(REMEMBER SEASON THREE?) - - - - THE SEASON RE-CAP A) I should have known about Tampa Bay. The Buccaneers, is it? They'll never repeat. Not in your lifetime, anyway. B) 2002–2003 Total Record: 161–107 C) See you next season. D) Buy the book. You may find it at McSweeney's in Brooklyn, McSweeney's in San Francisco, Powell's in Portland, Quimby's in Chicago, Clovis Books in Brooklyn, Criminal Records in Atlanta, Ruminator Books in St. Paul and Canterbury Books in Madison, WI and by mail from me, for 6 bucks total: P.O. Box 540 NYC, NY 10012 This is the "single," from Ignore The Spread. It's an amped-up CC Music Factory-esque remix from the first week of the glorious 2002 campaign. A Letter From A Veteran Punter to A Rookie Punter at the end of Training Camp (Iron-fortified remix w/ hott gravy) Dear Rick, I enjoy watching you sleep so soundly, passing out night after night without the aid of a single capsule of Codeine-strength Tylenol, but simply with the narcotic-free medicine provided by your Bose headphones and a Shrek DVD. The only noise in the room comes from either my limping across this spotted industrial-grade carpeting (I no longer have the ability to actually lift my feet very well unless it is, of course, a game situation) or your cell phone burbling with sweet nothings from your old college girlfriend. Sure, occasionally extreme curiosity propels me towards your duffel bag, or the fresh pack of Listerine Breath Strips on top of your dresser, but these are great NFL-style hard knocks that you'll be able to chuckle over with your coworkers at the sawdust factory when you're inevitably cut from the squad and I retain my position as one of the league's top punters. One of the league's premiere punters. One of the greats. A future hall-of-famer who has actually been more than tolerant with this You-might-be-over-the-hill nonsense I've been hearing. What's incredible to me, is how your snores fill this dorm all through the night, and you've seemingly nary a worry on your mind. Granted, I am not originally from this country. I grew up as the son of a simple goose shepherd in Sweden. But your behavior fascinates me. Like maybe there's something wrong with me, because perhaps you're content in a way that someone who has figured everything out or come to peace with his problems and humanity like guys who study elephant-based religions and wear chin-to-feet length smocks. Somehow the fact that Coach Dumree called you the "stupidest bastard on the face of the earth," today as you squibbed a punt nine yards, thereby ensuring that ten of your heaviest teammates ran wind sprints till they collapsed and vomited all over the sidelines, somehow that horrid event has, in your mind, grown wings and flown up to a tiny thistle nest where it' s gotten: a) A shitload of plump feather-coated belly to hide under
And even with the humid air sneaking through the cinderblock walls of this dorm, even with the mountains of spent talc ground into the hallway tile, the communal showers flooded with Strawberry Suave and bloody Kleenexes, the Domino's boxes piled in front of doors, and even as I attempt to engage my wife (or other female admirers) in simple vanilla phone sex and fantasies, and rock the springs of this tiny bed whilst covertly tugging the sadness out of my privates, you seem to sleep so soundly. I know we've had our laughs together, Rick, and that several coaches here said I should take you under my wing, and I have tried. But not too hard. Let's face it: I have a wife and three kids. I have two additional kids. I have a girlfriend. I have an ex-wife. I have a couple other kids. I have a mother with Alzheimer's. I have a mother-in-law who needs rare diabetes meds. So, you'll forgive me if I don't just raise my hand and say "Cut me, I feel like trading in my Range Rover for a fucking Pinto and roughing it for the next 45 years of my life." After all, who has done the following stuff, me or you? Fielded a poorly snapped ball in Buffalo? Fielded a poorly snapped ball in Buffalo during lake effect snow? Fielded a poorly snapped ball in Buffalo during lake-effect snow that was lovingly provided by lake Erie, so it meant the snow was probably toxic to boot, and you know, if given the choice, most people would say, "Oh let me die by freezing to death," OR "Let me die by toxic poison"? But I had to suffer through both, and anyway, thinking about that kind of thing caused me to react poorly, to this poorly snapped football and the ball subsequently went over my head. The wind chill was minus 19, FYI. So then the ball lands in the snow, but it really skittered, because when you combine snow and Astroturf it sort of causes, oh you will learn one day what it causes. It caused me to accidentally slide past it and when I just dove back to try and fall on it