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Monthly Archives: January 2011

I’m not sure where I’m going with this yet. I wanted to write something short and sweet about the upcoming Super Bowl. XLV is approaching in its own way. I can imagine Jerry Jones, sitting in his magnificent, billion dollar Roman Colosseum fuming. He put it all down on this season. His beautiful stadium — a testament to all things Texas, a mighty spectacle of money, and the savage need for men to watch something violent and competitive — shines in the Arlington awaiting the final two teams left in this clusterfuck of an NFL season.

Jones figured his team would play like savage, jacked-up monsters for the chance to play a Super Bowl in their home stadium. A feat never accomplished, the ‘Boys would tear their division up like starving maniacs for the chance to play for Jones before the world in the most massive football structure ever conceived by man.

This thing is way too fucking big.

Jones is a strange little thief. One of the last great NFL owners, Jones may never die. The old-school Jones believes in the business of football, and he wants to watch his ‘Boys stomp shit out of weaker, slower opponents in his cushy, billionaire castle. He’s gone mad from waiting. It’s been more than 15 years since the Boys went to the big game. Rumors have it that he’s lost his mind.

Jones has been erratic. Attacking assistants and employees at the stadium, lashing out at loved ones and abusing the press before going into total seclusion. His thirst has driven him away from anything resembling sanity. Jones has been known to order live animals sent to his office, never seen again. Cute interns disappearing, a real nightmare of horrors.

Holy good hell. I didn’t mean to go off that long on Jones and the Cowboys. I tell myself to delete stuff like that. Paranoid ramblings. No good. I just wanted to discuss the odd nature of this years Bowl. The Packers and the Steelers. A twisted, unnatural game, I’m sure.

The Packers feel like the better team, bigger favorites. Aaron Rodgers is as All-American as they get. Big smile, toothy grin — a blue-eyed testament to farm boys and blue-collar guys everywhere. He could be walking off the docks as easily as walking out of a stadium. Rodgers has played like a man possessed by wild animals, or savage monsters, during the playoffs. He’s on a roll, and easy to root for.

Then you have Roethlisberger and his pack of criminals, pimps, and enforcers. Part of me wants to love the Steelers. A team with the nastiest defense on the Earth. These wolves have been trained by Dick Lebow, probably the greatest defensive coach in history. And his years at the Steelers have bred kind of a general mentality in their air around Pittsburgh. Heinz field, down on field level, is where the stench starts. The Steeler defenders walk like well-armed thugs in the thick nightclubs of North City and East St. Louis.

These men can hardly walk on two legs. The pack of jackals will swarm and destroy nearly every offense they come across. Harrison and Polamalu lead this band of thieves, hitmen, and hired killers.

Steelers Defense, shortly before savagely attacking a school bus, like raptors on speed

And Big Ben has had issues of course. Kind hard to root for a team like that. I can’t decide who to put money on, which is unusual. I can’t root for anybody because neither team has that X factor. No magic, no narrative from beginning of the season to here. Both of these teams blundered into their position, and now we are supposed to watch.

Fuck. Nothing meaningful. Again. Stuffing down Chinese food from this morning like and trying to decide whether I should put a hundred or so on Rodgers and his All-American Packers, or go with my gut, and bet on the thugs, fixers, crook and brutes from Pittsburgh. I feel no passion entering into the game, and am watching it purely on instinct.

But we might get a spectacle. The Steelers will harass and brutalize Rodgers and his boys whenever the refs look away. Or maybe good will win. Maybe Rodgers will play like a God. He will be some kind of beautiful example of football heroism.

Doubtful. It’ll probably be an epic, worldwide broadcast of a massive bummer. HDTV, 3D, and high-resolution, the whole world will watch our crooks and madman, our heroes and wonderboys slugging it out for a shiny trophy. Jerry Jones will cackle and spit and the drunks and staggering fans, blundering into merchandise huts and peeing in public.

So enjoy it. Whether you hate football or love it, there is hardly a more degrading, fantastic and awful testament the American art of professional athletics as a spectacle for the masses. Like the Romans, we will put on a king-hell of a show for the slobbering geeks of the world.

I’ll drink my beer, eat my pizza, and watch it all go down from the comfort of my apartment, if I can summon the strength to watch it all. You? I hope the same for you. Place your bets, folks.

My God, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I haven’t updated this godforsaken site in some time, and now it seems like a fruitless venture into self-indulgence to start again. Well bubba, I’m all about self-indulgence, so I don’t really see the problem.

It’s been a king-bastard of a winter, and January is shaping up to be one of the most awful bummers to date. I won’t dive too deeply into the obvious problems in Tucson. Those interested should check out the Webster University Journal for my thoughts on such things. I can’t stand to relive it again here.

