Aw NFL Naw is back for Week 5. Time permitting, there will be a dazzling analysis of Michel Foucalt’s The Order of Things in the second half of this column. Or I’ll go on a ramble about Secret Princes. (Shh! Don’t tell anyone that the rich men surrounded by a camera crew may not be all that they seem.)
Bring Me The Silver Tongue Of Mike Martz: I do the NFL RedZone thing on Sundays. It makes me feel like a shitball version of Michael Emerson’s character from Person of Interest. Only instead of having a quiet noble dignity, I’m drinking cheap beer and eating large bowls of corn because I am one cracker ass cracker. There are few things sadder than the sight of a grown ass man clutching a Pro Line ticket (“The official hobby of deadbeat dads!”) and yelling “show me Cincinnati!” at the screen. It’s made me a gross football fan. I’m not content with a regular game, I crave an orgy of scoring opportunities. Give me touchdown bukkake or give me death! I vaguely remember football being about romance and anticipation, but that seems so long ago. Instant gratification, that’s the path for me.
But Can He Reach The Dizzying Heights Of Aaron Maybin?: Did you know that DeSean Jackson is trying to get a hip-hop career off the ground? Of course you did! Who isn’t craving a DeSean Jackson album? I’ve had several family members die as a result of ill-fated “we demand a DeSean Jackson album” hunger strikes. My family’s blood is on your hands, recording industry big wigs!
Fun Fact: The best hip-hop track from a football player is the MC Hammer/Deion Sanders classic “Straight To My Feet”.
Punter/Crusader/All-Around Good Dude: Ravens center Matt Birk writes an editorial opposing marriage equality, Vikings punter Chris Kluwe completely eviscerates Birk’s editorial in an awesome blog post. (h/t Deadspin)
The Order of Things: I engage in a lot of ritualistic behaviour. Not the cool kind that tough Grade 4 girls engage in after they watch The Craft, “Remember, I get to be Fairuza Balk this time!, etc.”, instead it’s something much lamer. I do the engaging in repetitive/compulsive/strange behaviour to fight off irrational fears and intrusive images type thing. Scary thoughts will pop into my head and I spend a goofy amount of time trying to do something with my brain or body to hit the ol’ Ctrl Z on whatever imminent danger I think I might be responsible for. It kinda sucks. So what’s this ramble about you may ask? Simple: I want to be paid for my special powers, dude!
I’m providing a valuable service! If you look at my track record, I have a stellar resume of keeping evil at bay. Well, a certain brand of evil anyway. Have there been any demon uprisings in the time that I’ve been on the Earth? Of course not. It’s because I’m a fucking pro. Be sure to point that out on my tombstone: “Prevented demon uprising, did not predict cyborg uprising”. I know the special Konami code in my brain that keeps werewolves off the streets and makes sure I don’t dropkick a child off a waterslide. It’s time I get compensated for that shit. Or at least get to wear tights on the bus.
Week 5 Game To Watch With Your Eyeballs And/Or Listen To With Your Earpowers: Eagles at Steelers The Battle of Pennsylvania! Winner either gets or disowns Bam Margera. Their call!
Week 5 Game Not To Watch With Your Eyeballs And/Or Listen To With Your Earpowers: Bears at Jaguars Jay Cutler is one mopey mope mope, but I kind of get off on football players being all sassy and disobedient around coaches. If Jay Cutler doesn’t want to put up with Mike Tice, good for him. Football players are grown men that are conditioned to call another grown-up “Coach” in the same way serfs are supposed to call royalty “Your Majesty” or whatever. It’s kinda gross. I want athletes going rogue, fucking shit up and becoming the independent butterflies they deserve to be. YOU SAY YOU WANT THE I FORMATION? FUCK THAT I’M TAKING THE O-LINE OUT TO WATCH BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD! IT’S MY LIFE FOOTBALL DAD! I WANNA DO WHAT I WANT! (/puts on paper mache and flies out of the stadium)
Guests Saying Junk: This week’s guest is comedian/radio host/train enthusiast Dane Imrie. Dane and his main squeeze Mary host The Capital, a Saturday afternoon radio program where Marconi plays the mamba from 4-6 PM on 91.3 FM CJTR. Barf out those football words, Dane!
Thank you Dan for letting me appear in your distinguished smut journal. My knowledge of American football is murky, and limited to a brief 3 week flirtation with the Miami Dolphins in 2007. I was one of those jackasses who read a two-page GQ article on Ricky Williams sleeping in a tent, drew parallels between a jobless pothead millionaire with undiagnosed Aspergers and myself (also a millionaire with Aspergers), and strong-armed my girlfriend into watching one of the worst professional football games in memory. After the game, I probably bought a Furby or danced the Lindy hop, as was the style of the time.
No, friends; my drug of choice is Canadian football. And Insulin.
A few years back, my dad, a die-hard Argos fan, told me that I was conceived the night the Toronto Argonauts won the 1983 Grey Cup against the BC Lions. I shrugged it off, but later realized his math was sound. For weeks afterward, I possessed the cold stare of a recently freed POW and never fully recovered. *pounds chest* That’s how deep second-tier professional football runs in my blood.
This week is important: it’s the one week of the year where I uphold an annual family tradition by turning shitheel on our fair city, and cheer for the Argonauts until a brick of potash is thrown at my face. I have reasons for this. My dad accompanied me to Rider games in the bad old days of the late 90s when the Roughriders went 5-13 and Rider Nation would abandon their team in the 4thquarter of home games for vague reasons related to “traffic”. (Oh wait! We still do.) When the Riders played the semi-high-flying Argos, the mood in the stands usually resembled a factory closure by the 3rd quarter. My dad’s perennial fix to “lighten it up” would be to stand up among the silent crowd, face the wall of sad fans, clear his throat, and scream “AAAAAAARRRR *deep breath* GOOOOOOOOOEESSS!” as loud as possible until multiple people threw their beers at the scared fat kid hiding next to him under a sleeping bag. Later, during the Riders’ improbable 1997 Grey Cup run, I took over the family business and yelled “AAAAARRRRR *wheeze* GOOOOES* during a moment of silent prayer for the Riders at a school-sponsored pep rally on the Friday before the game. I was escorted from the gym with everyone looking on in disgust, and I took a perverse joy in being hated by hundreds of strangers at once for something I said. This is the moment that motivated me to start performing stand-up comedy in our beautiful city.
Thanks Dane. Bring us home, Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling!