Rod Marinelli continues to live up to his porno name, and bend us all over some piece of furniture that people are bent over for sex in a very uncomfortable place. Like a Volkswagen. This time it was the Cardinals, scoring and scoring until I just couldn't take it anymore.
So, for the first time, I switched off a football game, and began watching a movie about grrrlpower and the super wonderfulness of best friends.
Josie and the Pussycats is a tremendously underrated movie. The cast alone - Rachel Leigh Cook, Rosario Dawson, Parker Posey, Seth Green, Alan Cumming of all people - makes it worthwhile. Then there's the satirical product placement, and the catchy pop punk.
But most of all, there is Tara Reid, in all her empty-headed glory. Sure, now she's unattractive and boozy and weird looking. But back then, she was a ditzy goddess, a walking blond joke. A female, live action Ralph Wiggum:
"These walls are mushy!" "The tough make lemonade!"
And so on.
So no, I'm not ashamed.
The real question, though, is whether I'm overreacting. After all, the Cardinals are a solid team. So, it turns out, are the Bengals. And Crybaby is playing pretty well.
But my real concern is that I don't recognize my own team. A pass-happy team with terrible defense? I didn't realize I was rooting for the Oakland Raiders. If we use our first round pick next year on a receiver, I'm going to start freaking out.
Oh, that's right - we don't have a first round pick. We sent it to Denver with the Neckbeard.
Which brings me to my other problem with this season. In Bizarro world, Bizarro Fancy Pants is deliriously happy. The Bears are undefeated, with a 2-headed rushing monster - Matt Forte and (I can't BELIEVE I'm writing this) Cedric Benson. Neckbeard is under center, throwing short, sensible passes to people on his own team. Which is fine, because we're running all over everyone, and the defense is lighting people up. Mike Singletary turned down some absurd head coaching offer out west to come back to Chicago and coach the defense, and ever since their first game when they separated Aaron Rogers' legs from the rest of his body, no one wants to play them. Tommie Harris is a model citizen, because the only thing he's more afraid of than Coach Singletary is making Brian Urlacher angry.
And Rod Marinelli is lying dead in a ditch, or doing 50 chicks in a movie, or something completely unrelated to football, per the restraining order.
See what's going on there? There are a bunch of Bears having solid seasons - they just seem to be playing for other teams. And the current Bears don't resemble any Bears team that has ever worn Bears jerseys. Thus, Josie and the Pussycats.
Honk if you love hugs! Honk if you love rainbows! Honk if you love Pussy...cats!
If you wanted to curse your own football team, what would you do in the offseason? Spit in a voodoo witch's soup? Slaughter a baby goat in the endzone? Wear Packer green and yellow without showering until they kick you out of your Overeaters Anonymous group?
Or...hire Rod Marinelli? Ding ding ding! Come on down, Chicago Bears coach Lovie Smith! Seriously, is there anything about last year's Detroit Lions - record-breakingly bad 0-16, coached by one Rod Marinelli - that you'd want to bring to your team? Other than Rod's winning smile, I mean. Seriously, check out his pics online - he's dreammmmmy.
But if there's anyone in the world that wanted to see Mr. Marinelli on the opposing sideline, it would be Cedric Fucking Benson. And the only person he'd want to see more would be the guy who trashed him to the rest of the league last year - me. Er, make that EVERY SINGLE BEARS FAN OVER THE PAST 4 YEARS.
So what did CB do? He fucked us all, is what he did. Crybaby Sulkypants looked positively Rexy, throwing a couple more picks while Matt Forte continued his assault on fantasy football owners, by running for nothing on way too many attempts. Is there a sophomore slump for running backs that I'm not aware of? Or is it just the curse of Rod fucking Marinelli?
He has wrecked the Bears defensive line. Singlehandedly. Could it be injuries to Urlacher, and the departure of a few quality safeties? Maybe. Could it be the complete disappearance of one Tommie Harris?
All I know is, the Bears had a defense last year, and then they hired Rod fucking Marinelli, and now they have 11 seahorses. I love seahorses! But I hate losing. So go away, seahorses.
The Falcons are a good team. No one denies this. And yet once again, there were the Bears, with an opportunity to pull out a quality win. And there was Sulkypants, throwing the ball to the other team. Seriously, we could have just kept the Sex Cannon, and had a whole lot more fun, and more draft picks, and more of the sexy.
We've had years of ridiculous luck - 2003, when we had an actual streak of overtime victories via interceptions returned for TD's comes to mind. This is not that kind of year. Urlacher's out, Mike Brown is long gone, and some guy named Roach is playing in the middle. And where's Matt Forte? Can someone let him know that the season started? Because it's going to be a race to see who kills him first - Bears fans, or fantasy football players. Someone tried to convince me this year that Forte should have been drafted first overall, ahead of Adrian Peterson, or Peyton Manning, or Drew Brees. That person is now immersed in alcohol as he comes up with a way to tell his wife that they lost their life savings betting on a Bears running back. So good luck with that, buddy.
Have I ever told you why I hate frum Jews? Not all of them - there are at least 4 that I quite enjoy. But the rest are a big pain in my butt, and often capable of performing ridiculous acts of chillul Hashem - that would be besmirching G-d's name, and embarrassing the Jews, for those non-Ivrit speakers. 2 quick stories, all of which have happened in the last week:
1) We're looking to buy a house, because I want to have a lawn so I can yell at kids on my block who walk on my lawn, and I can say to them "hey! Get off my lawn! And go get a haircut, hippies!" Seriously, there are hippies everywhere in Pittsburgh.