and be down, I had 285 pound defensive lineman Bruce Smith land on me, mangle me and paw at my teeny tiny shoulder pads, then deliver an oniony belch centimeters from my schnozz. Then Mr. Bruce Smith silently relieved himself on me, his urine seeping through his polyester game pants into my polyester game pants and onto my skin which had been lotioned pretty well with an expensive Scandinavian crème already while a teammate of his picked up said football and trotted into the end zone with it and on the giant scoreboard a little green cartoon punter was shown crying in front of 75,000 paid attendees. And then the paid attendees chuckled. And then Bruce Smith chuckled. And then the guy manning the scoreboard who was later hired by Phish kept going with it. And soon this cartoon punter's electronic tears sprang from his helmet and formed a kind of sea on the playing field. And it looked like sort of an LCD ocean. And then these giant Humpty Dumpty footballs came to life and had pitchforks and forced my electronic teammates into this LCD ocean and they were drowning, and by now, in Buffalo, it is still a blizzard but the fans are beside themselves with laughter. And then the by-products of Bruce relieving himself combined with my very expensive lotion froze to the inside of my pad and my thigh, thereby causing me great discomfort. And following all of that, on the very next punt, a beautiful, redeeming 65-yarder, one Don Beebe returned it all the way for a touchdown, and being the punter, I was the last line of defense, but since I had the burn of frozen urine on my thigh, I was ill-equipped to make a regulation tackle and therefore simply tried to trip Don Beebe, only I slipped and missed, and then those two plays were shown later on ESPN consecutively and one of the commentators said I looked like I was doing some sort of hat dance out there, and where was my cape, etc.? And the other said, no, that I looked like I was doing some sort of sing-for-my-supper dance on the frozen field? And they argued playfully until a third said finally that I resembled nothing as much as a drunken figure skater with Lupus and a high brain damage causing fever? That was ME. It was also me who was pink-slipped, and forced to stand at the front door of buffet restaurants in the Tampa area saying, "Remember me?" and signing B&W 8x10s. And the buffets and I got together to create an award winning for that area, anyway) meatloaf, that was dubbed as succulent as it was healthy by one media outlet. It was also me who fought his way back into the NFL. It was also me who subsequently built one of my children a $43,000 tree house complete with wet bar, sauna and retractable roof. So, before you get too glum, think about my conditions. What can you learn from them? Probably nothing. But Good luck. I'm sure you'll see me on TV, and not doing an icy tap-dance, but I will be on TV winning football games and jumping rope with a giant 64k chain and bobbing for diamonds in a Jacuzzi filled with the love juice of over 1,000 Las Vegas showgirls. And you'll fondly recall this note. Love,
- - - - SUPER BOWL Last week: 2-0.
Predictions 1) No poor people will see this game in person, unless of course they are mopping up spilled mustard and slinging watered-down Budweiser. [Or unless they are reporting. Reporters don't get paid shit. And all too often, it shows. Sure, there are, without question, some high-class reporters, who do quality TV work, who no longer must don the station-indicating logo-embossed blazers, but, with the help of a stylist, may choose a snazzy suit of their own. Guys like Al Michaels, whose effervescence and commitment to the game at hand is unmatched by any human being who has ever even seen a football. But newspaper beat reporters? They're expected to feed a family of five on 18,500 dollars a year. And like it. Their children often have to live off the mold spores that grow on the backseats of their mini-vans from previous yogurt and cracker spills. Those poor shmucks. They're cagey cynics until a wink from Elway or Romanowski melts their icy veneer. Then we get 875 words on what saints are made of: blood, guts, will, determination, donations to charity, etc.] 2) None of those bad-ass Oakland Raider fan lunkheads that look way too much like the Road Warriors will be there. [Unless of course they are rich. There's nothing worse than a rich lunkhead. Rich lunkheads who drive SUVs and still have a chip on their shoulder are what is going to bring this country down. Mark my words. There's no humility left. Quite often it's the boisterous chap who finds himself driving a Humvee H2, brawling at bars, waist-deep in peroxide-loving escorts, and who, twenty or thirty years down the road, has been sued and beaten so bad he has to have back surgery every couple weeks and you always have to endure at least a half hour speech about how they once had season tickets to something.] 