The Buccaneers are looking into acquiring Brett Favre, and this makes perfect sense. Like Arizona for Emmitt Smith and the Los Angeles Rams for Joe Namath, Tampa Bay is the ideal place for Favre’s career to die. Now, if only the Bucs would use the throwbacks once or twice this season to make things look especially awkward.
If Favre were to go to the Bears — a destination that would actually make sense given the schleps they have at QB — or another classic cold weather team like Pittsburgh, Cleveland or the Jets (not that those teams are in need of an aging QB), the ending might be palatable. But, Favre in Tampa Bay? He’s going to look more like a fish out of water than Hulk Hogan did flopping around after that Sid Justice powerbomb at Wrestlemania VIII.
I’ve got nothing against Brett and his Wrangler Jeans, it’s just that this whole fiasco has me on the brink of a brain aneurysm. And, it doesn’t help that ESPN is treating the situation like Chris Farley’s “Jojo the Idiot Circus Boy” in Tommy Boy. Every time ESPN gets a new big story — like Tommy trying to make a new sales pitch — they love it, and stroke it, and pet it, and massage it. They love their new story! And then they go fucking crazy and destroy the story by constantly airing it and ripping it to shreds.
So, please Brett, just end this shit and figure something out.
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The WNBA brawl between the Sparks and the … the, uh … the Titswiggles (sorry, if that is wrong. I only know the Sparks and Liberty in the WNBA, so I took a shot in the dark) was pretty sweet to watch, but — ultimately — disappointing for not living up to its potential. I truly think that we were about five seconds away from SCISSOR-FEST 2008. But nooooooo! Rick Mahorn had to get all touchy-feely, shove Eddie Murphy’s sister down, and shout “Ass to Ass!” like the guy at the end of Requiem For A Dream.
Someone always has to ruin it for the rest of us.
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What’s worse, listening to someone talk about their fantasy team from a league you’re not even in, or having to watch ESPN’s TitleTown segments on SportsCenter? One thing’s for sure, I’d rather take John Clayton’s virgin flower than have to deal with either situation again.
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I think it’s about time the Chris Berman pile-on comes to an end. I know it’s en vogue to bag on Berman any time he spouts off another nickname or says “Back!” for the thousandth time during the Home Run Derby, but honestly, we’re talking about a man that brought us all a national treasure.
Yes, I’m referring to the background songs played during NFL Primetime. These might just be the greatest tracks ever laid down. Mozart can fuck off, The Beatles can stick “A Day in the Life” up their collective asses, and Bobby Brown can go have a crack-cocaine BBQ. Actually, on second thought, Bobby can stay. He’s the man that brought us the theme to Ghostbusters 2, a priceless song that actually uses the line “Vigo, the master of evil, try to battle my boys, that’s not legal!” Anyone that can work Vigo the Carpathian into a song is OK in my book.
Back to NFL Primetime though. These songs fire me up like no other. Even the Rocky IV soundtrack pales in comparison. Download these babies and play them in any situation, anywhere. It makes the morning commute seem like an epic race, and turns a one-on-one basketball game with your albino neighbor into a duel for the ages. Oh yeah, I also like using those songs when I fuck. Some people enjoy a little Marvin Gaye, but I’m all about the theme they play during Buffalo Bills highlights. You know the one. It’s the song with the horns and the clapping. The song reaches a crescendo at about the third minute, which is just perfect for me.
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Jeannie Zelasko has to have a big, sloppy penis down there. Right?
Kevin Kennedy knows what I’m talking about.
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So, I’m at The Dark Knight on opening day last Friday, when none other than fucking Frank and Kathie Lee Gifford come strolling up the stairs to sit down in front of me. They were there with their daughter and her friends, who were all apparently too cool for the couple because they sat far away from the two. Ingrates. Frank and Kathie kept to themselves, not causing a commotion, except for when Kathie Lee fucking lost her shit during the E*Trade commercial with the baby that’s a stock market dynamo. She was pointing at the screen and laughing it up. I felt second hand embarrassment for her.
What I couldn’t believe even more than the fact that they were actually in front of me, was that Frank Gifford actually ever played football. The guy looked like a decrepit old fuck. Maybe it was a little of the Joker that got into me, but I had the urge to horse-collar tackle ol’ Frank down the stairs to tell him what’s up.
No, I’m just kidding about the violent urges against Frank. What I really would have liked to have done was ask Kathie Lee if she ever thought about Regis Philbin having sex. This is something that’s always blown my mind. I just can’t picture “Reeg” getting down.
After I asked her about Regis, I would have gorilla press slammed Kathie Lee into another row of moviegoers. That’s how I roll.
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What the fuck is wrong with people that can’t swim? Seriously, just flap your arms and kick your legs like you’re on a bicycle. BAM! Now, you can swim. You fucking idiots can thank me later.
Until next week …
