Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday at Defector during the NFL season. Got something you wanna contribute? Email the Roo. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, through here.
One strange, if not fatal, aspect of the digital economy is that people who run any online business come to believe that they can run a business of any sort. Take Alex Mather, who co-founded The Athletic eight years ago with the mission to destroy all local newspapers. Mather succeeded in his objective (yay), and then sold his enterprise to The New York Times for a mint. Having crossed that off of his to-do list, Mather has decided he’s now qualified to head up the effort to conquer an even greater foe than a dying print media: Death itself.
I'm scared of dying. I'm guessing you are, too. I'm scared because I don't know what happens after. I'm scared that I'll never see my loved ones again. I'm scared because I feel alone in facing the decline in my fitness, body, and health. The idea of giving up the active life I currently live is terrifying. My objective is clear: I want to live harder, longer.
Mather is hardly the only new-money titan who wants to live harder. You probably know about billionaire lamprey Peter Thiel injecting himself with young blood, but there are plenty more where he came from. Kernel CEO Bryan Johnson has stated publicly that he doesn't believe he will die, which would be unfortunate given that he looks like a marionette stored in an attic. In 2017, a doctor-turned-hedge fund manager named Joon Yun became one of the seed donors for an immortality initiative called [Severance voice] the National Academy of Medicine’s Grand Challenge in Healthy Longevity. Yun believed that mortality was simply a line of code that mankind could now hack, and he told the New Yorker, presumably with a straight face, that “thermodynamically, there should be no reason we can’t defer entropy indefinitely. We can end aging forever.”
A former Google engineer even put a timeline on it, telling the world that we would find a cure for death by the end of this decade, by way of uploading our minds onto a server. The Singularity, as it’s been branded. Chat up any party guest in Davos and you’ll meet a person who believes that Ponce de Léon—who went in search of the fountain of youth and died at age 47 after being shot with a poisoned arrow—was onto something. Ol’ Poncey didn’t have technology on his side, but we do. We have the means to defeat the reaper now. We even reversed signs of aging in mice, you know. We’re nearly there.
It’s a lovely pitch, until you look at the advanced metrics. And what those metrics tells us is that death currently holds a 108,000,000,000–0 record against mankind. Yes, wins are a stat here. Death has us vastly outmanned and out-coached, and always will. You can either accept that, as many cultures do, Or you can make like Alex Mather and deny your mortality until the reaper forces the issue.
Like Mather, I also used to be scared of dying. You learn about death as a child, and then you quickly come to the horrifying epiphany that it could happen to you, and to the people you love. When I was very small, I asked my mom if she would die. When my own kids were very small, they asked me if I would die. Their kids will ask them the same thing. This is because no one wants to die. Like other animals, we have primal instincts that prioritize our continued survival above all else. And we Americans are raised in a society that has long treated death as tragic, regardless of circumstance. Most important, greater culture conditioned me to believe that my death would be a conscious death. If I went to hell, I’d be there forever. If I went to heaven, I’d have a better time but I’d still be there forever. And if I wasn’t religious at all, then I’d be imprisoned in a world of black from my dying day until the end of the universe. That prospect scared childhood me shitless.
I’m not a child any longer. I am now a grown adult who has cultivated a much more personal relationship with death, particularly in the past 10 years. In my 40s, I’ve nearly died after suffering a traumatic brain injury, I’ve lost friends to both cancer and suicide, and, just this past year, I lost my father. None of that was terribly enjoyable, but wade through that River Styx and you come to realize that death has a lot to teach you if you’re willing to learn. Some of these lessons—You can’t take it with you—are so well known as to be clichéd. Some of them are much more practical (if we all live forever, we’ll just end up all killing each other). And some of them are so profound that you’ll spend the rest of your life mulling them over.
But you only learn these lessons if you’re willing to listen to death. Most Americans are not. Instead, they treat death like some kind of beatable opponent. Like Death is just the Tennessee Titans. So they crowd into megachurches that promise them eternal glory. They buy enormous pickup trucks that make them feel like Godzilla. They stock up on weird supplements and goos that promise them longer life and longer erections in equal measure. They build statues of themselves that say, “Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Or they develop a fucking app. They think of death as a problem to solve. An enemy.
They are wrong. As our richest citizens plot against death so that they can keep all of their shit, they fail to register the value of death. The beauty of it. Death keeps life in check. It prevents the world from being even more overrun by humanity than it currently is, it leaves a healthy void for younger life to take the place of older life, and it renders mortal life, both yours and others', valuable in its finiteness. Live forever and you won’t give a shit about life. Lord knows Peter Thiel doesn’t.
Besides, if you ever did manage to live forever, it would fuck you up. It would deprive you of all modesty, and you’re also not biologically engineered for eternal life. I know because eternity is the reason I feared death, so the sentient version of it isn’t that much more appealing. I’m not built for that shit, and neither are you. Your brain did not evolve to exist for 200 years, much less thousands of years beyond that. That’s way too much living, no matter how hard you live. Also, who the fuck wants to live hard? I just wanna smoke some weed, watch some football, and chill the fuck out. I don’t wanna do fucking burpees every day just so that I can stick around for the iPhone 57. You’re just living for living’s sake when you do that. You’re living without a purpose, because you’ve refused to allow death to give you one.
This makes the Alex Mathers of the world, and their customers, rudderless. They’re lying to everyone, themselves included. And they’ll die all the same, just as you and I will. We’re not gonna cure aging, and we’re not gonna become AI-empowered battledroids. Instead, we will remain forever in death’s thrall, servants of its mystery. No one knows what happens after this. More important, no one has any control over it. The history of man is a history of brazen attempts to both divine the afterlife and to plan accordingly for it. But there is no answer, and there is no plan. There is only the unknown, and you get to decide whether that’s thrilling or terrifying. It’s so like mankind to refuse that the most important questions of existence have no answer, and to die in the midst of solving a problem that has no solution, and needn’t have one.
I am going to die one day. Knowing what I know and seeing what I’ve seen now, I’m cool with it. And being cool with death means I don’t have to spend every waking hour, every living hour, sweating it. I can just enjoy the days I have, without existing in a constant state of dread. This was not a fun lesson to learn, given that it involved losing people who mattered the most to me. But it’s probably the most valuable lesson there is. Those who refuse to learn it are either trying to con you, or con themselves. Probably a bit of both. You can either buy what they’re selling, or you can live easier.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And for the playoffs, I PICK the games, because doing so makes me strong and brave.
Five Throwgasms
Chiefs 20, Texans (+8.5) 16. I have no faith that the Texans will win this game. They are, after all, the Texans. But Houston also has an insane pass rush that just kicked Justin Herbert down into the Tua Floor of the QB discourse. That’s no small attribute now that Will Anderson gets to face the Chiefs, a team that’s been forced to start nothing but snowmen at left tackle for the entire season. I need Patrick Mahomes properly tenderized for the AFC title game. This matchup should take care of that. The final two minutes of it will be unwatchable.
Lions 42 (-9.5), Commanders 24. If you want a chance against Detroit, you have to possess a kickass defense. The Commanders, uh, do not have one of those. It took the Lions 34 years for a chance to avenge their loss to Washington in the 1991 NFC title game. Worth the wait! (NOTE: Was not worth the wait.)
Eagles (-6) 28, Rams 12. The Vikings lost to the Rams because Sam Darnold played down to his reputation, but also because they couldn’t take advantage of LA’s lousy run defense. This is because Minnesota is one of the worst rushing teams in the league team. Philadelphia is not. You and I are gonna have to wait another round for the Eagles’ anemic passing attack to cost them.
Ravens (-1.5) 35, Bills 32. Here’s your MVP tussle. If this game somehow ends up with a 17-3 final score, we all deserve our money back. I demand insanity.
You might be looking for a slightly more in-depth analysis of these games, and of football in general. If that’s the case, I feel obligated to signal boost some of my fellow indie NFL writers, all of whom deserve your patronage. Here are some recs for you:
Mike Tanier’s Two Deep Zone. Tanier recaps every game and every major transaction in depth, right after they’ve transpired. More important, he’s mean as shit when he does it:
Patriots fans: feel free to performatively balk at the “in-the-family” criticism. Vrabel never coached under Bill Belichick, you protest, pretending you love Vrabel for his Titans accomplishments the way I used to read Playboy for the articles, all the while lovingly fondling the old Vrabel jerseys you found in your closets.
