My New Litmus Test for Sports Euphoria

Alright. Tonight is the start of Mavs season. And you know what? I am sick of the pent-up team pride and enthusiasm of their fans that the Mavs and the Cowboys squander each season. We have so much team pride that we start planning parades and shit two games into the finals. Dallas is like the Andrew W.K. of fans. We don't ask for much. We want to win shit and we want to party in celebration of winning shit. We don't care about having a perfect season or gaining respect. The Cowboys claim of the title of "America's Team" actually ensured that lots of football fans hate the Cowboys with a burning passion. You should google the words "hate" and "Josh Howard" or "hate" and "Mark Cuban" just for fun.

The World Series made me think. Mostly about my friend Joe Burns. I met him through the gaffer tape-filled world of touring. As long as I have known him, he has worn a Phillies baseball cap. Every picture I have ever seen of him, he is wearing a Phillies baseball cap. It was always kind of an "awwww, bless!" kind of thing since I pictured Joe sitting around his nursing home with the tattered remains of that baseball cap in his hands, cheering on the Phillies to maybe one day make the playoffs. I was cocky because I am from Dallas and my teams are famous and awesome and rich and stuff.

I'm not a baseball person but I have been sending every good vibe I have the Phillies way since the playoffs started because I just imagined my friend Joe in the happiest place possible with each win. He seriously wears that Phillies hat EVERYWHERE. At all times. And if a Philly team is gonna win something, it better not be the fucking Eagles.

Then the Phillies won the World Series. And at last count, according to the coverage on Deadspin, no fewer than 10 cars have been flipped. I saw video of a man humping a telephone pole with a crowd of thousands cheering him on. I saw a picture of a Phillies-loving hipster being pinned and arrested next to his courier-requisite bike. Apparently, it's still going. I read the comments from Phillies fans who have been drunk for more than 24 hours at this point. And I got a little misty-eyed.

I remember being 12 years old in 1993 and going to a Super Bowl watching party at our youth group leader's house in Lake Highlands. I remember the moment the game was over, we took our blue streamers to the street and stood on the side of Abrams waving streamers and screaming our Skittles-damaged brains out. Even the sound of distant celebratory (I think) gunfire didn't dampen our spirits. I begged my mom to let me skip school to go to the victory parade downtown. She vetoed that idea and I remember thinking that even the gang fighting was probably totally exciting.

I remember seeing Pantera playing the Stars fight song on a float at the Stars victory parade. I remember hugging total strangers at a sports bar in Denton called Dusty's when the Mavs beat the Suns and were headed for the Finals. I remember my best friend Chrissy (after several ill-advised game watching pina coladas) and I hugging like Dirk and Nash and me mouthing the words "Chrissy, is this real? Are we going to the Finals? It can't be real." Our enthusiasm even lead to us jumping in the back of the car with some friends from the bar to rush to Love Field to wave at an airplane.

So here's my new pocket guide to how I will celebrate each Dallas sports franchise milestone:

Mavericks ending up with more than 50 wins at the end of the regular season = metal drum trash can fire

Cowboys making the playoffs at all, even as a wild card = automatic handgun fire into the ceiling of my apartment

Mavericks getting past the first round of the playoffs = sitting in my car laying on the horn for half an hour, regardless of the time

Cowboys making it past the first round of the playoffs = minor, easily controlled arson of a stranger's residence

Mavericks or Cowboys making it to the Finals/Super Bowl = car flipping....lots of car flipping.....more arson

A championship title = Mutal Assured Destruction of any object or carbon-based life form that crosses my path

Clearing Out the Cobwebs of Apathy

You know that feeling when you are at some store in the mall and there's really loud and abrasive house music pumping and the store is full of people having inane conversations into their Bluetooth and you just want to wave the white flag and curl up into a ball on the floor?

That's how I feel about the following things:

1. The Cowboys season up to this point
2. The Election
3. Tomorrow's Mavs season opener

I've gone through the full range of emotions about all three things and it has left me feeling worn out. I have been hopeful, scared, enraged, hopeful again, frustrated, confused and now finally I have arrived at the Isle of Apathy. Not only have I arrived but I have filled out a change of address form and started measuring for drapes for my straw hut.

A short list of things that are less terrifying to me than seeing Brad Johnson about to receive a snap:

- a toddler carrying a book of matches and drinking a bottle filled with bleach

- that part of The Exorcist where Linda Blair does a crazy crabwalk backwards down the stairs

- waking up next to Mavs Man and realizing he's taking camera phone pictures of me in my sleep

- riding on the back of an unevenly balanced Vespa down the Tollway at 2am

- Sarah Palin watching my pet polar bear while I am out of town

In regards to the election, I wish I would have taken some sort of extremely heavy sedative after I voted on Friday so that I could just sleep through this final agonizing week. I've done my part. I hope others do as well. But seriously, I cannot hear anything else about this election. I like Barack Obama. I voted for him. But at this point, I don't want to hear him or see him until approximately 10pm on Tuesday, November 4. I don't care if Sarah Palin spends a million dollars having suits made of discarded stem cell material. I am officially done with the whole thing. I can't get any more outraged. I'm outrage deficient.

I kind of feel the same way about the Cowboys. Just like how I have a good feeling about Obama's chances of winning this thing, I feel like once Romo's itty-bitty hurt pinkie finger gets better, Felix Jones comes back, Roy Williams gets settled in, Jason Witten's ribs heal and we get a week off, we actually have a pretty good second half of the season to look forward to. But until then, I have to deal with Wade Philips cheering for missed field goals, T.O. being nearly useless, Marion Barber picking up a whopping 2 yards on each carry and listening to people consider the pros and cons of putting Bollinger in. I wish I had another one of those sedatives to take until Thanksgiving.

Which leads me to the Mavs. Jesus, I can't even work up the enthusiasm to properly discuss how nervous the little basketball team we've got going right now is making me. I said I would be positive about the Mavs this season. So in keeping with that promise, I will refrain from pointing out how non-awesome the Mavs were in the pre-season.

Basically, the only way this blog entry could have possibly been more apathetic, lethargic or generally "meh" is if I had some sort of dictation/transcribing software and I could have just posted this blog by dictating it in short, exasperated grunts.

It's Official.....It's a Blogout

I just cannot even muster the strength, indignation or snark to blog about the Cowboys game yesterday or the team as a whole. What's to say that hasn't been said already? Jerry has, in his own words, had all the fire knocked out of his butt by yesterday's game. Apparently, ambition and hope is expressed in very odd ways back in Arkansas. I don't want to dogpile on a team that is looking like a dog pile of another kind altogether as of late. I would ask if anyone is sorry yet but the Cowboys seemed to have Quantum Leap-ed past sorry and headed straight into "you can't divorce me if I swallow all these pills before the papers go through" territory.

Clearly, there needs to be some sort of remedy for Wade's lack of butt fire. I think the only thing that frustrated me more than how badly the Cowboys played was Wade's total indifference and slight confusion during the game. Do SOMETHING. ANYTHING. I don't care if it involves stripping down to your Hanes white briefs, removing them, tying them to the end of a broomstick and hobbling across the field waving your makeshift surrender flag. Because at least that would show that you were somehow slightly interested in the game.

I think that Brad Johnson is a great example of what happens to a player when they reach retirement age and are not in the mental or physical place they need to be to fulfill the role of starting quarterback. He reminded me of the guy in movies where the pilot has a heart attack or has become incapacitated and they find the Brad Johnson of the flight to try to land the plane with the help of the control tower. Only problem is that the passenger is usually someone who has only a vague and distant history of flying planes successfully. And usually the air traffic controllers (Wade Philips) has some sort of plan or idea or steely determination to help the Brad Johnsons of the world land the plane safely. I'm pretty sure if Wade was in air traffic control, his only words of advice to the makeshift pilot in this situation would be "Well, golly that sure is horrible how your pilot died. I....I just don't know what to tell you......I mean you could just, you know land the plane.....I mean it sure would help me out if you really applied yourself and tried to bring 'er down safe but......I just don't......don't know what to tell you......I mean maybe the crash won't be that bad.....you know.....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. (audible whimpering in background)"

But here's something we learned: Tony Romo is good and despite his bad calls and clumsy fumbles in the past three games before he suffered the pinkie injury, he's the difference between a Cowboys team that doesn't make the playoffs and one that does. I take back all my "Tony Romo is kind of an oaf" statements. Please heal. You know what, fuck it. Play with the broken pinkie. Or better yet, you know that Tony Iommi cut off the tip of his finger and he still went on to become the guitarist for the first heavy metal band in the world. Rick Allen lost an arm and is still playing drums for Def Leppard. You know what that means, Tones. Time to take one for the team. Think of all the money you will save on gold nugget horseshoe shaped pinkie rings!

Come on, let's make this season Pyromania and not Animalize.

Seriously,

Google the words "Brett Favre practical joker" and you will see that the Grey Fox is widely known for his love a good knee-slapper at the price of friends and teammates. I cannot even begin to fathom how annoying it is to be around Brett Favre on April 1st. So when I heard that Tony Romo had received advice from Favre about the possibility of playing with a broken pinky finger rigged up in some sort of splint, I naturally thought Tony would also later arrive home to find that all his toilets had been wrapped with cling film and all his doorknobs were coated in Vaseline. Good one, Brett. Got me again!

