In high school, we got to wear our jerseys to class every Friday. After Thursday practice, we would get back to the locker room, and there, hanging at our lockers, were the game day jerseys. All clean and shiny and smooth to the touch. The acrylic for the numbers was so thick that you could fold your jersey along the digits and the paint wouldn’t crack. We didn’t have names on our jerseys, but I can imagine how fantastic it would be to see your last name in block print across the back of a real uniform.
After school,cheap jerseys we had Friday practice in just our game unis and no pads, and that was always the most fun practice of the week. We never did anything. All we had to do was walk through drills and savor every second of getting to wear our badass jerseys out on the field in front of everyone. Girls from the soccer and cross country teams would run by the field on occasion and HOLY SHIT did I make sure they saw me in my uniform. I posed. I really did, even if I did so discreetly. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Wearing a uniform makes you very conscious of how you’re standing. I wanted them to see me so very, very badly. They all looked so hot in their Umbros and their shin pads, and I wanted them to think I was hot, too, even though I wasn’t. I just wanted us to all be hot athletes making hot athlete love. I thought about that 20 times more than I thought about actual football.
I don’t know why jerseys had this effect on me and on so many other kids, but they did. They still do. It’s just a piece of fabric. Guys aren’t even supposed to care that much about clothes because clothes are girly shit. If you’re a guy, you’re just supposed to focus on CRUSHING beers and CRUSHING pussy, brah! But I’m telling you, every kid walking around a high school cafeteria wearing a football jersey feels like a GOD. You feel like you’re just moments away from throwing 60 touchdown passes (because coach decided mid game to switch you over from right guard) and having six homecoming queens fellate you simultaneously. Ordinary shirts don’t make you feel the same way. I know. I’m wearing a Hanes Beefy T right now and I feel like a syphilitic hobo.
NFL fans walk around in team jerseys all the time, and even though most of them look like schlubs, most of them FEEL better than they do at any other time of the week. In fact, the fatter and more out of shape you are, the more powerful a spell the jersey casts over your ego. Maybe you look like a real player. Maybe the head coach will be in dire need of a running back in the fourth quarter, see you through the TV screen, and summon you out to the field to go rip off the winning 90 yard swing pass. That will never happen, but the jersey is what lets you dream about it, and often the dream is vivid enough to make a decent substitute for reality. Which is good, because in reality you’re fat and your team sucks.
Cowboys at Giants: I don’t know why the NFL bothered to move this game back to Thursday. So what if the president’s convention speech is tomorrow night? THE NFL IS BIGGER THAN THE PRESIDENCY. Deep down, the Ginger Hammer knows this. Deep down, Roger Goodell knows he could keep this game on Thursday night and CRUSH the President in one bold, swift stroke. Then he could take over the Oval Office and fine everyone $5,000 for conduct detrimental to the nation. You know he wants to do it. You know it’s only a matter of time before he stages a terrifying ginger coup that leaves us all enslaved and suspended for four games apiece.
You’re gonna hear that a lot this September. The media narrative is set: Football had a horrible offseason, and now America will have to wrestle with its own conscience about whether or not to support a sport that is so clearly detrimental to its participants. However, I assure you that 99 percent of the people supposedly having an ethical dilemma about watching football are members of the media. Do you really think Gary from Buffalo who is currently on his 28th can of Hamm’s really gives a shit what happens to football players? Do you think most fans worry about concussions apart from whether or not they’ll keep Jahvid Best from starting in their flex spot? Of course not.
Concussions are a real problem in football, but our supposed inner struggle over them is not. Most of us made the moral compromise to watch football a very, very long time ago. To quit it now is jussst a bit disingenuous. All it takes is one fantasy draft to remember how little you care about these players personally. And that’s all right. Better you accept your hypocrisy than to stop watching football just to give yourself a warm, fuzzy feeling. «I stopped watching football» will soon be the new «Oh, we don’t own a television.»
Steelers at Broncos: I didn’t watch a lot of preseason football because it’s slow torture to watch a preseason game start out resembling real football, only to have it slowly devolve into an XFL game. It’s horrifying. Anyway, since I missed a lot of hot preseason action, I haven’t really gotten a sense of just how bad these replacement officials will be. But I know they’re bad. I know that this week will be a complete disaster for the league. But you know what? I’m OK with that. For this first month of the season, I’ll be treated to horrific calls that will keep me bitching all week long until the league finally throws in a dental plan and the real, horrible refs come back to work. I can’t wait. What do the scabs have in store for us? I’m hoping one of them pulls an Orlando Brown on Big Ben’s grey nutsack.
