The NFL’s most gutless team has just announced they’ll be changing into new uniforms for the 2014 NFL season.
After losing five of their last six games, their playoff hopes were dashed following an inexplicable home loss as a 9-point favorite to the miserable New York Giants — a banged-up shell of a team that gave up on the season more than two months ago. Lions’ quarterback Matt Stafford, the perpetually underachieving team’s “franchise player,” claimed the pink negligee for himself.
The announcement was a major disappointment to at least one other NFL club. The Baltimore Ravens, who haven’t played a decent game since last year’s Super Bowl, were reportedly outraged these uniforms are now taken. Nike has been contracted to come up with a similar design.
No doubt, the Lions won rights to their new look fair and square.
“If the bra fits, wear it,” said grossly overpaid Raven’s quarterback Joe Flacco.
Remember the tragic story of the pilots who took off from an airfield in Florida many years ago? They got lost during the flight and then disappeared, presumably ending up somewhere in the Devil’s Triangle.
At least the men who went missing and were never found had some legitimate excuses for veering off course. After all, they were flying World War II-era planes. They lacked sophisticated nautical systems. They didn’t have global tracking devices.
Such a thing couldn’t possibly happen today, could it?
In this modern day and age, imagine two grown men, both supposedly intelligent and semi-technologically advanced, getting so ridiculously lost that they would end up 120 miles away from their final destination. Impossible, right?
Damn the bill collectors.
I hate it when they call.
They always badger me at the worst possible time of day — like when I’m trying to watch a ballgame on TV. Or worse — while I’m trying to make another bet. Don’t they have any sense of human decency?
Sometimes, there are so many bells ringing at home that my living room sounds like a fire station. Starting daily at 8 am, the phone calls begin. Anonymous blocked caller IDs leave “800” numbers, demanding that I return their calls IMMEDIATELY. Yeah, right. Who do they think they’re fooling? If someone using a fake name I’ve never heard of calling from an “800” number leaves me a voice message (often mispronouncing my name), I can probably assume they’re not calling me on a mission of mercy. Oh answering machine, do your job as my faithful gauntlet against invasion and interruption.
Well, screw you! I’m busy! I need peace and quiet in order to concentrate. After all, it sure is hard to decide on which Zinfandel to crack open at noon, or pick which steakhouse I’m dining at tonight, when the phone keeps on ringing off the hook. It’s enough to make a man start mixing up his sense of priorities. You’ll get paid when I have a winning week in football, okay?
A stadium hasn’t been constructed yet that can keep me out.
Well, maybe one. More on that later.
This week, I’m visiting Pittsburgh. The hotel and casino where I’m staying are adjacent to the stadium where the Pittsburgh Steelers play their home games. I’d mention the actual name of the stadium, except that the ketchup company which pimped the naming rights isn’t sending me a royalty check, so you’ll just have to try and guess the official name of the place.
I have a fetish for stadiums. Like some kind of sick pervert. Some guys like tits and ass. I get a rise out of triple-deck overhangs and natural grass. As far back as I can remember, I’ve made pilgrimages to every stadium humanly possible whenever I visited a new city. Seeing stadiums up close in person are not only impressive as the architectural marvels they are, they’re also part of history. Exciting things happen in stadiums, especially for us sports fans.
Moreover, visiting a stadium adds a much greater sense of perspective. Watching a football game on television gives the average fan no sense of the actual experience of attending a game. Sure, I’d rather stay at home too, and flip my Direct TV channels back and forth along with everyone else. I also don’t fancy forking over $300 for seats in the end zone. But there’s also a rite of passage of going to games when you can — parking, walking to the gate, taking a seat, tasting the shitty food, freezing your ass off, getting into fist-fights, and witnessing everything first-hand. Otherwise, you really don’t “get it.” It’s the difference between seeing your favorite band live in concert versus listening to a studio recording. Sure, the sound quality is much better on your the iPod. But which is the better “experience?”
Today is “Black Friday,” or what I call, “the Great American Stampede.”
Think of millions of buffalo storming off a cliff.
Seriously, have you seen what goes on at malls and stores? People line up at midnight. Why? To go shopping!
That’s right, SHOPPING.
What are people thinking? Or smoking? Or snorting? Instead, couldn’t they have gone out and bought all that shit no one needs yesterday, or last week, or last month, you know — when most of the stores were empty and you could easily find a sales associate with a smile eager to help? What idiot wants to stand out in the cold, fight crowds, wait in long lines, and get horrible service? Well, it appears the answer is — just about anyone with a credit card and a pulse.
Today is the worst day ever invented by humankind. It’s a capitalist conspiracy designed to stir the masses into a buying frenzy. It’s an outlandish marketing campaign intended to drive more Americans further into debt. It’s the third-world slave labor employment act.