Oh yeah, that’s the shit.
Man, Free from Rivers McCown. McCown made his bones covering the Texans for a living, so you know that this is a man willing to suffer for his art. McCown also talks about other teams, but his analysis of the Texans is strangely illuminating while also reading like an ongoing exposé of an oil conglomerate.
Purple Insider. My bestest Vikings friend Matthew Coller posts an article about the Vikings before 10:00 a.m. ET every morning, and records a companion podcast episode just about every day as well. I have no idea how he’s alive right now, frankly. Even I couldn’t talk about the Vikings for that long, that frequently. I don’t even want to, not even when they’re winning.
Wide Left from Arif Hasan. Arif is also a Vikings blogger by trade, but he also writes about bigger-picture shit, and he brings receipts anytime he slanders the likes of Brock Purdy. As a professional hater, I always appreciate it when others supply me with choice ammunition.
The Check the Mic podcast with Sam Monson and Steve Palazzolo. Monson and Palazzolo are both Pro Football Focus expats who now work for The 33rd Team, and they recap/break down every matchup after grinding the tape in ways that I’m far too lazy to undertake myself. As a bonus, Sam is Irish! I love trenchant sports analysis delivered to me with a warm, Irish lilt. Makes me feel cared for.
Denny Carter’s Bad Faith Times. Denny is running a politics blog here, but he’s also a huge football dork who makes sure to work NFL takes into his copy anywhere he deems them appropriate. Please do not go to Denny, or to me, for predictions of any sort.
Go Long. Ty Dunne is much too nice to Jordan Love, but players tell him shit they won’t tell most other guys on the beat. That’s how Dunne ended up getting the goods on Sean McDermott’s admiration for the 9/11 hijackers. Tell you what men, Osama TOOK IT to those buildings.
Last week: 4-2
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Twin Mime,” by New Candys! From David:
When I was a kid, my dad had a habit of testing any new speakers or surround sound system he bought by immediately hooking them up and playing the first 10 minutes of Waterworld on VHS. He worked late, so his sound tests almost always occurred long after my brother and I had been put to bed. As you can probably imagine, this was most displeasing to my mom. The sound jolted us both awake, and the volume was so loud she was left unable to protest my dad’s actions. The first time I was introduced to the word, “FUCK!!!” was when one of his surround sound speakers vibrated off its stand, fell to the ground, and broke on its maiden voyage. Now that Spotify’s algorithm that kindly directed me to this Italian psychedelic rock band, my future children will be able to experience this phenomenon as well, only without the VCR.
You had me at “Italian psychedelic rock band.” Also, this video features running footage of an active volcano. I could watch lava ooze down a mountainside for hours on end. So fucking cool.
By the way, my dad was also a hi-fi nut who enjoyed testing the outer limits of his equipment. I know because he woke us all up one Christmas morning by playing “Wonderful Christmastime” at full volume. At, like, 6:30 a.m. We never forgave him for that. You wouldn’t either.
Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we’ll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year’s end or sooner. And now, your current 2024 chopping block:
Robert Saleh—FIRED!
Dennis Allen—FIRED!
Matt Eberflus—FIRED!
Doug Pederson—FIRED!
Jerod Mayo—FIRED!
Antonio Pierce—FIRED!
Mike McCarthy—MUTUALLY SEPARATED FROM!
As I write this, the Cowboys have yet to hire Deion Sanders as their new head coach. But I think we’re all praying that’s what happens, yes? The Double J brings Deion in, Deion does a 21st-century reboot of Barry Switzer’s “We’re gonna do it, baby!” press conference, and then Dallas loses 10 games every year in the loudest possible fashion. Even Cowboys fans want this to happen. They don’t even LIKE the Cowboys anymore.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader LW sends in this story I call THE ASS AND THE FURIOUS:
In the late 90's, my now wife was doing an internship in South Carolina while I was back in Kentucky, working. I drove down about every three weeks to visit and hang out. I was supposed to go the upcoming weekend when I got the flu, so I canceled. Two days later, I woke up feeling much better. I called my wife, told her I was coming, grabbed two Mountain Blast Powerades and hit the road.