Anyhoo, we found this house in a great location. Unfortunately, it's a complete dump, with wallpaper peeling off the walls, unfinished basement, a kitchen that looks like it was imported from the nearest crack house, and really, really ugly paint jobs in every bedroom. It's owned by a frum family with 5 kids and another on the way, and they have used that house, I mean in every way. But it's got potential, and a great back yard, and again, the location is fantastic.
So we go to make an offer. And we're working with an agent because, despite my experience as a real estate attorney, I don't actually know anything about buying a house. We give them a call to let them know to expect our offer, and they want to sit down with us first. We go to the house, and they proceed to try to talk us out of using an agent. "What do you need an agent for?" the husband says. Which, fine, I understand they don't want to add to the cost of the transaction, and I appreciate that.
But then, he says "which shul do you go to? Oh, I know so-and-so there, we're very close! Why don't we just work this out, the two of us?" See, because I was wearing a kippah, so obviously I don't need any sort of real process. In fact, why don't we just knock back some Slivovitz after kiddush, and we can bang it out before Mincha? Who needs an appraiser, or an inspection? Not us, because we're all Jews here, right?
False. We offered 40,000 under asking price, because when you're trying to sell your house for twice what you bought it for less than 5 years after you bought it, and it's blatantly clear you didn't put any money into it, then you don't get the courtesy of a real offer. Ass.
2) Every year, Maccabi Tel Aviv plays an exhibition basketball game at Madison Square Garden against the Knicks, as a fundraiser for Migdal Ohr, an Israeli orphanage. And it's great, and lots of Jews go, and Maccabi always loses.
But not Pini, no sirreebob. He decides this doesn't really apply to him. He's not going anywhere. Security, the refs - no one can convince him. Finally, Rabbi Grossman, head of the orphanage, comes down out of the stands. Great! The rabbi will be the voice of reason.
Not quite. And maybe I should be more upset with Gershon than I should with the rabbi, because let's be honest, Gershon was a lot more embarrassing to the Jews than the rabbi was. But to me, the rabbi's actions were prime examples of what some rabbis do when confronted with non-Jewish rules: they try to explain why Jews aren't subject to those rules. Whether it's tax laws, or child abuse, or keeping Shabbos instead of rioting about a parking lot, or assaulting women in pants, or making women sit in the back of the bus (if they're allowed on the bus at all), or exploiting illegal immigrants to overcharge for kosher meat, there has been a really awkward and embarrassing string of rabbinic activity in the last year or so.
Maybe it wasn't fair to preface this by saying how much I hate frum Jews. Instead, I'll say that I really hate the disturbing absence of holiness in our religious leadership, and fear for the future of religious Judaism.
Living in Pittsburgh, I am awash in Steeler fanaticism. Everyone, from checkout ladies to Catholic priests, wears a Steelers shirt the Friday before games. And they are not afraid to shout out at random cars "LET'S GO stilLERS!!" which is unnerving if you're trying not to run people over. So forgive me if I was a bit worried about the Bears having to play what I assumed to be an unstoppable juggernaut. After all, the Steelers came back and beat the Titans the week before, right? And the Titans are really good, right? Add to that all those Sulkypants interceptions against the Packers, and Urlacher's absence, and you've got what looked to be a recipe for disaster.
But I forgot something.
On Rosh Hashannah I pray. I pray HARD. Because if you only go to shul once a week, and spending most of those hours mentally undressing lady parishioners, you have to use the High Holy Days to build up some credit. And I took a bunch of crap from my in-laws about the impending blowout, so I was feeling especially uneasy about hearing how the Bears blew it for the next three years, until the two teams play again. So I used my time with the Lord to pray for a victory.
Here's how the conversation went:
Me: Oh Lord, Ruler of the Universe, great, mighty, and possessing fantastic mystical superpowers, please hear my prayer.
G-d: Yep, you've got the G-Man on the telephono.
Me: King of kings, verily I seek your beneficence.
G-d: Righto. What can I do you for, brosephus?
Me: Please guide the Chicago Bears to victory this very day against the Pittsburgh Steelers.
G-d: Dude, it's totally Rosh Hashish. You sure you want to use your lifeline on this? Because I gotta tell ya, you skate on thin ice as it is. You may need that favor for, oh, I don't know, that time in May when you lose your wallet at the Pirates game.
Me: I didn't lose my wallet at the Pirates game.
G-d: Man, you're talking to the Master of Disaster! Literally! You think I give a hoohaa about your idea of time? I'm talking NEXT May. The future, mano e mano. I totally blew your mind just now, didn't I?
Me: Truly I am in awe.
G-d: Bet your ass. So, what's the dilly-yo?
Me: I'm still going to have to pray for the Bears to whup the Steelers this afternoon.
G-d: Ya, I'm gonna say...nay. Sorry, bra.
Me: Come on! Just do me this one solid and I'll be all about the praising and the supplications this year.
G-d: You do realize I can tell when you're lying, right? Look, I'm not saying the Bears will lose, I'm just saying it won't be a blowout.
Me: I don't care. I just want Child to understand the glory of rooting for the Bears.
G-d: Right. I don't think you have to worry about that one being a football fan.
Me: What's that?
G-d: Uh, nothing. Forget it. So, one Bears victory, coming right up. Ooh, that reminds me about something I owe Jeff Reed...
Me: Oh, and can you throw in a Packers loss? A loss at home to the Bengals would be hilarious!
