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.
I was stressed. It was summer, and my dad was dying. On multiple occasions, I had to drop everything at a moment’s notice to go help my mom and siblings with him. I went back and forth so many times over the past few months, I genuinely lost count. I’d get a call or text, pack my shit, and then make the six-plus hour drive to Connecticut (one time I flew, just because I needed to conserve my energy) to do whatever was needed. Every trip could have been my last.
Along the way, I ate. I love to eat, and therefore I love having any excuse to eat. Dad being sick counted as solid excuse, and an extended one at that. I ate shitty road food. I got a pre-flight shake from the Five Guys at National Airport at 10 a.m. And every time I made it to Mom and Dad’s house, I availed myself of everything in the fridge and pantry, like the college kid I still am. My mother has very specific taste in junk food, with Double Stuf Oreo Thins being her favorite poison. During the summer, her poison became mine. “Double Stuf Oreo Thin” is an oxymoron that doesn’t trouble my stomach in the slightest. I ate those cookies with mindless gusto. Don’t let them near me.
My weight went up. This is hardly a new development for me. I have distinct weight epochs of my life. I know the timeline as well as I know the stretch marks crowning my love handles. Dropped 80 pounds in 1996. Dropped 60 in 2010 when I’d let myself go. Dropped 30 when I suffered a brain hemorrhage in 2018 (this avenue to weight loss is not one I recommend). I am a yo-yo dieter, except that the string of my yo-yo is about 50 miles long.
If you’re familiar with my work, you not only know about the epicurean civil war taking place inside my mind, but about the various methods I’ve tried to end that war for good. In the '90s, I went low-fat. In the 2010s, I posted my weight on social media to make my health a matter of public record (and scrutiny). In this decade, I counted calories. All of these “It’s a lifestyle change, not a diet” diets were effective, but only to a certain extent. Eventually I wanted to eat again.
Because I fucking love to eat. American culture is partially to blame for this, given that this country’s national obsession with eating is such that media entities built solely around food porn are both legion and prosperous. But I’ve always loved to eat. And if I’m not eating, I love thinking about eating. When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think of is breakfast. When I finish breakfast, I mentally begin preparing lunch. When I’m working, I’m subconsciously calibrating how much I’ve earned a midday snack, and what kind of snack that will be. And when it’s dinnertime, I always make sure I get the big piece of chicken, and then a few more pieces after that. If I travel, even if I’m driving the same dull stretch of I-95 dozens of times over, I plan my meals out with alarming care.
In other words, I obsess. I’m hardly alone in being obsessed with eating, but I long thought of that obsession as normal. Healthy, even. I wasn’t bulimic, and I sure as hell wasn’t anorexic. I was just another guy, trying to have his cake and lose it too.
But this time, I couldn’t afford to be obsessed. I didn’t WANT to be obsessed. Even factoring out Dad’s health, I was sick to death of inventing new ways to drop 10–20 pounds, all in preparation to eat it back up the moment I gave myself the green light. I was sick of cultivating an obsession with health to counter my obsession with gluttony. I was sick of all things food. I was tired. Exhausted. I wanted it gone, all of it. And I didn’t want to have to do it the hard way. I was sick of the hard way, and I was too old for the hard way to even work.
Before my dad found himself in really deep shit, I got an assignment from Men’s Health to investigate the burgeoning frontier of GLP-1 inhibitors, drugs you know by the brand name Ozempic but also include Wegovy, Zepbound, and other SEO-optimized handles. Everyone I spoke to for that article attested to the efficacy of Ozempic and its ilk. This included doctors, nutritionists, and a dude who cooked up homemade Ozempic in his kitchen (his insurance wouldn’t cover the real deal) and injected it straight into his belly. They told me, in so many words, that these drugs were a miracle.
Supposed miracle drugs, especially for weight loss, have existed my whole life. You’re talking to a guy who used to eat Olestra potato chips because he deemed them to be worth the intestinal distress. Everyone wants a pill (or a shot) to make weight loss a cinch, but no such drug ever materialized. So I maintained a skeptic’s eye with regards to Ozempic. I’d heard firsthand from people whose lives it had changed, but didn’t fancy myself as needing to join their ranks. I wasn’t suffering from obesity. I just had some dad fat I needed to get rid of, and I’d do it the right way. Then Dad went into decline and I helped myself to extra Oreo Thins at Mom’s house because I deserved it. I was stress eating, but that was okay.