But no, apparently Tony Romo has told the Cowboys coaches that he intends to play with a broken finger. To which the Cowboys coaching staff should have responded by patting him on the head and saying, "Of course you are, Tony, of course you are. Now this Noodles and Stars soup isn't going to eat itself..." Seriously, who thinks this is a good idea? Let me answer that: anyone who hasn't seen Romo's inability to hold onto the ball with perfectly good, working hands and fingers. I understand that Tony Romo may feel as if he's let his team down, which to a certain degree he has with his mistakes and mishandling of the ball. Neither of which would improve with him playing with a broken, rigged-up finger.

I admire his work ethic and I admire the fact that he's willing to play in extreme pain if it would help the Cowboys. I mean that. But we haven't even seen Brad Johnson throw a ball in a regular season game this year. It almost feels like, though it's highly unlikely, that Romo is more scared of the idea of Brad Johnson being better than everyone is anticipating. Which, again, seems pretty improbable considering most 40 year olds I know are starting to feel more and more like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon.

We aren't in the final stretch of the season desperately hoping for the wild card slot in the playoffs. There's no reason to not give Brad Johnson a chance and risk further injuring your throwing hand, Tony. We don't need a hero right now.

If nothing else, this fact should give the Cowboys enough faith in Brad Johnson:

"To date, Brad Johnson is the only NFL quarterback to have thrown a touchdown pass to himself."

Al-Jazera Seems Fair and Balanced

What was that McCain said during last night's debate about being proud of the people that come out to his rallies?

Geez, I Just Wish This Cowboys Season Had a Little More Drama!

Pacman Jones suspended indefinitely. Roy Williams (the non-horse collaring one) traded from Detroit to Dallas. Brett Favre telling Tony Romo to not be such a pussy.

Remind me again why they don't tape Hard Knocks during the actual season?

WOW

Let me set the scene for the conversation I just overheard downstairs in my building. There were three parents (two moms and one dad), all in their early 40's, having a chat about their their children. Our office building is a fairly nice office building in Downtown Dallas. One of the mothers was talking about how disgusted she was that there was talk of changing her child's school's sex education program. She insisted that the task of educating kids about sex should be left to the parents and that she was a strong advocate for abstinence-only education. The other parents agreed and said something about "liberals trying to tell kids to go out and have sex."

Normally that kind of backwards logic would have been all I needed to tune out the rest of the conversation. But then, the other mother countered with the following glimpse into her parenting style:

"My daughter is in high school and all her friends are guys so we have all these boys coming over. So I told all the boys that I knew what they were thinking and just in case one of them got a wild hair and decided to try to do something with my daughter, I told them I have gardening shears and sharp kitchen knives. I told them I could hack away at them and I have three friends who can bury a body in five different counties where no one will find them and that no one would miss them. I think I took care of that situation."

So recap:

1. These parents strongly believe that abstinence-only education is the way to go and are alarmed about the prospect of teenagers having access to or knowledge of contraceptive methods

2. They are, however, completely fine with making threats of gruesome, psychopathic murder against these boys who have come over to their house to hang out with a friend who is female

3. The woman's three friends have an exact number of counties in which they can hide hacked up bodies which is greater than 4 but less than 6. Are these all neighboring counties or are they spread out? Like Collin and Denton county are okay but, man, have you ever tried to hide a corpse in Montague County? Yeah, didn't think so!

Apparently, threats of grizzly murder are scary but not nearly as scary as giving a teenager condoms and teaching them about how to avoid pregnancy.

Me and The Girls v. Jogging

I have always wanted to be a jogger. There has always been a few problems with that, the top ones being that:

1. I'm a 32DDD
2. I can't jog

I like to ask people who are joggers how I become one of them. They all tell me the same thing. Start off slow. Make sure to warm up. Try walking and then jogging intermittently.

So I decided to dedicate myself to becoming a jogger a few months ago. I live on Katy Trail and it seems like such a waste to not be one of those annoying "active" types. Like those people who are so into working out that they wear their workout clothes to the grocery store.

After I had Texas A&M's engineering department draw up plans for a pier and beam structure that would somehow support my funbags, I was ready to go. Except that I'm pretty sure that I am doing jogging wrong. I have two bad knees from a childhood of dance and gymnastics and cheerleading. So I think that while everyone else looks like a real athlete getting a good cardiovascular workout, I look like I have one massive flat boob and old man knees. I think people can tell that I am bad at jogging.

But I stuck with it. I kind of started running further and further and got to the point I am at now which is making it from my house to Victory Park and back. And I have finally had a breakthrough:

Jogging blows.

I don't like wearing tennis shoes. I wear heels to the grocery store. Generally, I don't like sweating. I don't like the popping sounds I hear sometimes when I jog. I don't like being passed by old people on Katy Trail. I don't like the monolithic uniboob that happens when I wear jogging bra. I get creeped out by how runners travel in packs and then go to Starbucks afterward to talk about running. I don't like that I have to buy special gear like running socks and running shorts and armbands to hold my mp3 player. I don't like being all greasy and bug bitten.