Bengals at Ravens: A couple weeks ago, I went out to a restaurant and had Maryland blue crabs. That’s the big thing here in Maryland: You order a bushel of crabs and they dump them out at the table on a sheet of newspaper, and then you bash the shit out of them with a hammer and eat the meat inside. And you know what? It sucks. It really does. The crabs arrive at your table at a temperature of a million degrees, and they’re filled with boiling hot crab juice. It’s like breaking open a coffeepot. And it’s impossible to get any decent chunks of meat out without also eating 60 pieces of cartilage. And the crabs are SHARP. They have little spines that stab the shit out of your fingers and then the Old Bay gets in the wound and infects it, like a Japanese soldier stabbing you with a poop tipped bayonet. By the time you’ve gotten through two crabs, you feel like an Indonesian crab factory worker. And then the bill comes and everyone has to pay a hundred bucks. I am through with you, Big Crab. I’m tired of Big Crab’s LIES.
Bills at Jets: These first few Jets games will be the most insufferable because, as long as Tim Tebow isn’t starting, they’re gonna pan to him every five seconds and talk about WHY he isn’t starting. Should he be starting? Might we see the Wildcat in this situation? If we don’t see the Wildcat in this situation, what KIND of situation will merit the Wildcattery? How does Mark Sanchez feel about Tebow? How does Tim Tebow feel about Tim Tebow? Is America ready for a black Tebow? That’s all gonna be brought up in the first five minutes.
That actually isn’t how I reacted. I sat down and calmly explained to her that there are good words and bad words, and that we all have to make our own choices about which words we use, but we have to know that using bad words can get you into a lot of trouble with other people. And then we hugged. And then I hopped on my computer and called Bill Simmons a herpetic fucktwat. Felt like I really accomplished something that day. I mean, come on. The guy is putting footnotes into articles written by OTHER people, for shit’s sake. «Cameron Wake is the Channing Tatum of the NFL.» God, you’re horrible.
Every week, we’ll pick three potential teams for your suicide pool and something that makes you WANT to commit suicide. This week’s picks? Houston, Philly, Detroit, and jellyfish. I went to a hotel this summer with my family, and the hotel was situated on a river. There was a little tiny beach on the river, and I was gonna go hang out at the beach until I saw a sign that said, «WARNING: JELLYFISH INFESTED WATERS.» And there was a drawing of a little swimmer guy with a jellyfish the size of the fucking Astrodome creeping up behind him. I went nowhere near that river all weekend long. Every time my kids went near the beach, I screamed at them, «JELLYFISH! KILLER JELLYFISH WILL SURROUND YOU WITH THEIR JELLY BODIES AND FILL YOUR ORIFICES WITH THEIR POISON JELLY TENTACLES.» They stayed away after that.
Think having a bat inside your house is a horrific nightmare? Coming home from a stroll around the block with my wife and newborn, I walk upstairs from the basement and I see a hummingbird. At first glance it appears outside, but after my fifth glance, I freaked out.
I tell my wife to run into the bedroom with the newborn and I’ll take care of this problem. I grabbed the nearest broom and ski goggles (those hummingbirds have long beaks) and went to work. It was not going anywhere. I opened the front door, trying to sweep it towards the open air, to no avail.
So, I leave the door open, go around on the deck to get a close up, eye to eye look with my quarry. HOLY SHIT THOSE THINGS ARE FIERCE. I started tapping the window from the outside and jumping up and down trying to spook it toward the front door and out of my house. It started banging itself against the window, all superpissed, trying to gouge my eyeballs through the window. So, I come back inside to regroup. I go downstairs to get a canvas bag, convinced that I can capture this thing. Did it go outside? Or, is it now roosting in a closet somewhere plotting its revenge and planning to beak out my eyes while I sleep? Can I trust that it actually flew outside? How long can I expect to walk around the house with ski goggles on?
Hummingbirds are batshit crazy.
I recently saw this fine swill at the market for the first time. Hammer 30 Ale, the beer which promises to fuel the people’s revolution for the low low price of 46 cents a can. These pictures were taken at a slightly higher end supermarket (run by greedy bourgeois pigs, no doubt), so you could probably get it even cheaper elsewhere.
You’ll be shocked to learn that the taste doesn’t quite live up to the promise of the awesome artwork. Its appearance and taste bear a strong resemblance to Miller Lite or Beast Lite.
«So Tony has three girls go into three separate rooms, and he gives them all very clear direction about what their ‘roles’ would be for the evening. One was supposed to be a bounty hunter. One was a sassy cowgirl. And the last one was a bookish rocket scientist who had just discovered the wonders of her own clitoris. So once they have their orders, I see Tony running frantically between the rooms, with his penis hard enough to hang a tuxedo on. And he’s changing rooms every minute, sometimes even quicker than that! And I say to him, ‘The hell are you doing, you old limey?’
Wait Until Dark. Holy shit, this is a great movie. I stumbled on this when I was flipping around one night. Ever find on old movie on TV, give it a shot, and then it turns out to be awesome? It rarely happens, but when it does, it’s like finding gold. Plus it features Audrey Hepburn doing all kinds of Old Movie Overacting. In old movies, people acted like everything was a stage production, so there was shitload of overacting. Hepburn overacts in this movie so much that I was kinda hoping Alan Arkin would kill her.