G-d: No problem, I fucking hate that team. Fat bastards, the lot of them. Plus, did you know that Aaron Rogers has a two inch penis? True story.
So there you have it. G-d loves the Fancypants, and hates Jeff Reed. Which is good enough for me. Oh, and
OK, fine: Jay Cutler, aka Crybaby Sulkypants, also played an instrumental role by taking what the defense gave him, and throwing 2 touchdown passes. Kudos, sir.
I know, 2 posts in one week, I'm totally spoiling you. But when I saw this, and then I read this, how could I not write something?
Some of you might think that the return of the pill-popping good ol' boy is a bad thing for the Bears. Some of you Krazy Israeli are actually concerned. But not me. Because, you see, any possession that puts the ball in FavRUH's hands is one less handoff to Adrian Peterson the Greater. And it's one more pass floating past an open receiver into the welcoming arms of Charles Tillman, or Nathan Vasher. It's gotta be tough for FavRUH, with all those young'uns running around all fast-y like, and he's got to gun it in, just like he did in the field back in Mississip, only some of those blurs aren't on his team, and then he's sad, and only the pills can make it all better.
What I'm saying is, now the Bears can beat the Vikings, even with Crybaby Sulkypants as our QB. So hooray for that.
A quick Turducken update - I've successfully boned a duck. They're oilier, so it was more slippery, which made it more difficult, but also more satisfying, see what I'm saying? Notwithstanding the sexual innuendo, I made a kickass recipe with curry, garlic (15 cloves, bitches) and soy sauce. But it did call for not just boning, but also skinning, so that's not going to happen again. But I'm now ready, I believe, to prepare the Holy Grail of Gluttony for the Family Fancy Pants in October.
Finally, I went to the emergency room this evening, because some angular man-child put his elbow through my chin while we were both jockeying for position to catch a frisbee during an Ultimate game.
Now, were we keeping score? We were not. Did I need to scrap with the guy for the disc? Not at all. Did I make the catch? Fuck yes I did.
So I get a tissue from one of the other players, and I throw some water on my chin, and I ask my team - "Does it look like I need stitches?" Now, I don't know all the players very well, but I hope none of them are med students, or doctors, because they all said no. They didn't even equivocate - "well, I'm not sure, but maybe you want to go home just in case." Nope. "Looks like a nasty cut, but I think you're ok." So, did I keep playing through the end of the game? Hells yeah.
And then I got home. Wife looks at me like I'm Massive Headwound Harry
(Linda Hamilton can for sure kick my ass, but she's totally a man. If you catch her in the right pose, you can see her junk through her skirt. Seriously - frank and beans, people)
So I go in to the bathroom, and finally get to see the gaping wound in my chin with my own eyes. And we head off to the emergency room, where I get 6 (6!) stitches. So for all you frisbee players, next time you can see bone through a cut, it might need stitches. Hippies.
Get ready, we're going crazy with the homonyms this week...
My streak of bringing championships to cities is safe for one more hometown. My presence in Pittsburgh compelled the Cardinals to ignore their tried and true passing game for 3 quarters, almost forgetting that Larry Fitzgerald existed until it was too late. For those of you counting at home, this is my championship tally:
Chicago, 92-95 - Bulls 3peat. New York, 96-99 - Yankees 3peat. Boston, 99-08 - Patriots win 3 Super Bowls, and the Red Sox win 2 World Series. Pittsburgh, 08-present - Steelers, Super Bowl win no. 6.
My offer to Seattle, Cleveland, Cincinatti, and Dallas still stands - if you want any of your teams to win a championship in the next few decades, pay me several hundred thousand dollars, and I will gladly move to your city. Because I want to spread the love.
Steeler fans truly believe they are the craziest. And pound for pound, in terms of sheer volume, they may be right. But Red Sox fans are just as passionate, and Patriots fans just as annoying. Yankee fans are, if anything, worse, because they expect all that cash to buy them wins. And Red Sox fans are getting to that point, but still get to burn off 86 years of misery, so they get a pass for say the next year. After that they can be snooty and proud all they want, but they have to concede that they are the new Yankees. A fair trade-off for all that success, I say.
A quick word about the actual Super Bowl "party" I attended. As some of you may know from my weepy phone calls, the menu was dairy. Furthermore, I was asked to bring a salad.
I'm not normally an angry person, and I like to believe I give people the benefit of the doubt. But the whole thing seemed like a setup. The hosts know me well. They are all too aware of my disturbing fixation on raw animal flesh, preferably fried or ground up and shoved into some sort of bun, or maybe a wafer cone. And yet there I was, picking up a forkful of ziti and trying to keep from sobbing. I don't know the complicated physics behind the equation, but everyone knows that
Football = meat.
It can = poultry, or ham, or fish (although that too is a reach unless it's well fried beyond recognition as such), but football does NOT = leafy greens, or kale, or jicama, or any other roughage. I could have sworn I had moved back to the Midwest when I came to Pittsburgh - the clear disdain for nonfatty foods, the pleasant bovine-like expressions on drivers obeying speed limits, the suspicious looks cast at people with foreign accents - but now I'm not so sure.
As for the other crappy party, I want to say this: for a group of people who are allegedly supportive of taxes, and using them to generate revenue for use by the federal and state governments, the Democrats sure are forgetful when it comes to actually paying those taxes.
If I wanted people who were out to cheat the government to run the government, I would have voted for McCain. Right now it's a little embarrassing. I guess it's something that Daschle is stepping down, but don't they have a vetting process for this? If you were a White House staffer, trying now to push through a massive stimulus package that both cuts and raises taxes, wouldn't you want to be sure that your political appointees knew H&R Block's phone number? I would think that would be a priority. But what do I know.