3) But the Super Bowl has never been about humility. [It has been about fur coats and fucking the babysitter. And touchdowns. It has been about pretending that comb-over WORKS!, putting on a shitload of pancake make-up and freshening up that drink. The Super Bowl is amateur night. It's New Year's Eve. Give me the people who have never set foot inside a dome. Give me the people who've watched every minute of every Bills game in October, or every Arizona Cardinals game in December.] 4) The Super Bowl is about really creative ads. [So if your son or daughter went to school and is now climbing the ladder at Ogilvy and Mather or BBDO, or wherever, congrats. Tell us about it. Maybe it will involve an elf with yellow teeth who turns into a supermodel. Maybe it will be about a Martian who is addicted to melted cheese. One thing is for certain, the commercials will not be about any kind of hot, wet cereal. Or ointment. Or chewable diabetes medication.] 5) Prediction: The final score will be Raiders 24 Tampa Bay 17. 6) Prediction: There will be fireworks. 7) Prediction: Joey Fatone will be there. 8) Prediction: The clean-up will not be fun. Next week, a 14,000 word recap. - - - - PLAYOFFS, WEEK THREE Last Week: 3-1
Brief News: The book is still rolling along. And by book, I mean: Ignore the Spread. My trustee coworker laid out all of the copy in a very catchy, eye-friendly manner. I drew the cover. She then got some quotes on prices. We agreed it had to be cut in order to save money. I looked at a galley. I said, "No." We (meaning me) put it back to nearly its original length. I would not make the book teeny and tiny, just to pinch a penny. My costs are almost prohibitive, but you know what? Time Warner cable can wait for their fucking money. ATT Wireless can wait for their money. I am trying to get in shape, so I joined a gym. Getting in shape means sitting in a lukewarm, broken Jacuzzi, so you know those gym-running, money-wanting bastards can wait and then wait some more for their money. In a very short period of time, you will receive a book called Ignore the Spread and you will know that a shitload of TLC was placed inside of this project and rattled around like the jar full of wheat pennies that paid for its publication. You will love this book. Guaranteed. Now let's get to this monologue, shall we? Tennessee at Oakland: Oakland
Words That Might be Spoken by a CEO Looking for Programming in the Off-Season MINUTES Okay now, I'm gonna break you all down into SMODS, and then we'll get busy from there. That's my little play on pods. A lot of times people might break up a group of executives and thinkers . . . and, if we have to, marketers . . . that's me fucking with ya . . . into teams or pods, but we're smarter than that, so we combine smarts and pods and call it SMODS. Laugh if you want, we're getting into SMODS today. How's the volume on this lav? We've sunk money into these cordless, uh, lavs. I don't even wanna tell you about it. I have to fly coach now. [laughter?] Let's leave it at that. [inaudible] I should copyright this terminology: SMODS. Incidentally, I had some computer guys and some stats guys, some of the brain trust, you know, get together for four months and create a software component for SMODS. The tech department. The SMOD you are in, has been scientifically, uh, proven to be the correct SMOD for you, based on the data and how you've performed here, and what sorts of goodies are in your skills set. Of course, with the interns, we just had to wing it. They'll fit in good, too. Dick Bethune's kid is in here. I've seen him in the hallways. And he's a sharp cookie. Anyway . . . Okay. Okay Janette, how do I work this thing? Why isn't it? Hmm. [inaudible] Okay. I can simply drag and click to here. Bear with me people. It's okay. Thanks. There we are. SMODS, the power point presentation. Wow. Whaddaya think? Pretty sharp, right? [inaudible] Janette, may we have some waters? Janette, can we get them out of the cooler nearest the shaftway? Down by Len's cube? That's excellent. Thanks. Oh and lemon wedges. Lemons? Janette? Thanks so much. Okay. Where was I? I'm sorry, people, this is day one, and we're all here together fleshing it out. That's why I'm not in my suit, even though I am due in Akron at eight o'clock tonight. But I have these pants on and my sleeves rolled up, 'cause if you get to know me, you know that this is how I work. Free of pretense. Okay? One company. One cause. Right? Okay. And our SMODS, if you will, are headed up by some of the finest people I've hired in the last decade or two. Some I know like family, and some have just come on board and I am getting acquainted with them, just like you. Let