I guess I should be stoked that I am a "runner" now but if one more person tells me about a runner's high.....

Seriously, jogging sucks.

Anyone Sorry Yet?

I have nothing to say about yesterday's game. I have nothing to say about Tony Romo's hurt pinkie. It's fun to poke and prod the Cowboys when they don't play as well as they should.

Yesterday was a big, bloody football abortion. No one deserves any praise for anything. Except maybe Patrick Crayton, who is the only person on this team who seems to have a grasp on how badly the Cowboys have played for the past three weeks and what needs to happen to change that. Unfortunately, that "ass kicking" that Crayton thinks the Cowboys need is most surely not going to come from Wade Phillips or Jason Garrett.

The ass kicking will come from Roger Goodell, who is having a little sit-down convo with "Adam" Jones today. Not like he actually contributes to games. Unless somehow the NFL decides to start awarding points for most yards run backwards or to the side instead of forward.

Go Mavs!

I Smell Romance and, Quite Possibly, Vomit

(Pacman Jones pictured in his 8753th mugshot; Amy Winehouse pictured bleeding from her feet and knees, her sobbing face smeared with blood and eyeliner just running out to pick up the paper and maybe a bite to eat)

I don't feel like I need to give you a synopsis of what Pacman Jones was up to in the wee hours of Wednesday morning because my "job" is to inject humor into something and the actual report of what happened is better than anything I could come up with. But just to refresh your memory:

Pacman, his girlfriend and two of his bodyguards had some dinner then popped over to the Joule Hotel so Pac could hang with his buddy Ludacris. Witnesses said Pacman was looking a little tipsy and also skipped out on his dinner bill. According to a Dallas police release, there was a disturbance call made at approximately 11 p.m. by an employee at the hotel. Two men went in the bathroom and a fight ensued that resulted in a broken glass light switch plate.

So Pacman Jones got squiffy and went to see his buddy Ludacris but ends up FIGHTING HIS OWN BODYGUARD. The job of "Pacman Jones' bodyguard/guy who makes sure he stays out of trouble" better pay approximately $357 million dollars per month not including the Christmas bonus of a guaranteed 72 virgins waiting for you at the gates of heaven. And health insurance.

Wait. Beating up your own bodyguard? Sounds familiar. Oh. My. God. That's it!

Amy Winehouse and Pacman Jones sitting in a tree.....and now they're punching each other and trying to shove each other out of the tree......did she just hit him with a bloody ballet flat?..........K-I-S-S-I-.......oh god, he's tossing money at her and she's rolling each bill up into tight tubes.....now they're drinking cold medicine and everclear out of an old gas can....someone really should taser them and get them down out of that tree.

If I ran some sort of eHarmony for fuck-ups, I could show you their compatibility is off the charts. I would also run one of those ads where they talk about the first time they met only they would be filmed next to the dumpster outside Long John Silvers on a hot August day. I want to really stay true to my brand and my clients.

Amy Winehouse:

Do you have obvious substance abuse or alcohol problems that cause you to find yourself being arrested more than once a year, on average?: YES

Have you or a loved one been involved in a violent altercation that seriously threatened a member of the general public's life and/or permanently paralyzed them?: YES


Have you ever altered your appearance so as to appear to be a habitual user of illegal substances such as constantly sporting a comically unkempt fake 3 foot tall beehive hairdo or wearing red contact lenses like you just watched Blade on a methamphetamine binge?: YES


Have you ever assaulted your own bodyguard?: YES


Do you currently have charges pending or are on probation for lashing out and assaulting a complete stranger? YES


Has your talent been completely wasted?: YES


Are you totally incapable of achieving anything professionally as simple as showing up for a concert, recording an album or running a kick back for any minimal amount of yardage? YES


Alright, Pacman, it's your turn....

Pacman Jones:


Do you have obvious substance abuse or alcohol problems that cause you to find yourself being arrested more than once a year, on average?: YES

Have you or a loved one been involved in a violent altercation that seriously threatened a member of the general public's life and/or permanently paralyzed them?: YES


Have you ever altered your appearance so as to appear to be a habitual user of illegal substances such as constantly sporting a comically unkempt fake 3 foot tall beehive hairdo or wearing red contact lenses like you just watched Blade on a methamphetamine binge?: YES


Have you ever assaulted your own bodyguard?: YES


Do you currently have charges pending or are on probation for lashing out and assaulting a complete stranger? YES


Has your talent been completely wasted?: YES


Are you totally incapable of achieving anything professionally as simple as showing up for a concert, recording an album or running a kick back for any minimal amount of yardage? YES

I hope they end up together and we can all watch them ride off into the sunset together. Or more likely, ride off in separate patrol cars screaming "I love you!" followed by "I'm gonna kill you in your sleep!"