Then my undies started to get tight. Also, I had a bad back and a stent in my heart. So losing weight was both a necessity for my vanity and my health. Whatever I ate one day, I would have to report to the scale the following morning. My neuroses would behave in accordance with whatever the scale told me. As summer 2024 began, the scale told me I was over 230 pounds. Fat, I thought. FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT. A lifetime of insecurity and self-loathing, all summed up in a tidy number. I was sick of being ruled by that fucking number, and I’d already met a few other parents who had discreetly started on Ozempic. That was all the peer approval I required.
I went to the nurse practitioner. She asked me what the problem was and I laid it all out, though in much more concise form than what you just read. She told me that Wegovy would get rid of the “food noise” in my mind. That phrase stuck. Food noise. That was my problem. There was a food riot inside my head at all hours of the day, and I needed it quashed. I was praying she’d write me a scrip right there and then, and she did. I drove to the pharmacy to pick it up like I was scoring cocaine. They made me wait 25 minutes to fill it. I have never been less bothered by a pharmacy dragging ass.
I got home, popped the cap off the first syringe, and plunged it into my belly (you have to inject these drugs into fatty tissue). A day later, I went to pour myself a bowl of cereal. Normally I fill my bowl all the way to the rim, and it’s not a small bowl. This time, I only filled it halfway. Not because I was being fastidious about portion sizes. It was just all the cereal I wanted. I didn’t think twice about it. In fact, I didn’t think twice about food the rest of the morning. The NP warned me to eat as much protein as I could to avoid muscle loss, so I ate some yogurt with goodies in it for lunch, went back to work, and again didn’t think about food. For hours.
If you’ve never been obsessed with food, I can’t begin to tell you how astounding it is to have that obsession vanish from your psyche in an instant. It’s like walking into a hoarder’s apartment a day after someone else has cleaned and renovated it. Suddenly I had all of this room in my mind. For work. For football. For Dad.
And thinking about Dad wasn’t some torturous affair. He was a great dad, he got 82 quality years on this earth, and even now—a mere two weeks after his death—thinking about him makes me far more grateful than it does sad. But toward the end, I had to think about the work of Dad: figuring out travel logistics, writing his obit, coordinating overnight shifts at the hospital with my family, getting updates to his condition from my mom and my siblings, researching nursing homes (all of them look nice in the brochure), and giving Dad lots of hugs and kisses. I now had the time of mind to do that business, all because I’d jammed a refrigerated needle into my baby fat.
Now here’s the funny part. I’ve been on Wegovy for a month and a half now, and have only lost four pounds. They start you off on a low dose to mitigate side effects (mild nausea, in my case), so it’s normal for the weight to come off slow at first before they up the dosage and you morph into the AFTER photo. So I’m still heavier than I’d like to be, but I DO NOT CARE. At all. I’m in no rush to drop the weight because I know it’ll come off. More to the point, my weight is no longer hardwired into my self-image. I see the number on the scale in the morning, I note it, and then I forget it. I don’t ruminate on it. I don’t see it flash in my head anytime I take a bite of a donut. Food still tastes good and I still like eating it, but it’s no longer my everything.
Dad couldn’t eat at the very end. You get older and begin to lose necessities, both real and perceived. One day Dad couldn’t drive anymore. Then he couldn’t walk. Then he couldn’t speak coherently. Then, at the very end, he stopped eating and drinking. He was shedding all of his human needs, because he was headed somewhere those things were no longer required. I’ve lost a few things myself over time: my sense of smell, most of my hearing, my ability to drink alcohol. I used to think of those losses as tragic: vital pieces of my existence stolen from me by cruel fate. Then I saw Dad leave this world in a slumber and I understood, with great intimacy, that loss can be freeing. If you have love, you never need anything else. Dad had love, and we had him. So when he died I felt sad, but also full. I had gotten all of Dad, and for that I was grateful.