I spent the last couple of days in agony. Agony because I was felled by a sinister plot hatched by our bovine nemeses.
I've written of this threat before, but evidently even I am susceptible to overlooking this clear and present danger to our American way of life. "Sure, they're always mooing, prophesying our doom, and seeing our extinction in their vacant black-eyed stares, but we eat them! Aside for some e.coli and Mad Cow, does anyone among us really suffer?"
I am here to tell you that I am on the bloody, smelly front in this gruesome struggle. Because I am one of the many who suffer from their vile biological weapons. And now I have to sleep on the couch because of it. Don't you see? These dopey bastards are attacking marriage, the fundamental pillar of our nuclear families!
I am lactose intolerant. This does not make me a bigot. I mean sure, I hate tall people, and men with very tiny chins. Women who can't pronounce the letter Q. Elderly folk who don't think it was better when they were young. And P.Diddy. But I am no racist. My intolerance is biological, according to my doctor, Nick Riviera.
Milk has its place. Milkshakes, cereal, mixed with Nestle Quik - not Ovaltine, because that's the devil's chocolate. Swiss Miss is a dirty whore.
Cows have developed this chemical as a weapon against the human race, to debilitate us so they can conquer us all. Lactaid is no shield - eventually our bodies acclimate to its power, and we are again relegated to the bathroom for hours, leaving it a dead zone, where nothing may grow again.
For three days after eating ravioli, an "innocent bystander," I was a noxious geyser of unpleasantness. Wife banished me to the basement. I haven't seen Child in a week. Someone with a deep voice was making Wife laugh hysterically last night - I can only assume Child has gone through puberty in my absence.
Once I warned you never to abandon the consumption of beef in all its forms. I come to you again with another responsibility:
Stop eating dairy. Stop drinking milk, stop eating cheese. Do not support the amoral, venal practice of keeping cows alive just so they can poison us with their parmesan cheese, their ice creams. It's a sacrifice, no question. I love pizza, and ice cream, and Wacky Mac macaroni and cheese. But I will not abandon my species for some cheesy fries. And neither should you. So put the mozzarella stick on the table, and back away.
Meanwhile the Bears lost to the Titans because their defense is intimidating in name only. You argue their run defense is amazing, and held Chris Johnson and LenDale White to under 30 yards total. I counter with the fact that KERRY COLLINS picked them apart like a three-day-old Thanksgiving turkey carcass.
Here's a fun fact about Kerry Collins that I don't think you knew - three months ago I was walking along the street when a homeless guy asked me for change, then fumbled the quarter I handed him. That man? Kerry Collins.
So don't tell me that the Bears defense is so great. They're getting by on reputation alone, and that's not even so stellar anymore. They're the new Ravens, which were the old Bears. So that means that in a few weeks Brian Urlacher is going to kill someone, then get away with it. That should be exciting.
Rex Grossman had another typical Sex Cannon-y day - 50% completion rate, 1 TD, 1 pick, 30 cheerleaders knocked up. Maybe a new nickname would be better: the Quarter. Flip it 5 million times, and half the time it comes up heads, the other half it gets picked off or fumbles the ball.
I know, I'm sorry. I meant to post, but then I had this thing, and then my alarm was broken, and I got my foot caught in a bucket, and, well, anyway here I am.
This being the Jewish holiday season there just hasn't been all that much time to get my act together and write something, what with holidays coming every other day, and family flocking in and out. Rosh Hashannah - bam, the Balloon Man and his maiden fair. Succos comes, and the whole Fancy Pants Crew arrives, short one brother and one fiance and one dog. We really missed the dog (and of course the fiance and the brother. What are we, savages?).
Everyone has "their" holiday. Jesus has Christmas, seemingly everyone on my block has Halloween, Brother A shares Thanksgiving with the mighty Chocktaw tribe. Every Jewish mother has Passover, and if you want to share that's fine, just know that by taking their one week of glory you're breaking their heart, and the hearts of every mother who's ever slaved over a hot stove for the brisket you love so much. No, it's fine, take Passover. Here, here's my pancreas, do you want that too? How about my corneas, I hear they're worth lots of money in the black market.
Sorry, it's just that you can't channel a Jewish mother and stop after one guilt joke. You have to keep going until it's a whole thing.
Anyhoo, I've come to realize that Succos is my holiday. My family comes to stay with Wife Child and me, and every year I go out and I build a temporary structure with tarp and poles and bamboo mats. This year I had to get all new material, because for some reason I left my stuff in Boston, in Krazy's basement. Now he has two succahs. Surprise!
Let me say, for the record, that my succah this year was magnificent. The royal blue tarp set off the "holiday" lights perfectly, and the decorations purchased by the Old Rambling Man and the Mac Lady were beautifully done up. The weather held up, and our dining was phenomenal, if I do say so myself.
You may wonder, then, why I have provided no pictures of this glorious structure. That is an excellent question, reader. Give yourself a pat on the back! Round of applause for the astute reader! Huzzah! For s/he's a jolly good fellow, and all that!
Right. So the succah was blown over by a gigantic wolf looking for some piggies.
For all I know that could actually be the story, because I went out on Friday afternoon to set the table for the holy Sabbath, and lo and behold, the succah had fallen over. Tipped right over the table that Wife hates so much because it's huge and ugly. Yanked the nails right out of the 2X6's used as a base. Crushed all the pretty decorations. Sullied the royal blue tarp, which it turns out were actually quite effective sails. Next year we're entering the design into the America's Cup race.
