUARY 11. THAT’S THE REAL SUPER BOWL!
Bodean: Let’s not forget Davidson now! Go Stephen! Wooooooooooo Wildcats!
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
See, Peezy be an appreciative man. He try to soak in the achievement he team has made going from 1-15 to 11-5 division champions. He wants to reflect on leading the AFC in sacks. He like seeing them Patriots and they asterisks at home. He like all bitches in South Beach get excited for a winner.
But then his boy text him saying we underdogs at home in the playoffs. We meaning the Dolphins? The Dolphins meaning Peezy? Aw shit.
THAT’S DISRESPECT!
How some punk-ass Baltimore bitches who can’t even win they own division favored over us? IN OUR HOUSE! WITH A ROOKIE QUARTERBACK WHO SHILLS FOR WENDY’S 3CONOMICS! PEEZYNOMICS SAYS THE MORE I STUFF YO HEAD UP YO ASS SIDEWAYS, THE MORE I GETS MY CHEESE!
You best fix them lines, Vegas. I’mma lay some money on me going Moe Greene on that ass, Vegas.
Don’t let me see anyone take that line. I’mma find all y’all that that bet and –
Tony Sparano: AY, JOEY!
C’MERE A MINUTE, YA EXCITABLE FUCKIN’ MOULIE!
What’d I tell youse about making with the big mouth? This guy, givin’ me the ol’ mal de testa, over here, I swear.
I gots youse running around and making a fuss while we’re trying to work on running the Wildcat formation that didn’t work the first time we played Baltimore.
Porter: They sayin’ we should lose, Tony. Ain’t you a man of respect?
Sparano: I got you respect right here. [Grabs crotch]
Porter: Funny guy. You gonna let Cam Cameron show you up like that?
Sparano: Let me worry ’bout dat. Here, you deal with this guy.
[Hands Porter a mirror]
Porter: What I need this for? Wait, WHO THIS MOTHERFUCKER IN HERE TRYING TO LOOK LIKE PEEZY!?
YOU BITING MY STYLE, BITCH!
THAT’S DISRESPECT!
GET OUT HERE AND FACE ME SO I CAN MAKE YOU THE PRETEND-PEEZY HUCKLEBERRY YOU IS!
LET’S GO!
OH, I’M FIRED UP NOW! IT’S HALF-SHIRT TIME!
WHAT?! HE DID IT TOO! YOU STEALING MY SHIT!
GET AT ME, PEEZY CLONE!
YEAH, YOU GONNA SIT THERE AND TALK! AIN’T GONNA DO SHIT!
If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is one in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.
This is Drew Magary, world’s skinniest Vikings fan.
If you hate the Vikings, it’s probably because of him. Because otherwise who gives a shit about the Vikings? I mean, honestly, it’s the Vikings.
Their fans are doncha-know dipshits. They hate Brad Childress, not undeservedly so, but then this is a team helmed by Mike Tice and Denny Green the previous 14 years. What towering standard of coaching have you assholes somehow become accustomed to? “Skol, Vikings” makes Jared Allen want some chaw. The team backed into the playoffs thanks to squeaking by the Giants reserves while the Bears were choking away their opportunity to take the NFC North.
If there were a division the NFL should retract, it is the most definitely the NFC West. Then the AFC West. BUT THEN THE NFC NORTH! God, they’re all terrible.
I don’t know much about Minne-snow-ta, but I can extend a mighty fuck-an-ice-dildo for inflicting the only known white emo rapper, Atmosphere, on the rest of us.
But, back to Drew, because he demands attention at all times. He once wrote this glowing review of Sigur Ros, who are known, among being the background music for hipster orgies, for singing in a lilting made-up language called Vonlenska:
“Scared of the language barrier? Don’t be. Like any opera, the emotion comes through regardless of whether or not you can understand the words. From the dazzle of ‘Svefn-G-Englar’ to the Celtic waterfall of ‘Olsen Olsen,’ Sigur Ros bursts with feelings of hope, despair, happiness, sadness, and all points in between, perhaps even creating new emotions as they go along. It’s an incredible achievement, not likely to be matched by anybody anytime soon. Unless you count the band itself, but they may have moved on to another solar system by then.”
What a douche.
Also, among his many annoying verbal tics, Drew appends “yes?” onto all of his questions. (For example: The Redskins are going to hire Shanahan now, yes?) As if to say, LOOK I’M ASKING A QUESTION BUT I REALLY WANT AN AFFIRMATION OF MY BELIEFS AND I’VE EVEN GONE TO THE TROUBLE OF PROVIDING YOU AN APPROPRIATE ANSWER AT THE END OF MY INQUIRY! SAY IT! SAY YES NOW! DO IT! YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT!
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