I hadn't really eaten anything for two days, and of course the first thing my wife wants to do when I arrive is go out and get something. We sit down at some crappy Chili's clone when it hits. I have never experienced a 0-60 feeling of rectal pressure before or since. I tell my wife I need to go take a leak, and then I waddle to the bathroom. There are only two stalls. Fortunately, one of the them is open. The other guy leaves just as I drop trou and begin spraying. I reached for the toilet paper to begin cleaning up when I realized why my stall was open. Not one square of TP, not even a seat cover.
Now I'm really fucked. Do I wait for someone to come in and ask them to get me some TP, or do I duck walk to the other stall and hope no one walks in on me while I'm making the transition? I realize I could never ask a stranger to fetch me some toilet paper, so I make the decision to transfer to the other stall. I stand up and take a look my handiwork. Those blue Powerades had destroyed my system during the seven-hour drive, turning my shit a bright, Nickelodeon Slime green. I said fuck it and moved to the other stall without incident. I cleaned myself for about 10 minutes before heading back to the table and telling my wife we had to leave. They wrapped up our food and I paid. As we were leaving, I overheard an employee telling some guy the bathroom would be closed for about 10 minutes while they cleaned up a pretty big mess.
I have done that duck walk to a neighboring stall before. So, so nerve-wracking. Adrenaline-wise, it’s as close as I’ll ever get to pulling off a bank heist.
And Now Let’s Go Down To The Sideline And Check In With Charissa Thompson
“Drew, I had a chance to speak this week with author Neil Gaiman, whose off-the-page issues have been making headlines recently. I asked Neil how the allegations against him are impacting his preparations, and he told me, ‘Charissa, I’m not Neil Gaiman. I’m director Tim Burton, and the only bad thing I did was ditch my wife for Helena Bonham Carter. I’ve never forced innocent people to lick piss off my hand.’ Burton told me that if I ever met Gaiman in person, that I should run away from ‘that fucking freak’ as quickly as possible. Then he gifted me a pair of black Nikes with the face of Jack Skellington on the tongue. Drew, I’m wearing those sneakers right now, and I could definitely run faster than any comic book author in them.”
Thank you, Charissa.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Henry Weinhard's Private Reserve! From Dan:
Nothing about this is either private or reserved, at least as far as what I understand those words to mean. This beer is for the hipster in your life who thinks PBR has gone commercial and lives too far from the East Coast to reliably purchase Narragansett. Also, the recipe for this beer was bought by a local Portland brewery and is being re-released, which is something few people have asked for. Fun fact: according to Wikipedia, when Portland was dedicating a fountain in 1887, Henry Weinhard offered to fill the fountain with beer but was rebuffed, "due to fear of rowdy horses" which is something that I will take on face value.
I will too, but surely we can bring the idea of beer fountains back now that horses are no longer used for mass transit and our coming president is the face of the lamest WANTED poster you could ever draw up. Imagine the fountain show outside the Bellagio, only with stale King Cobra! We can make that happen now! We don’t have any “laws” or “environmental concerns” to get in our way!
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Titans Fans
Klute, featuring the late Donald Sutherland as a private dick and the very much alive Jane Fonda as a Manhattan actress/call girl who’s being stalked by a murderer. My whole life, I’ve known Jane Fonda mostly as the Jazzercise lady who made people mad about Vietnam, and who also made me extremely uncomfortable when she tried to fuck Stephen Colbert live in front of a studio audience. Well, it turns out that the daughter of Henry Fonda was quite the actress back in her day. Klute is one of two movies that won Fonda a Best Actress trophy (Coming Home was the other), and she earned it.
The plot of Klute is recognizable to anyone who’s watched a modern TV procedural, as its relatively predictable climax. But it’s a well-executed story, and it features two of the 20th century’s finest actors at the top of the craft. Now when I think of Jane Fonda, I think of this movie first. Then the gross Colbert thing. Three stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“That's my son up there!”
“What, the balding fatass?”
“Uh, no. The Hindu guy.”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