So for next year I'll be taking suggestions on how to build my succah. And if you suggest a Kit, well then you can kiss my ass. I am a man: I have crafted the wheel, and invented fire. I can grow a mustache over the course of seven years. I can open jars with my bare hands.
So I'll use a kit for my next succah. Just as soon as I get my bikini line waxed.
Some of you may wonder why I didn't have anything rageful and hilarious to say about last week's Bears game, and Lovie Smith's squib kick decision. And I have to say, I was a little disappointed in myself for not taking the time. But then today happened, and now I feel like they're useful bookends on this season.
First, Neckbeard is playing way above his pay grade. WAY. What's with all the throwing? And the catching? And the yardage? Maybe it's secretly the Sex Cannon back there, but he's had a lobotomy, which since he's such an idiot in the first place it's actually made him a smarter player, and that's why whoever is under center is so good. Because otherwise, honestly, I have no idea what's going on.
Then there's the defense, the one that gave up the game-winning drive in Atlanta, and 41 points to the Vikings. Atlanta makes sense - three of our top four corners are injured (and yet somehow not Mike Brown, but it is still early in the season), and that's going to put a dent in anyone's Cover 2 defense. But 41 points to the Vikings? another 100+ yard game for Adrian Peterson the Greater? Not going to win many games like that, guys.
Finally, this is the second straight game that Kali Hester has gotten hurt on a return. He is our one reliable offensive threat, and yet Lovie keeps putting him in situations where he gets injured. How about larger pads? Or a gun, Last Boy Scout-style?
Either way, get him some blockers, man.
On a less funny note, I decided not to finish either of the books I was reading these past couple of weeks. Liberal Fascism and The Bulldozer and the Big Tent are so ridiculously biased and focused on right-left that they were equally insufferable. And that's sad, because I like Todd Gitlin. I think he's got great insight into modern media. But when it comes to politics he's just another Republican-hating liberal. Which is fine, I don't like them so much either, but I guess I'm just sick of all the election insanity. I mean, did you see the last debate? Obama is playing from so far ahead it will be a KKK miraKle if he loses. He knows it. McCain knows it. Hell, by this point I'm sure even Sarah Palin has figured it out, although her flow chart's probably written in crayon (sorry, forgot she's a lady. "Written in lipstick." Better?).
The whole debate was McCain trying with his wiggly eyebrows and awful, exaggerated facial expressions to get a rise out of Obama, and it didn't work at all. And do you know why? Because Obama is in the lead, and he's also not a whacked-out former POW who loses his temper at the drop of a hat.
Until, I don't know, there's some book that explains the current stock market train wreck in small words that I can understand, I'm not reading any books on politics. I'm going to read more books like Samedi the Deafness, with weird crazy plots with unreliable narrators who admit to being chronic liars. Fantastic and confusing. I have no idea if I "got it."
Happy 5769. Haha! That's funny, because 57 is a funny number. Because of Heinz, and ketchup, right? Ketchup! Hilarious.
Before I get to the Bears' win in week 1 of this new football season of the National Football League (does anyone actually call it the NFL anymore? Is this because the league is now old enough to be addressed with dignity and respect, or because people were forgetting what NFL stands for?), a quick word about two different quarterbacks.
Goodbye, Tom Brady. Kissing Suzy Kolber says it best - as usual - but it's important for me to emphasize the glory of Tom Brady's reverse-engineered knee. Not only do we not have to hear about the Patriots this year - except in the context of "What if?" - but we also don't have to hear about "18-1," which is almost as annoying as "1918." Oh, to be in Boston to hear the wailing, and the gnashing of teeth. Even Steeler fans are less overbearing. Although that could be because Pittsburgh is actually a football town, and Boston always has been and always will be the home of the Red Sawx...and some other teams. It could also be that the Pittsburgh accent is less grating. Either way, seeya next year, Tom.*
* - Please discount entire paragraph if Matt Cassel turns out to be the Second Coming. If that happens, well, that's 2 Apocalypse horsies, only 2 to go.
The above note is dedicated to the Kinney and the Sweater-Wearing Hippie. Enjoy your football season now, suckas!
Staying in the AFC East, we turn to Old Man Fav-ruh. I am still adamant in my glee that he is gone from the Bears' division.
HOWEVER. Perhaps going to a less prominent media market would have been a sweet relief (I hear Tampa Bay has a great QB retirement plan). But no, he had to be traded to New York, where any and all exploits - great and thoroughly average alike - will be picked apart and glorified ad infinitum ad nauseum, until Peter King gets lockjaw.
Essentially someone needs to kneecap Brett Fav-ruh. Or tell him about the super-cheap Vicodin in Toronto.
There was something else I wanted to talk about...something having to do with a neckbeard slowly choking the life from one Peyton Manning...
I have to admit, it's weird writing about a complete and thorough domination by the Bears that really didn't have a lot to do with one Devin "Kali" Hester. But I'll take it.
Some fun facts:
This was the first time the Colts have lost before November since 2005. Losing in September and October is known as "being the Detroit Lions."
Kyle "Neckbeard" Orton threw no touchdowns, but no picks, either. The family of nuthatches living just below his chin celebrated by not crapping down his jersey.
Matt Forte needs a nickname. It's early, but I'm thinking "Walter Payton Mark II." It'll have to be shorter somehow, but we'll work on it.