me make one thing clear, however: They're all heavy hitters in the business. Every word that comes out of their mouth is solid gold genius. Any thought they have is worth at least a million bucks. So some of you newbies take note. And some days when you're finding yourself on your commute home, or having a sandwich and kind of taking a breather? And you're thinking to yourself that you are in a bitch of a predicament, that someone was a real asshole, pardon my French, to you? Someone from work yelled? Or had you get something done that you really had to dig way deep inside for? And you think, I quit? Just remember what I said: All their words are solid gold genius. So quit getting blue, follow the program. Let them direct and lead, and you be right in behind 'em. That's why they are SMOD captains. No one's here to make things horrible for you. We're here to win. Those aren't two different things. So each SMOD will have a VP at the helm, of course. Some execs too, and probably an intern for copying, faxing and coffees, okay? There will be one group lawyer, for the whole package, and that is David and his associates, and I'm sure he's in your Rolodex, but please check in with your SMOD captain or me, as if it is really, excuse me, ON if it is really necessary to call them or fax. 'Cause not only do we incur debt, but we also, ah, look we just don't want to bother David with every frivolous little thing. Let's wait until we can show him a bigger picture. Agreed? Then he'll advise and we'll do all the swearing and have the heated conversations. Okay. You can laugh at that. Okay. SMOD One will consist of who is on your sheet. Look at the top of SMOD one, and it says headed by who? Headed by Jerry Weaver. Jerry Weaver. Can you give him a short hand? [inaudible] Jerry's . . . Jerry's one of the best. He's one of the finest thinkers I've had the pleasure, and Irish Balls on a hoagie if anyone can help us tackle this it's Jerry. What it doesn't say on the sheet, and this is important, is Jerry was the point man behind our whole Michelle-o-vision campaign in 1989, but you probably knew that. Michelle-o-vision changed the way we all look at sitcoms and real zookeepers with real problems and reality television. Michelle-o-vision was Nielsen's favorite when those Survivor over-seers were still backstroking laps in their daddy's schnutz. Michelle-o-vision was what, people? Was what? Even if you're interning here, you should know this? 'Cause you should have done your homework, and you, you probably chanted this to your parents and begged them to watch it when you were a young-un. Michelle-o-vision is Tell-a-vision. Not, tele-vision. But tell, like in, Michelle, tell your fucking story to the camera so we can make another 48 million, okay? [laughter?] Just kidding. Michelle is a great person and because the show did so well, and even though you may not hear so much about her these days, we did and we do pay for most of her surgeries, and when she was audited we helped with legal and she still today gets residuals and stipends. A lot of the negatives you hear about in the press, like with Whitey and his trial? Well, we aren't babysitters and Whitey is a grown man and he is not Michelle, okay? So, of course, we were under no obligation to arrange for legal for his trial, or any spouse's trial, from charges that stemmed from NOTHING, not one iota of anything that ever, ever had to do with Michelle-o-vision. Right? And we wish him the best. But enough. He just. It's really sticky. And if you want to know, it is part of the reason I am getting on this goddamn flight later today. Goddamn. It just makes me angry and now I am way off talking about our new SMODS. Fuck an apple. Dammit. Can we agree that Michelle-o-vision and the superb vision of Jerry Weaver is important and that is why Jerry is here? Sorry for my tirade. Okay. Jerry also was the brain behind World's Youngest Executions and got us into sticky countries like The Guams, and Tanzanias of the planet and got hard footage of young people being put out of their misery for crimes they did or didn't commit. Hard show! Really gritty, and we took crap for it, right or wrong, we do not know. It wasn't our job to judge and jury the thing, but to capture the deaths and sell ad time. World's Youngest Executions turned out to be a worldwide hit, syndicated and award-winning in the Belgiums and Luxembourgs and Ukraines and even in Spain. We got letters from Bilbao. We got written up in a Singapore, uh. Okay? And those of you who've been around the block and saw how we sold the Utah high school wrestler's trial, then his subsequent death-sit and finally his life termination by firing squad? Well, I don't have to tell you, but that is the crowning moment in my career and most, uh, assuredly what made me president