I've already got a cute celebrity couple nickname for them: WinePac

Will Someone Please Explain the State Fair to Me?

Seriously. Please. Nothing makes me scratch my head until it's bloody more than the State Fair. I cannot fathom how a trip to the Fair could, in any way, be considered enjoyable.

I have always felt this way. When I was a kid, we were too poor to afford coupons for rides (or anything other than Fair admission) so my mom used to take me to the "rides" which was just the Automotive Hall. I then ran from car to car sitting behind the wheel of those oh-so-exotic Chevrolets pretending to drive and pushing buttons and levers. It's very similar to the Driving a Car game I used to play in our driveway where I sat behind the wheel of our minivan and pretended to drive and change the radio station. Only the State Fair allowed me to sit behind the wheels of many different cars.

But now I am lucky enough to be an adult with a more comfortable financial situation and a knowledge that most buttons and levers on Chevys these days are plastic and will break off if you touch them. I have no desire to sit behind the wheel of the newest offering from Hyundai. I actually have a car now and I have to drive it to get to places so the Automotive Hall has lost much of its' appeal to me. Let me sit in an Aston Martin or a 1957 Thunderbird and we'll talk.

So taking the Automotive Hall out of the equation, I am lost for answers. I decided last year was the final year I would be made to go to the Fair. And even that ended up being an accident. My mom got free tickets and asked me to go. I went and tried to keep my desperation to leave hidden. At one point, as my Mom and I stood in the hot sun waiting to use a disgusting ladies bathroom (I tend to rely on beers to get me through the pain), she turned to me and said she was glad that I was getting to re-live my childhood. Excuse me? So it turns out that my mom hates the Fair and only went because she thought going to the Fair was some happy part of my childhood that I would want to re-live. I told her I hated the Fair when I was a kid and I hate it more now. She revealed that she hated taking me to the Fair but thought it was what kids liked to do. We had this beautiful mother/daughter bonding moment as we realized that we both hated the Fair and would never have to go again. Then we split.

I hear friends talking about being excited to go. They can't tell me why they love it so much. I wonder if it's the admission price? The ramshackle carnie-erected rides? The overpriced food and drinks? The hall where you can walk around and have people try to sell you storm windows? The equestrian show held in an unventilated shed filled with stagnant hot Texas air, horse droppings and the collective body odor of the (often corpulent) average Fairgoer? There's the Scientology tent. There's Big Tex which is amazing if you are a preschooler or an Incan who has recently moved to Dallas from ancient times and are amazed by large gods who issue forth words and wisdom, such as the start time for the next equestrian show.

I can buy corn dogs at the grocery store. I can park for free in Exposition Park then set a $10 bill on fire 48 weeks out of the year. I don't ever need to see a Kellie Pickler or Jessica Simpson live set. I don't need to carry around plastic bags full of brochures about knives that can cut through soda cans or recipe ideas for what to do with leftover sausage. I scream and start to cry if a bird comes anywhere near me. I can go to the Science Place at a time when I'm not surrounded by kids touching everything with cotton candy hands. The temptation to try this year's version of Food That Shouldn't Be Fried But Is is not a temptation at all to me.

But Bell Biv DeVoe IS playing the main stage after the Grambling State game. I may have to sit down and have a serious think about this one.

I'll See Those "Pick Up My Dry Cleaning" Comments and Raise You

I picked the wrong time to leave the room. I don't know why I was watching the Saints-Vikings game last night. I don't play fantasy football. I don't have any sort of special interest in the outcome of game. Maybe it's because I am a sucker for Monday Night Football. But in a dull moment during the first quarter, I left the room in the midst of a conversation between Tony Kornheiser and Mike Tirico about the extremely happy working relationship between Sean Payton and his beloved quarterback Drew Brees. They were talking about how Brees has made statements about never wanting to play for anyone but Sean Payton and how the feelings were, um, reciprocated.

The back and forth seemed like filler but just as I walked out of the room, someone gave me a gem.

"You know, in some European countries these guys would be picking out furniture right about now."

Wow. Awesome. I'm no fan of political correctness but really? The statement is funny to me for many reasons which I will outline for you now:

a) the insinuation that because Sean Payton and Drew Brees have a very healthy professional relationship, they are gay for each other

b) that gay people in general or, perhaps more confusing, gay couples who go furniture shopping are an exclusively European thing

c) that the litmus test for the relationship between Sean Payton and Drew Brees is if they have become so secure in their long-term commitment to each other that they are willing to take the next step of going furniture shopping together

The only problem is that, since the sentence happened as I walked out of the room, I don't know which ESPN Monday Night genius can be credited with this statement.