After the game Brian Uhrlacher was interviewed by Random Female Sideline Reporter, and she asked him whether he thought before the game that the Bears could pull of an upset. Before he answered Uhrlacher took a long look at the lady, like she'd just farted on his plate of ribs. After he finished glaring Uhlracher just said "who said it was an upset? We came here to win." Then he grabbed her head and ripped it right off her body. Former girlfriend Paris Hilton says that Bri-bri is so cute when he's angry!
Cedric Benson spent last night offering sexual favors to elderly men in exchange for table scraps. At least he ate well.
The guys in the booth referred to Bears' TE Desmond Clark and WRs Rashied Davis and Marty Booker as "weapons." I giggled, until I realized he was serious.
On his way out of town Lovie Smith left a flaming bag of dog crap on Tony Dungy's front porch. The bag was made of a program from the 2007 Super Bowl, and Rex Grossman's right testicle. Never fear ladies, the Sex Cannon has 8 more.
Sure, I could write about Mort Klein delivering this year's principles at the AIPAC conference. And I could talk about Obama choosing Jim Johnson to head his VP search, and then dropping him the day after when everyone else found out about his Countrywide problem.
But instead I'm going to talk about Cedric Benson. If you haven't heard, Cedric has been released by the Bears for getting busted - again - for DUI. At least this time it was on dry land.
I've given CB a hard time over his performance on the field. I've prayed for awful things to happen to him. Gonorrhea, spontaneous combustion, the gout - all of these maladies have been wished on Benson's head by me. And for the most part, he's deserved it. He has no breakaway speed, he can't pound the line, and he doesn't cut back. He also can't block very well, and he's not an effective receiver out of the backfield. And yet the Bears traded away Thomas Jones - who was not only better, but cheaper - to give Benson more carries.
And now what do we have? The Bears running backs (along with some interesting "personal facts") are:
Adrian Peterson the Lesser - never pretends to be AP the Greater, despite strong prodding by his wife, offensive line, coach, and fans.
Matt Lawrence (rookie) - eats a bowl of monkey intestines before every game.
Matt Forte (rookie) - had a strong Heisman campaign
that I only just heard about this second.
PJ Pope - "PJ" stands for Pants, Jogging. His parents are surrealist fitness nuts.
Garrett Wolfe - played football to get back at his father Tom, who only understands brute force, astronauts, and white suits. Drink that Kool-Aid Acid Test, Pops!
Aside from APtL, I have no idea who these guys are. But I'm guessing we're going to see a lot of them this season. So let me make 2 bold predictions:
The Bears offense will once again rely on the sturdy, safe shoulders of one Rex "Sex Cannon" Grossman; and
I will not once wish we still had CB4 in the backfield. Goodbye, Boozie Fumblestein.
I've gotten so many e-mails these past couple of days. "When are you going to spew some good old-fashioned hate on Fav-ruh?" "Let's hear it for retirement!" "I am Mbenga from Nigeria, and I need your help to obtain fo nds from bank in Switzerland, in amount of 10$ million, please to respond 011-84-95-19005-426." And there were some other promotional e-mails for medications that did not, in fact, work. But there's nothing on the bottle to indicate what I should do if it starts glowing green. Call a doctor, I guess, right?
If you haven't heard already, Old Man Favre retired. 17 years of misery are finally over, and he can go back to hunting, barbecuing squirrel a la tire track, and having inappropriate relations with an immediate relative. Meanwhile the Packers and Aaron Rogers are floundering. Sure, he's a 4-year veteran, but when all you've learned to do is hold a clipboard, to have to jump to getting sacked on a regular basis is a bit, well, jarring.
And how do the Bears respond? Other than throwing a nice retirement party for their arch nemesis, management resigns the Neckbeard and the Sex Cannon, and trades Greasy. The other major move they've done is to ignore the best running back on the market, Michael Turner, because the last thing you want to have on the field in December is a solid, thick runner who can hammer out yards. Better to just throw some interceptions and hope the other team has to kick it to Kali Hester.
But this is about Brett. 17 years we've been together, sharing ridiculous shovel passes and annual questions about drugs and retirement. So forgive me if I'm not entirely convinced. Vicodin is expensive, and once Brett learns he'll have to stock his own medicine cabinet, he may come running back to the green and yellow.
Plus I don't think ESPN and Sports Illustrated are ready for him to go. Maybe one more year, if only for a whirlwind Kareem-style retirement, to receive gifts from all the cities he's demoralized over the years. Is this shocking, that we of all blogs are advocating this? Maybe it's all this peyote I've been smoking, but I want the Bears to have one more chance. They can abandon all pretense of defending, and just blitz until they break his hip. That, to me, is a worthy send-off.
So goodbye, Brett. Good luck with the rest of your life. I'm just glad I never have to see you again.
Someday someone will learn. And from then on Devin Hester will be no more than a talisman, an ancient cursed relic standing, waiting behind the wedge of blockers for a kick that will never come. Until then he's going to keep running them right up your ass.
Although if he's going to keep catching bombs between over and under'ed double coverage, defensive coordinators are going to have to start leaving sacrifices of virgins and bulls of magnificent carriage for the omnipotent Kali. Oh, and his celestial sidekick, the Great Neckbeard.
The defense was not so transcendent, but Alex Brown seemed to slither and storm through the Saints' line like some sort of snakey hurricane. Maybe, in all this talk of Mark Anderson and Tommie Harris, he finally said to himself, in the darkness before his nightly slumber, "Why not me? Wherein shall my name be proclaimed to the very heights?" And finally the gods responded: "Make some fucking plays, Alex!" And so he did.