here and it is the one TV moment I am sure of how you are seeing me talk and direct you this afternoon. Uh-hmm. Hmm. Ahmm. I need a quick water. [inaudible] Thanks, Janette. Okay. SMOD Two is Pam DeSoto of TeenBathroom.com. Yes, Welcome Pam. [inaudible] Hooray. Directly upon her graduation from Michigan State, Pam and her boyfriend, who is now famous or infamous as Bearded Lyle, started Teenbathroom.com, and Pam was head of marketing at TeenBathroom.com. Which as you know by now, revolutionized the way we look at teenagers and what goes on in the bathroom and it wasn't even just for that "weird" demo of folks who are into scat. We know that that type of thing plays big in suburbia and the Hollands and the Dutch places. Time out a second . . . Hey Cori, can you make sure that my air quotes, my finger quotes, go into the minutes of this around when I said weird? Because to some, scat might be weird, but about 6.5 million people don't think it is and those 6.5 million spend a lot of money at teenbathroom.com, so I will say for the record, even though I was raised pretty strict, I am open to a lot of kinkier stuff. So is most of society, I guess, if you think about it. But anyway, also, Teenbathroom.com was about gossip and putting on your make-up or inviting a boy or man to watch you do your duty or short clips of hot encounters. And then there were chat rooms and you could do all sorts of wonderful stuff like order worn panties from your favorite teen and it just exploded. Who was responsible for that? Pamela DeSoto. And she wasn't cheap to get people, but she is here and is amazing. And let's cheer HER on. [inaudible] SMOD Three. [inaudible] Let's not waste anymore time . . . oh, okay! [laughter] [inaudible for three minutes?] Ahhhhh!!!!! SMOD Three is captained Craig Wintersand, and he created the marketing campaign that brought back the leather trench coat to middle America. Leather trenches, especially those sold under his hot campaign at Flagler's under the FULL LEATHER JACKET campaign shot up by 61% even in SUMMER of 2001. Craig revamped and repackaged and opened up the country's brain to the leather trench of all hues. My kid has six of them including lilac. Li-fucking-lac, folks. I figure if you can get a teenage boy into a $575 dollar lilac colored trench coat, the world is your oyster. We're here to help shuck it. Also, mustard yellow was popular and many rascal-bent country acts were wearing them and rappers, and he got them and he got stylists to believe in them and really embrace them. FULL LEATHER JACKET was one man's battle that one man won. Let's take a short break, enjoy these wheat crackers from our subsidiary Thermoo Baking Group. Let's enjoy them, and then I will discuss the other three SMODS which of course, feature Donn Quimby, the scientist who recently worked with chemical to create a fully edible and digestible melting agent that is used in Nacho Slurpees. And Barry Knupke, who executive produced that jaws-of-life reality program we all know as "Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in the Ditch," and lastly a final SMOD, helmed by yours truly. - - - - PLAYOFFS, WEEK TWO Last Week: 3-1
Autobiographies of Each Game Pittsburgh at Tennessee — I'm afraid I don't have much to say. I was conceived in a mine. I was born in a mine. Then I spent many of my early years working in an orchard. I guess come Saturday I'll be festive. I suppose Neil O'Donnell might have some interesting notes, having played for both clubs. He's napping right now. He was dressed as Bullwinkle earlier and doing some sort of webcast. Anyway, I had a twin, very much like me, who passed away. He had a tire allergy. I have a fondness for different medicated broths. I pretend to have the glaucoma, but don't. I watch a lot of the "judge" programs. I am really not too fired up overall. I can't urge you to pay too close of attention to me, especially after last weekend: Ohio State, The Giants, all of that stuff. I'll be kind of sleepy. I am, perhaps, toooooooooo AFC. That might be my problem. I did conjure up a little playoff magic in 2000. I dunno if I have it in me this year. Pittsburgh is simply dreadful. So many blown opportunities. Agh. I could go on, but won't. Prediction: Tennessee. Atlanta at Philadelphia — I am a new Extreme laxative/chewable antidepressant (over-the-counter) as well as a game. I did very well in Berlin, Bilbao, and Toronto. I am being tested in Mid-Atlantic states, and I suspect many of the people in Philly will devour me throughout the evening. Seventeen year-old boys who dabble in forensics, and wrestling enjoy my soothing effects. I come in raspberry, fig, bubble gum, hot nacho, nacho ice, nacho nacho ice, mint ice, ice fogg, ham fogg, ice ham, bacon/onion, bacon/bubble gum, dream swirl, floor mat tapioca, tapioca aspirin, chicken peanut, moist peanut, cashew holiday, pine ice, pine fig, marshmallow grape, candied ice, lemon donut, coconut screamer, porridge Benedict, porridge benefit, blueberry mist, cranberry steam, froot soot, cilantro hydra sport, tex mex molasses, sugar ice, nitro ice, peppermint sliver, tomato, and dairy. Prediction: Atlanta (against my better judgment). San Francisco at Tampa Bay — I am a coward. I've always befriended the world's poor, and then ratted on them for my own crimes. What can I say? I am being honest. If you watch me, you're casting a vote for two supreme assholes. Assholishness as a whole, I'd say, has been on the rise since about July of 2002, and I am sorta the icing on the cake. The temperature here will be nearly 1000 degrees. Many fans will say, "this is the real Super Bowl." Those same fans will also be involved in running fraudulent day care operations and resting their hot, sweaty foreheads between the breasts of their young, troubled piano students. This will take place in a canoe. This will be filmed and given to an area newspaper. The whole community will be let down. Prediction: Tampa Bay. N.Y. Jets at Oakland — I am the game everyone will watch. Heck, most of these other shlubs are just three-hour chunks of time to scrape ice off roofs and return curling irons at Target. When I come on, a nation will bow to me. But then I'll go all nutso and betray them. I'm schizo like that. I'll suck everyone in and then Chad Pennington will throw three or four interceptions and someone will have wasted a whole day inviting friends over and making a roast and sausage grits and by about 9:35 in the second quarter everyone will be bored and worried about something they are dreading at work on Monday, and then I'll just quietly pack everything up and see you next week. Prediction: Oakland. - - - - PLAYOFFS, WEEK ONE Last Week: 9-7
Green Bay Gifts Let's talk about the end of the football season for a second. Okay. Now, more importantly, let's talk about the Green Bay Packers doing some charity work on the last Sunday of the regular season two years in a row at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. Numero Uno: Last year, Packers QB Brett Favre took a nose-dive so N.Y. Giant Michael Strahan could pick up the season record for QB sacks. Favre just fell down, much like you would if a hot member of the opposite sex were chasing you with a pitcher of margaritas and no trousers on. That sort of "playful collapse" in professional sports is like giving Pete Rose a convertible, fourteen thousand edible condoms, a secret black American Express card and a 4,908 night stint at the Sands in Vegas. It makes us fans feel really gay. And not gay in a way that signifies "giddiness" or is homophobic, but in that 5th grade sort of way when someone tries to get you to listen to a 60-minute cassette of Jesus-based ukulele music and try on a cape with a giant tooth on the back of it. It's wrong. It's why our kids tattle on each other, and why every city looks exactly the same. I grew up with a bunch of do-gooder cowards who always made the sports teams because they abstained from booze and weed. Their version of the golden rule was "Eat More Mush." They would have pulled something like this. Something to make their big buddy from Kenosha feel like a winner, when his team was sucking pond water and staring the off-season in the face like a report card full of F's. So anyway, Strahan got the sack record; the only highlight of yet another schizophrenic football season in New York. If you live here, you learn to tune out most sports reporters and pundits. One day they will write 1,000 words on why Chad Pennington has the testicles of a small, deceased troll, and the next day they will claim that Pennington parted the Red Sea on an old moped that was fueled by the run-off from his kitchen sink-concocted cure for Lupus. During said contest, we fans got to see Fox repeatedly cut to a dusky booth high atop the field. In that booth, the previous record holder, retired Jet Mark Gastineau, looking like Blanka from Street Fighter II sutured into one of Bert Convy's old Botany 500 suits, probably nursed an O'Doul's. Time, controlled substances and karma have turned Gastineau into an old Ford Maverick with a backseat full of Hardee's wrappers. So it was more scary than special to see him and Strahan hug and be big, awkward goofy men. Life choices, people. Then the Giants, at 7-9, hung it up for the year. A lot of good all those damn sacks did. Later the Packers were bounced from the playoffs. This year Favre and the Packers marched into Jersey for their last regular season game with a shot at getting home field advantage throughout the playoffs if they could only finish off the Jets. This game, though it was a shlubby holiday match-up with an AFC squad, was the Packers most important playoff game. A win all but assured them of a Super Bowl berth. They have proven they cannot win in Tampa Bay and no one wants to go to Philadelphia. The Jets, may I remind you, were, a few weeks ago, a club with (at the time) their whole complete season on the line going into Champaign, IL to face the Chicago Bears, one of 2002's worst squads. The Jets got corrected, scolded, pinched and laughed at hard that afternoon. They've convinced everyone they've "turned it around." So naturally, the Packers came to play the Jets, fell into a deep slumber, and were sent home, with a pail full of cold gruel and one ugly home game against the Falcons. Life choices, people. The Packers need to make some decisions. The first one is: Should we keep pissing Jeff Johnson off? I suggest "No." The second one is, Do we wanna keep playing like someone who is a really good trombone player but doesn't try because he sees an ice cream truck outside the window of his trombone lesson facility and gets distracted? That should be a "no" as well. It's not that hard, people. The NFL, this season, has been the most unpredictable, stinking mess. Someone should get in there and mop up, posthaste. Someone should get in there before the Giants and Jets get everyone believing they're contenders. Indianapolis at N.Y. Jets — N.Y. Jets
- - - - WEEK SEVENTEEN Last Week: 13-3
Why I Will Be Taking Over For Santa
by Sir Bill Parcells Many of you have asked why I was at a Passaic, NJ area Shoney's with God and several reps from Mattel, Toys R Us, National Geographic, The Weather Channel, Reebok, Depeche Mode, Wal Mart, and Donald Rumsfeld. Many of you will know, shortly, that the meeting lasted 7 hours and that I ate a rasher of bacon and drank, what my doctors will certainly call a no-no, the beverage commonly referred to as hot cocoa. It is with much excitement, and I will not answer your namby-pamby questions, but it's with glee that I tell you that the fruits of this meeting are that as of December 26, 2003, I will be in charge of worldwide holiday gift distribution for Christians and greedy heathens, replacing the Santa Claus family and elves, whom I have the utmost respect for. There's a big pride and legacy in this. These, I don't have to tell you, are big boots to fill. Big, shiny black ones. We could sit here and speculate all day, people. Did Bill Parcells, a football man, lobby for a job involving tools and variables he doesn't know much about: sleighs, reindeer, flying, chimneys, little cherubic bearded felt-wearing motherfuckers, the North Pole, etc.? Well, I am not gonna get into the nuts and bolts. I've been picked on by you sons of bitches since day one. Let's look at the facts. And then let's let the facts tell the true story. Fact one: God identified a problem. If you are in charge of such a huge worldwide operation, I think you have to ask yourself a few questions every day. I don't believe that the Claus family could do this. So God came to my agent and initiated contact. Of course, when I first took the call I assumed it was sainthood, which may not be too far off on the horizon, but it was really just a friendly call, saying, "Bill, what do you think of Christmas?" From there on out the whole thing went very quickly. Not that I would ever pander for another man's job, but we had a workable contract before Santa had even hit Peru. I've always dreamed in some way of being associated with Christmas, and I don't have to tell you that I've been intrigued by the concepts of both naughty and nice for ages. Fact two: I had free time. Even though I have been involved in talks with a lot of pro football teams who need me, I was basically just napping a lot and complaining. I am due to get a federal medal in June of 2003, from the government for being one of the country's foremost complainers and blame-placers. But that isn't what this conference is about. Fact three: To be perfectly frank, the presents have sucked. Fact four: Santa isn't Santa. It ain't widely known, but Santa died in 1877. The tradition of gift distribution has been handed down to relatives in the Claus family for so long, that by Xmas of 2002, the sleigh is driven by a Jewish cousin named Gary. He barely even has any contact with the Pole itself, or Mrs. Claus, who is 403 years old. The Clauses are legends. Great people, who done more with gingerbread, ribbon and milk and cookies, than you lazy pricks could do with an ironing board and 43 million dollars. So let's not poo-poo this and say Parcells is euthanizing Santa, which I know will be your spin on it, but let's look at things how they are. The Clauses weren't getting the job done. Fact five: I like a challenge. I'll be replacing most of the elves, but I've signed a huge deal with Map Quest, so I should be able to find most of these dumps in a hurry. If you're working for me on Christmas, which is now, with the help of the FCC, gonna be called Parcellsmas, you'll either help me get these gifts delivered or you'll be in the soup lines. Dave Meggett will be my fleet commander and Mark Bavaro will serve as reindeer groomer. Fact six: What will change? Nothing. Keep leaving out milk and cookies. Keep the brats asleep. Keep singing "Silent Night." Look for me to don a red suit and wear a white beard at least through 2007; then we may transition to some bib overalls and a hat made of straw. I want to go about this slowly and do the right thing, and we've hired on a couple people from Docker's to help me cultivate a more Parcellsy-type Santa, but we don't want to spring it on everyone right away. Fact seven: The rumors about me wanting young models like Cheryl Tiegs to sing "Santa Baby" into my crotch are just that. Terrible, hateful rumors. As I said, earlier, I am now in charge of Christmas and Christmas Presents. I am, effectively, the new Santa. I have a great love for Santa Claus. I wish the Claus family well. I hope that people will support me in this new and awesome endeavor. I had to do the right thing for my family, and at this juncture, I think working in the field of Christmas present distribution, and making lists and subsequently checking them twice were where I was headed. I wish myself luck. I thank you for listening. I will be updating you all before we kickoff in December of 2003. Thanks. Philadelphia at N.Y. Giants — N.Y. Giants
- - - - WEEK SIXTEEN Last Week: 10-6
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT My previous entry for this week has been deemed, by me, not too fun. You can browse it here if you'd like. Since we won't be speaking until after Christmas, I thought I'd provide some holiday cheer. But first I'd like to announce that I'm doing a real book. A real small book. I know that there will be between 1 and 977 of them printed, but at this time the exact number is not known. The book will be handmade by me and a couple of designer fellows I know. The book will not be snazzy. It will include staples. Despite those little issues, the book will be filled with a lot of love. It will be hand-numbered and signed. The book will take the best (or worst, since I hope the final edit includes only predictions I got wrong) predictions of the four seasons of the NFL Picks, and be presented in the "Greatest Hits" tradition. There will also be a secret chapter included. The secret chapter is about something secret. The book is going to be called Wide Right: Four Years of Horrid NFL Picks by Jeff Johnson. There will be one reading for it in NYC in January. The book will not be ready until mid-January. The book marks the first time someone has blatantly taken their collection of McSweeney's internet scribblings, souped it up, and sold it him/herself. It may very well be the last time. I do not know. All I know right now is that it is a brilliant idea for two (or more) reasons:
The book will hopefully be for sale at the McSweeney's store in Brooklyn. I'm going to do it in the way many old-fashioned crackpot pamphleteers, religious zealots and racist scumbags have spread their message since the dawn of time.
The book is going to be cheap. Five dollars, plus one dollar postage and handling. That's really not a huge sum of money, especially if you've loved this column for four years. It's always been free. And it will continue to be free, and since most of you read it at work, using your employers' computers and electricity, I consider that double-free. So really, you've been profiting. Not monetarily, but just karma-wise. I am going to work day and night so that you have this book in time for the Super Bowl. Please email FittedSweats@hotmail.com if you are interested. In the weeks to come, more concrete details will be given about Wide Right. Fitted Sweats, by the way, is the name of my new publishing enterprise and we aim to bring you many treats in 2003. Your amigo, Jeff Johnson Here is what I am happy about this holiday season:
Miami at Minnesota — Minnesota
- - - - WEEK FIFTEEN Last week: 10-6
Since it's getting close to Christmas, I thought I'd pull out all the stops and offer all seven of you a glimpse at how we put this baby together every week. And by "baby" I mean "toddler," okay? 'Cause this column has grown into what both professionals and amateurs check every week (usually Thursdays) without fail, as their source for NFL knowledge. Incidentally, it's often used as bulletin board material in a lot of locker rooms. Players get fired up, angry even, and feel quite shunned if we needle them about a bobbling a punt or having too clean a uniform. So without further adieu, let's have a look:
|