Part of me wants it to be Tony Kornheiser so he can officially be named Second Most Wheels-Off Football Broadcaster on Television Today, coming in right behind (settle down) the perpetually drunk and belligerent Tony Bradshaw. I want to think that Tony Kornheiser has no sense of self-censoring or is injected with some sort of truth serum moments before the broadcast begins. Kind of like how my elderly grandmother blurts out mildly offensive racial stereotypes at any restaurant you take her to. Last time, it was her loudly mentioning how surprised she was to see so many "round eyes" working at PF Changs.

But part of me wants it to have been Mike Tirico's turn to become the Oppressed Straight White Guy's Torette-inflicted spokesman. Because I like the idea of having double the opportunity on each Monday night of hearing some sort of Michael Richards meltdown during a coach's challenge.

I guess what I'm saying is that hearing someone insinuate that Sean Payton and Drew Brees are hot for each other was the most exciting moment of the Saints-Vikings game to that point. Followed shortly thereafter by an Ed Hochuli-helmed officiating team missing a facemask on Reggie Bush and nearly causing Sean Payton to physically attack multiple referees. What a queen! Meow!

"I'm sorry that I'm not sorry that we won."

Yesterday's game, with the exception of some decent runs by Felix Jones and Marion Barber, was a disappointment. Yes, we won. But if "winning" involves two quarters of being a field goal away from losing to the Cincinnati Bengals, I am not happy with "winning." No one inspired much confidence and the blame can be spread around pretty evenly. Patrick Crayton dropping yet another easy pass only to, by sheer luck, redeem himself by being in the right place (the endzone) at the right time (milliseconds after a pass to Miles Austin bounced from Austin's hands and into the hapless hands of Crayton) for a touchdown.

But the elephant in the room after the game was over was Tony Romo. Yeah, the Cowboys won. Yes, the Bengals gave the Giants a scare too. But no Cowboys fan would say that Romo's performance yesterday was impressive. I don't know anyone who watched the game yesterday who didn't mention multiple times how Romo's performance was "scary" when thinking of next week's game against the Cardinals. I went to bed last night hoping that this morning's scan of the post-game comments would give me some reassurance straight from the lips of Romo. I was expecting to read words like "pressure" or "work to do" or "not good enough" or "shouldn't have been that close."

I can't remember the last time I was this infuriated by a player's comments. Seriously, Josh Howard can wipe his ass with the Constitution while goosestepping through a temple on Rosh Hashanah and I don't think I would be this upset. What has caused my blood to boil?

"I understand it's not the prettiest thing sometimes, but we did score 31 points and win the ball game," Romo said.

"Everybody on this team understand we have a lot of good players."

"I'm pretty sure we won the ballgame."

"If you never turn the ball over, you not going to be that good."

"You'd love to never have a turnover, but that's unrealistic."

"I'm sorry that I'm not sorry that we won."

Tones, you cannot possibly be as sorry as I am now. All the fun that everyone has had at your expense over your non-football related romantic adventures or your ill-timed vacations should be nothing compared to the wrath you might soon experience from Cowboys fans. It's funny to give you guff about your sophomoric tastes in women and houses. But at least after all the teasing was done, all Cowboys fans knew that you were humbled by the fact that, by all accounts, you should be giving golf lessons, living in a one bedroom apartment in Carrolton and driving a late model Jeep. But instead you are the millionaire quarterback for the Dallas fucking Cowboys. Wow. And you didn't take that for granted. The last thing you would do is give a big shrug and "meh" to an obviously substandard performance. You clearly would respond to such a situation by reassuring Cowboys fans that you realize that you did not perform particularly solidly and let them know that you were determined to fix the streakiness of your performance over the past two weeks. So, with our confidence in you collectively restored, you would continue to practice hard and come home and knock back a few Lime Cactus Michelob Ultras and watch Happy Gilmore again.

But instead, you think there was nothing wrong with yesterday's game. A win's a win. They can't all be pretty. At the end of the day, there's a W next to us. At the end of the season, you just remember which games you won and which games you lost. Guess what? I think that is bullshit and you know it. Whether or not you choose or care to acknowledge it is your call. But if you are totally happy with your performance and nearly losing to the winless Bengals, you deserve every bit of bad press and Papa Joe jokes that can be thrown your way. I don't care how many stranded motorists you help or how many Pepsi rewards points you have, you are either delusional or don't care if you are unwilling to admit that you have not performed well over the past two weeks. It's not in your contract that you must humbly genuflect in front of Cowboys fans and ask them to keep their faith in you. But your new logic that somehow turnovers mean that you are a better team? Wow.

You say,
"I'm pretty sure we won the ballgame."

I say,
"I'm pretty sure if you keep playing like you have over the past two weeks, that will become a far less common occurrence."

Have fun ring shopping with Jess. If you can't win a ring, might as well buy one, huh?

Biden is My Hot, Hot (SIC)

I have to say that I thought Sarah Palin did better than I exected her to do in the VP debate last night. Mostly because I expected her brain to overheat, sparks to fly out of her mouth immediately followed by smoke billowing out of her ears and ending in a complete power-down. So I have to give her credit for that. Although I think she might want to reconsider the gratioutious use of winking in the future. Nothing conveys "I understand the nuances of and can handle the biggest financial crisis the United States has faced" like a little of the old Hooters waitress-angling-for-better-tips winking.

But I don't think anyone ran away with the victory last night. Biden came off as obviously the more experienced, intelligent and far less likely to say the word "doggone" candidate. So I guess that makes him the winner. He was solid but did stray ocassionally into the dreaded "professorial" territory that Obama is sometimes accused of venturing into. You know, because we live in a country where being too smart is a detriment. But after last night, I thought to myself, "Self, I wonder if ANYONE could actually claim tomorrow that Palin won?" I will concede her the small victory of not melting down but is there anyone who can say, with a straight face, that Palin won? Well....

Thank You For Your Submission in the Fake Chipotle-Off. Unfortunately...

Oh Taco Bueno, you silly bitch! You knew how much I love Chipotle. Everyone does. Even my boss who got food poisoning there has been known to still darken the Chipotle doors from time to time. Considering how insanely popular Chipotle has become, I am assuming you thought, "Well, what the hell? How hard could that be?" and decided to look at a picture and menu online and figure you could knock some fake Chipotle out and maybe even cut the price a little.

I saw your television ad and though you didn't mention the C-spot by name, we all knew who this flame grilled menu was a tribute to. I was immediately excited that, because the commercial showed such Chipotle favorites as the bowl and the burrito, you would obviously also offer the Chipotle salad. I understand that Fatty McAmerica doesn't want to see salads on TV. So I figured you were keeping that on down low. I mean it's all the same ingredients but just with some lettuce in place of the rice. You serve salads so I know you have some lettuce lying around.

Today was the big day. Because apparently part of your company creed is to build your restaurants in very odd or inconvenient locations, I had to go a little out of my way. But I knew you were gonna pay me back for that. It's probably a good time to mention that the West End Chipotle is walking distance from my office and my standard chicken salad runs about $6 each or maybe $7 if I go buck wild and get the guacamole.

So I get to my "closest" Taco Bueno and find out that you don't do salads. Just the bowl, burrito and taco. Strike one. Then I notice the price. $5 before guacamole is no cheaper than Chipotle. And when I say yes to the guacamole at Chipotle, they don't reach for a melon baller to precisely measure out my meager portion. But I decided to give you a twirl and got the chicken bowl. It took longer to get it than it does at Chipotle but I thought maybe that's because you were taking extra steps to ensure the badassness of this bowl.

You can imagine my shock and disappointment when I got back to work and opened up my bowl at my desk to realize that I had just participated in an elaborate culinary joke at my own expense. You told me the rice was lime cilantro rice. What it actually was is more like three impenetrable balls of goey Uncle Ben's minute rice with some sort of sweetener added to it. But boy you must be proud of that rice because if my bowl were to be turned into a cutaway 3-D model of the layers of the earth, the chicken, guacamole, black beans and salsa could be representative of the crust. The rice could then be representative of the Upper mantle, Transition region, Lower mantle as well as both the Outer and Inner cores. I could have, I suppose, just asked you to steal my wallet and spoon sticky balls of cold rice straight into my mouth while all the other employees stood around and pointed and laughed. But that wouldn't have been quite as educational for me.

But now I know. I don't know who you gave Buenohead to in order to get this idea off the ground. All I know is this: Taco Bueno Fake Chipotle = FAILED.

UPDATE:

My friend Danny also fell victim to the No Bueno Bowl. Only he had the wisdom (and lack of concern about littering, apparently) to throw his out of the car window after only a few bites. If only...

Please enjoy this IM exchange between Danny and I while I find the closest ER.

Danny: i have already commented on your burrito experience. i am a victim.
and a bad typist.

me: i feel like a chump. and i fucking drove to lovers lane to get that pile of shit

Danny: there is one on lemmon.

me: at least it was on my way to buy some new jeans. which i had to buy because all my jeans are too big. or were until i ate 19 pounds of rice

Danny: if you want to go on a second date with your bueno bowl, i'll pay for it.

me: no chuck. i just didn't feel any chemistry.

Danny: gonna remain on your own?

me: seriously, i have never eaten so much minute rice in my life
cold slimy minute rice

Danny: i know. i know.
the thought of it makes me vomity.

me: i hate taco bueno. i don't even want their shitty free taco coupons anymore.
so. much. rice. in. my. body. right. now.