Today the offseason begins. There are playoffs this year, so I'm told, but they'll be dominated by some team from, I think, Vermont. Pot-smoking hippies and bloody communists, for all I know. Meanwhile I'll be building a new altar to Kali, wondering what we'll have to give up for McNabb, and hoping against hope that we don't let Lance Briggs go without some sort of compensation in the form of draft picks or some undiscovered magnificent linebacker. Just like Briggs. Or we could, you know, try and keep him. Just a thought.
Since the defense and I are not on speaking terms right now - despite their four forced turnovers, and their decimated front four, I don't understand why they must persist in blitzing only to have Tarvaris Jackson (Tarvaris Jackson! The Lost Jackson!) pick them apart over the middle, where, hey, weren't there supposed to be LINEBACKERS there? - I'll favor Mr. Ron Turner with my scorn today. The same man who, at Turner family gatherings, has to hear about how great the Chargers are doing, how smart and successful brother Norv is. Is it fair for me to heap my own rage onto this potential powder keg?
Screw fair. This guy can't coach genetically modified superplayers, let alone the sad sack that calls itself the Bears offense. Adrian Peterson the Lesser lives up to his name once again, and runs for insignificant yardage, and wait, who is that behind Olin Kreutz's increasingly overpaid ass? Why, it's the Neckbeard himself, Kyle Orton! There's the Sex Cannon on the sidelines, not even suiting up, so ashamed is he. Although while walking around trying not to look illiterate with his little clipboard, Rex did accidentally impregnate some Vikings cheerleaders. So he still had the most completions on the day (ZING!).
Here's a teensy little thought, Ronny. If you have an offense built for a quarterback with a magnificent, if inconsistent, arm, then you put someone in there who has accuracy troubles outside four yards, maybe - just spitballing here - you should call fewer long passes. Just a thought. Chew on it, get back to me.
Once again I reiterate my suprise, my disgust: Tarvaris f-ing Jackson! Even Poppa Joe, busy convincing Michael he'd be better off white, didn't have time to beat little Tarvaris. Marlon needs some tough love, too, you know.
Alex Brown: Did you, um, did you watch last night?
Me:
Tommie Harris: You guys, I don't think he's talking to us.
Me: Who's Todd Collins?
Urlacher: I don't know that name. I don't know who you're talking about.
Harris: Yeah, that sound like some accountant, or something
Me: Don't lie to me, you pricks. You remember getting plowed like a choirboy last night? Does that ring a bell? Some "accountant" bending you over his knee in front of 80,000 fans, and opening you up wider than Wacker Drive? Is it starting to come back to you?
Brown: It wasn't totally our fault. I mean, Griese had 4th and goal with 7 minutes left, down 7. The field goal wasn't our call.
Me: At this point, the offense spends entire games with its collective head between its ankles. But you guys...I just thought you were better than that. 24 points to the Redskins? To TODD COLLINS? I swore he was taking my order at Dunkin Donuts on Tuesday, and Thursday night he's tearing out your rectum in ways that - I mean, thank god it was on the NFL Network where no one could see it, because children should be prevented from seeing that game. Now get out. Go away, I have to decide whether I still want you in my life this year. I am seriously considering packing it in, and switching over to basketball, because you have hurt me. I feel betrayed, and let down, and I just...Brian, I never expected this from you, of all people. Go, just...just go.
I'm sure you're all relieved to find a Bears post that bitches about neither the Sex Cannon nor Cedric Benson. "Finally," you'll say, "how many different ways can he find to bitch about the eternal suck-itude of Grossman and Benson?" The answer is 74. But I'll leave them for another day.
The letter for today, kids, is D, as in "defense," or "decaying," or "decrepitude," or "dojo." Eli Manning is not the quarterback who should be carving up the Bears on two straight drives to come back and win a game. If it's going to be anyone, it may as well be Brett the Vicodin Man; we hate him enough already, and frankly, at this point we expect him to do it. But Little Bro Eli? Of the New York Football Giants? Unacceptable. How many passes can be completed in the middle of the field, where allegedly the defensive scheme places our fantastic linebackers, supposedly to cover receivers and tight ends between the hashmarks? In past years, I would say zero, and add a number of internally bleeding receivers with liver punctures as payment for their hubris.
Instead, what was going to be an awesome post about the Bears defense taking the offense behind the woodshed and tattooing the words "Greg Olsen" and "Devin Hester" into their foreheads becomes yet another whiny rant about the entire team not getting it done. Hell, even Kali himself dropped a sure touchdown on a surprisingly well-thrown deep ball by Rex.
I don't know what to do. It's a dark day in Chicago where the offense holds up its end of the bargain while the defense blows the game. I don't even know how to respond. Is this what it feels like to be a Texans fan? Maybe a 10-gallon hat will make me feel better.
Goodbye, Cedric Benson. Hello Adrian Peterson the Lesser. I'm conflicted about rooting for Benson's injury. Wait, that's not uncertainty - that's euphoria. My bad.
For all of you who don't understand the obsession with the Sex Cannon, see the 4th and goal pass to a lunging Bernard Berrian at the end of the game. Brian Griese doesn't make that pass. Actually, we'd never know if he could, because he wouldn't have led 2 touchdown drives in 4 minutes to set up the play. The complete list of quarterbacks who could make that throw:
- Tom Brady's jaws - Peyton Manning's forehead - Tony Romo's killer abs (he's a Wisconsin boy, who am I to knock him?) - Brett Favruh - Grossman
Again the defense was lacking, and again I shall explain it away by citing injuries to the secondary, and the brain mites slowly consuming Brian Urlacher's medulla oblongata.