I’ve been trying and failing to lose myself in the wonderful spectacle of the NFL playoffs. I’m a certified junkie of the pure-America sport of Football. When things of nightmares and madness happen like Arizona; it’s a wonderful escape to go back to the mindless performance of professional athletes. But even my past time of choice can’t comfort me, because it’s all going so damn wrong.

Don’t bet on anyone this year, or you’ll end up $20,000 in debt to some sweaty loan-shark and his murdering, drug-addled enforcer all jacked up on cocaine and protein supplements. I’m betting this the most brutal year for football bet-related murders, suicides, rapes, robberies, and drunk-driving incidents. The major upsets defying physics, logic, and the over-under in all the seediest of bookie establishments have made me question humanity almost as much as that leering, bald weirdo Loughner and what can only be described as his “rape stare.”

Christ! What an awful regression. I wanted to talk football or something, and I’m wandering off into the dark underbelly. Not needed. A recap of recent games will reflect all that is wrong with football. No talent Hasselbeck and Pete Rose managed to beat the Saints; a game that can only be described as a Greek fucking tragedy.

Of course the Chiefs would lose. A surprise to only Chiefs fans, apparently. But then those swaggering, self-serving Jets rolled in and gave the clearly-exhausted Peyton Manning a vicious beating. It was an awful thing to watch, the young shit-eating Jets engaging in a public beating of the future Hall of Famer. Peyton has been the higher producer, performer, and player for the same team for well over a decade. His protection broke down, and the pace of his record-filled career caught up. An ugly, nationally televised throttling ensued.

Further down the road Ben Roethlisberger defeats the Ravens to prove to anyone that yes, a rapist can succeed in this country. What a sick, sad world we live in. Michael Vick is still battling over his animal cruelty chargers, accused of being “undeserving” of his new success. Yet for some reason, nobody minds ‘Big Ben’s’ AFC Championship visit in the shadow of his own felony offense.

Yes, even if you’re a quarterback of a national football team, it’s better to be whitey.

Which one of these men looks like a criminal to you, America?

 


Felt I needed a visual there. I mean hell, I get it, Vick did jail time after pleading guilty to animal crimes, and Roethlisberger was just twice-accused of varying degrees of sexual assault. Oh well, it’s not like I need to make this more clear. You get the idea. Dreadful editing, this whole thing should be trashed.

So here I sit, watching Tom Brady and his All-American smile fight a losing battle against the Jets. 21-14, the Jets are leading the game Less than two minutes to go, and who knows what’ll happen. The whole month has been backasswards. The first time I’d ever rooted for Tom and Belichick in the post-season, and they’re getting their asses handed to them. Rex Ryan, the big ogre of a man, is foaming at the mouth. He wants to win this game so bad, he surely attempted to bribe refs and booth officials to call things his way. The huge, terrifying man thumps around the sidelines like the worst kind of high-school football coach; a barking mad, hyper-macho redneck with a drinking problem and a nasty temper.

I can see him now, Jets within kill distance, trying to hide his erection under the khakis and conceal his contempt for the Patriots. His ferocious smile, like a lion a moment before eating the still-beating heart of a gazelle.

Yowza! Big play. Greene runs in for a touchdown with a 1:40 left and a 13 point lead. Brady is pouting, and Belichick is nowhere I can see on the sidelines. He’s probably slunk back into his lair, a hulking fortress of cold-hatred and impersonal cameras watching your every move. He’ll seek vengeance, no doubt. He’s no harmless nun, no no. But Rex Ryan is the kind of football coach that plays the villian in the movies. A self-righteous, self-serving publicity whore, pimping out the one and only Latino quarterback in the league and sniffing his own farts.

Disgusting stuff. Unprintable. Unreadable. Foul hatred. The best I can hope for in the AFC game is that the Steelers and Jets beat the holy-hell out of each other during the opening kickoff. With any luck it’ll be a brutal riot. Men will be bloody and injured beyond immediate repair on both sides. Suspensions everywhere, and no game would ensue.

That’d make for some playoff fun. No bets won or lost there. Total chaos would surely litter the streets. The bears and packers would play their championship, and have no final step into the big game. Would it matter? The bears can’t win, and they won’t beat Green Bay. And fuck, all I want is for the Jets to lose.

A fantasy. Inconceivable. It wouldn’t be possible. The Jets are flooding the field with the reporters and camera-camels. Rex Ryan will probably gloat, Brady will whimper, and the world will keep turning. Shit, let the Super Bowl be exciting. Let it be a terrific spectacle, and let it give the NFC a victory.

No more. This whole thing is too long anyway. No more. Vanish.