Danny: fuck rice!

me: god. i need water. i think i have rice poisoning
getting water. brb unless i go into carb-related convulsions


Danny: rice....it will be your last meal.
i am giggling so hard at the word "rice" right now. i am retarted.
rice. it fucking blows.
hey buenoheads!! hope you fucking like rice!!
"the new gourmet burrito from taco bueno. filled with all of your bueno favorites...like GODDAMN RICE! shit tons of it!!"

me: do you like cutting corners? you'll love our new instant rice bowl. come on in and prepare to be bloated!

Danny: do you like guac fired out of a goddamn caulking gun? grade E chicken parts? and a FUCKLOAD OF RICE? then step right up sucker, cause you're about to get fucked! by the way, that will be six bucks. FUCK OFF!

me: my last.fm player is killing me. it's suggestion for a long afternoon of my body valiantly trying to digest a metric ton of rice? SIMPLY FUCKING RED!
also, i guess i mistakenly ordered their special recipe brown guac. i like vintage clothing and classic movies so why not some old guacamole?
i hope mavs man sodomizes the CEO of taco bueno and they play it on the jumbotron at all mavs home games this season. while making him eat rice.

Danny: i bet mavs man ejaculates hot sticky loads of ..... RICE!

me: mavs man is a human bueno bowl. i feel like i just swallowed mavs man. take that as you will

Danny: give it all to me, mavs man. i want all of it. all of your hot rice in my mouth.
jesus. you should blog this exchange.

me: i will. it might be my last act before i spend the last hour of work drinking bleach and writing my last will and testament. i'm not kidding. i feel like hell. it's rice-based

Danny: my own private rice-based hell.
i am laughing my fucking ass off.

Top 4 Sports Things I Don't Understand

I like sports. But sometimes it feels like I was left off the sports fan distro list. There's just some traditions that feel kind of like inside jokes I stumbled into without any explanation.

4. Blackout clothing - My poor, weak Georgia Bulldogs seem to be the biggest purveyors of this trend. And it does take on an ironic duality when, as was the case on Saturday, it becomes a stadium full of fans properly dressed to mourn the fact that their team went into halftime down 31-0. Don't get me wrong, black is slimming and flattering. You'd be hard pressed to catch me on a day when I am not wearing mostly black. Maybe in person a stadium full of black-clad fans is striking. On TV it looks like either a) empty seats b) thousands of floating disembodied heads and hands c) a great big sports funeral. And again, I cannot stress how ass-esque you must feel when you call for a fan blackout only to be beaten badly. By Alabama. The ghost of Bear Bryant just IM'ed me to tell me he thinks blackouts are dumb too. Then he added a hearty "LOL" and an emoticon of a smiley face wearing Ray Bans. Oh Bear!

3. The mini-high fives after each free throw in basketball (exception for Shaq in the event that he sinks a free throw) - Free throws have always been a little point of contention for me. In a close game in the final seconds, they can be exciting. But mostly it's handing a basketball player a basketball, putting them up relatively close to the basket, telling them to not worry about defenders and then giving them some time to think it over and shoot the ball only when they feel ready. It's kind of the Special Kids shot. I guess people in front of you waving bricks might throw you off a little. But if given the choice between 270 pounds worth of Carlos Boozer body mass coming towards me as I am taking a shot or ignoring the mental psych-out of some masonry-based signs, I will take the free throw. So I have never understood why, after EVERY free throw, two team members must come up to reassure and congratulate the shooter regardless of whether they make the shot or not. I get that it's a morale thing. I guess I just want to work a job where people high five me even when I fuck up.

2. Baseball

1. Jerseys (Pink) - Here's something you might or might not know about me. I HATE JERSEYS. Clearly not the player wearing their jersey during the game. I support that. Put it this way: are you THAT guy? That guy being the guy that wears the band's t-shirt to the band's show. Or worse, are you the guy that buys the shirt at the merch booth the minute you get into the venue then throws it on (creases and all) over whatever you are wearing? "Hey man, that's a pretty badass shirt? Where did you get it? Oh, 20 yards to the right over at the merch booth, huh?" It's cool you want to support the band and buy some merch. But do you also immediately throw on new clothes you buy at Target before you even leave the store? But whatever, you're a jersey person and I guess there's room for both of us in this world. What there is no room for in this world is me and anyone who finds pleasure in wearing a pink jersey. You are presumably female if you have found your way into a pink jersey. And I guess you want to retain some femininity whilst supporting your favorite team or player. My gut instinct also tells me that you're the girl who drinks Michelob Ultra, has dressed your dog up in an amusing outfit for family Christmas card photos and types "ROFL" in Comic Sans MS font at the top of your "funny forwards." In the words of Sniff Petrol, Comic Sans MS is the font of dicks. Your pink jersey is Comic Sans MS font. Bold. 22 point. Seriously, please cut the shit with the pink jerseys.