11 runback touchdowns in 27 games. The record is 13, in 227 games. When will people stop kicking to Devin Hester entirely? G-d bless special teams coaches, who persist in thinking their coverage teams are sufficient. Don't forget your shortbus pass, guys.
And can someone start working on a quality nickname for Mr. Hester? I think Jesus Christ is already taken, but maybe we can call him Kali, after the many-limbed Hindu goddess of death.
All in favor? It's settled, then. Kali, back to return the kick...Oh my lord, he's flying down the field, consuming the souls of would-be-tacklers! It's horrible, but I can't look away...What a cutback! Touchdown, Kali!
Earlier in the season I gave my blessing to Bruce Babich, the Bears' new defensive coordinator. I said he was ok in my book, that I loved the taste of extra blitzing on my chocolate sundae. I said Ron Rivera was not vital to the cause, and all but spit on his 1985 Super Bowl Ring.
I take it all back. Bruce, you useless pederast, you can go play with Cedric Benson at his make-believe tea party in the back of the locker room where we keep the brooms, old jock straps, and the dead McCaskeys. The both of you can spend your time discovering each other's nubile bodies while the rest of the team goes out and plays football. And Mr. Rivera? I'm sorry for the offense. Please come back and teach our defensive line how to tackle a backup running back. I could look up this guy Morris' first name, but unless it's Mercury, or Boris (and then only for the humorous rhyming), I'm not going to care, or recognize him. And what is a DJ Hackett? I heard his street-ready mix tape was going to drop in December, with Lil Wayne and Lupe Fiasco guesting, but I didn't know he was a No. 1 receiver for the Seahawks.
I will grit my teeth and say one nice thing about Benson, whose mother probably weeps at all the crap that's written about her dear sweet boy. On Sunday he had his longest rushing gain of the season.
But let's come back to reality, where that amazing run was all of 20 yards. If a running back looks at his season, a season where his team trades away their No. 1 back (who again rushed for over 100 yards, by the way) to make way for him, and he sees that he hasn't had a 20-yard run until Week 11, then maybe this is the time of year he starts cutting himself, if only to feel the pain he's inflicted upon fans and fantasy football nerds. Anytime you need a razor blade and a Smiths record, Cedric, give me a call. Hell, I'll put "Last Night I Dreamt Someone Loved Me" on repeat for you.
You weak people may be ready to forgive and forget, but not me. Rexy throws one bomb, and now it's all "I don't care if you didn't call, I'll still let you do that thing that I thought was uncomfortable but you seem to be fixated upon." Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and...something about a king, maybe? Sayings are for losers.
Bears finally pull one out, although it was against the Raiders, so it's not like it was against a real team. 6-3 with 5 minutes left? This is AMERICAN football, not the other kind, the one with the shin guards. And yes, even though this is a win, I shall be ripping the team. Why? Because I'm a bitter old man with nothing else to do?
Perhaps. But I still wanted to see the Great Orton Neckbeard, so the Cannon can kiss my ass.
Don't you think we're good now either, Cedric. I know it's a little above your average, but a legitimate running back should be able to gain 100 yards on 29 carries. 76 yards? I've mowed more yards than that in a summer!
Zing! I totally got you! Did you see that take down! Oh man, what a great insult! Ha ha! Mowing the lawn is fun!
Oh, and Norman Mailer died. As the author of theThe Naked and the Dead, which suprisingly contains no necrophilia, and Prisoner of Sex, which also isn't about what you think it is, he would have been surprised to hear that it was old age, and not some shrewish, plain-Jane feminists that finally did him in. He didn't hate women, per se. He just didn't want them talking, or writing, or voting.
I once worked for a guy who looked like Norman Mailer. And he had a lot of books...maybe it WAS Norman Mailer! Weird...
Also, I know exactly how long it's been since I last posted. I'll post when I damn well please, and you'll beg for more.
At first, when I saw the score, I thought, "oh, well, it's 1995, and the Bears suck, and Barry Sanders is running all over our defense. Hopefully sometime in the future we won't be such a crappy team."
Then I realized that it's actually 2007, and Barry Sanders is off breaking tackles in a rec league somewhere. Then I wept.
Everyone knows the defense is beat up. Mike Brown had his season-ending injury earlier than ever this year, Nate Vasher is still out (and even if he's back in, he's still out), our defensive line is what the experts call "patchwork," and I'm going to stop with the boilerplate excuses...now.
Fine. I'll accept it. The Bears suck ass this year. We're 3-5 at the halfway point, and once again our quarterback has decided that it's not as much fun to throw to people on your own team. What is, it, Griese? Do you secretly want to be on defense? Cause we'll throw you into the trenches, put you between Tommie Harris and Mark Anderson, and let you fight for your life among the giants. We'll get the Neckbeard under center, and at least he doesn't have the arm strength to throw it to the other team.
I call upon every Bears fan in Chicago to find Cedric Benson's car, and key it. Tomorrow is Halloween, and his house better be covered in toilet paper, with several flaming bags of dog crap waiting by his front door.
Oh, and Ron Turner? Devin Hester will be waiting in the tall grass for you, buddy. Wasn't there supposed to be a place for him in the offense? You know, a place where he can get the ball, run down the field, and score, as is his wont? Kinda dumb to neglect your only playmaker. I'm just saying.
As a way to ease the pain, here is a fantastic video on the art of laterals:
