Have you ever wanted to know what it was like to watch football in the 1920s? Just turn on a Big 10 game and coat the black players in corn starch.
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* — From irritable sometime-contributor Rigamarock.
I wrote this and everything.
By Mobutu Sese Seko
Even if one wants to feel a genial non-interfering positivity or salutary indifference toward Tim Tebow and his “testimony,” the frequency and intensity with which it’s invoked by NFL Network and ESPN makes it intolerable. By week 14, Skip Bayless will be berating some poor Archbishop about their “beatification bias.”
This really isn’t Tebow’s fault. He’s said the right things, and provided a few crude but undeniably dramatic end-of-game moments. But he keeps getting cajoled into testifying, and his faith is the kind that leads him to relate the same story about his performance over and over with a kind of guileless sincerity. It might make you a little sick to your stomach because the media keeps re-administering the dose, but it itself isn’t toxic.
It is a little dumb, however. Last night, Rich Eisen dismissed Tebow’s replacement-level 9/20 completions for 104 yards, saying, “We’ve reached the point where we should stop mentioning [Tebow’s] stat line.” This wasn’t for any great repetition of the facts; instead, the NFL Network seemed positively allergic to discussing Tebow within the parameters of his actual job.
(Note: this list may or may not have been written by a girl Mark Sanchez met on Omegle.com.)
1. He has his own van.
2. He can shave.
3. He doesn’t have a curfew.
4. Something about football or something, I was kinda drunk.
5. He has ID.
5. Have him stand by a fence and berate “Wilson” for having no idea what he’s talking about, then the camera travels over the fence and reveals Ralph Wilson, standing in mute, shaken dignity, a solitary tear finally falling off the tip of a fluttered eyelid.
4. All three of his TV sons stand behind him looking quiet and bloated and weird—like you could take them to any strip club in a state like Nebraska and have them tell you, within $5, the cost of each sexual act on both the official and unofficial menus.
3. Al Michaels in heavy flannel and a fake beard.
2. Just three straight minutes of him faceplanted into the dirt, his ass in the air, pushing himself along the ground like a human adze, trying to snort the entire sideline like a snitching, coke-dealing sack of crap.
1. Have him plug in 15 different electrical cords, at which point the roof of the Metrodome collapses.
I’m gonna tell everybody you drink Dr. Thunder.
I want to make all steampunk clothing accessories suddenly viable working machinery. I don’t care how many people are scalded with burning oil and dropped to the ground by hundreds of pounds of metal.
I want to sneak into an elementary school and hide notes in every lunch bag that read, “Your father and I are getting divorced.”
For one quarter of one game, I want God to replace Ben Roethlisberger’s head with a fat stupid-looking potato with a beard and see if anyone notices.
I will force Kelly McGillis to set the Guinness world record for most consecutive hours spent playing the bassline to Berlin’s “Take My Breath Away.” She will also do this while dressed all Amish again.
Here’s something for the sports fans. This is a years-old and rather notorious internet image, which someone edited.