Then I walked back to the kitchen and grabbed an Oreo Thin. Just one. Then I went to bed, dreaming of things sweeter than sugar.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Lions at Cowboys: Time for another round of How Will The Refs Fuck Over Detroit This Time? I’m betting that the Cowboys convert a vital fourth down thanks to a bullshit penalty. That would be the most Dan Campbell thing to happen to Dan Campbell.
Commanders at Ravens
Four Throwgasms
Cardinals at Packers: Despite being a ferocious Packers hater, I’m now ready to issue a definitive, objective judgment on our man Jordan Love: he’s really good. He’ll go to a lot of Pro Bowls, play brilliantly even when hurt, and pull off a lot of cool wins for the mouthbreathers at Lambeau. He might even win Green Bay its traditional lone Super Bowl. BUT he will also forever be prone to Jameis moments, like this one!
This dude’s been in the league for four years now. He’s gonna keep doing shit like this on occasion, and that brings me great joy.
Three Throwgasms
Chargers at Broncos: Sean Payton is Jeff Fisher Plus Two. If the Broncos look like they’re going to have a shitty season, he’ll win them nine games. If they have enough in the cupboard to make a run at the Chiefs, he’ll win them nine games. He will win nine games a year, every year, until he drops dead of a heart attack in 2026.
49ers at Seahawks
Bucs at Saints
Two Throwgasms
Jaguars at Bears (London): After my dad passed away, a miniscule portion of my brain thought, “I wonder how long I can milk this.” You’ll notice that the game capsules are light on copy this week. Well that’s because I’m in mourning. How dare you expect more of me in this moment?!
(I’m just being lazy. Dad would have approved.)
Bills at Jets
Steelers at Raiders
Colts at Titans
Browns at Eagles
One Throwgasm
Bengals at Giants: The Giants have a better record than the Bengals right now. That ain’t gonna look good on Zac Taylor’s permanent record.
Falcons at Panthers
Texans at Patriots
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Survival Is Vengeance,” by Mindforce! 105 seconds of pure war face! From Matthew!
Have I got a ripper for you! Hudson Valley hardcore greats Mindforce released an entire 17 1/2 minute album of brick wall songs this year, but, "Survival Is Vengeance" is the prime cut. A minute and 45 seconds of galloping crossover thrash (ending with a total tough guy breakdown to boot) about just being yourself and surviving as a form of vengeance? Do you really need more to turn wall to dust?
I do not. And respect to Mindforce for releasing a 17-minute album. Only The Ramones were ballsy enough to execute that sort of move way back when. Mindforce understands that I, a modern phone addict, don’t have a free hour to listen to a new album. I’ve got tweets to get mad at! GET TO THE ROCK.
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 potential 2024 chopping block:
Robert Saleh—FIRED!!!
Sean McDermott**
Mike McDaniel
Brian Daboll
Dave Caneles
Doug Pederson*
Kevin Stefanski*
Nick Sirianni*
Mike McCarthy
Antonio Pierce
Zac Taylor
Dennis Allen
(*potential midseason firing)
I know Sean McDermott won’t be fired before this season is over, but if you watched the end of that Texans game, you know that he should have been loaded into a cannon and shot directly into the eye of Milton for what he did at the end. Three straight passes from your own end zone. That’s taking the lessons of a suicide bomber much too far.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Mark sends in this story I call OPERATION DESERT STURM:
In between undergrad and graduate school, I did a stint in the Army. I signed up for intel, thinking it would be interesting. It was boring AF for the most part. I had the misfortune of ending up at the 101st where we spent the vast majority of our time in the field (this was in between the wars so I'm not complaining).
Right before I got out, I did one last exercise. This time I got to sleep in the big circus tents instead of in a hole I dug. It was fancy. Our platoon leader had to leave for a meeting at HQs and brought us Burger King back. She was out all day, so this food had sat in the car for hours, Did I care? I did not. I mowed down every last Rodeo Cheeseburger and onion ring because my teammates wouldn’t.
They chose wisely. Later that night, I woke up with a pain in my stomach that felt like I got stabbed by a knife. Cut to the chase, I couldn't make it to the portajohns. Thankfully it was dark, no one was out, and it had rained for days. So I found a rain puddle, stepped into the middle of it, dropped trou, and added some mud. A lot of mud. I spent the rest of my enlistment scared that someone was had seen me do the deed, and was waiting for the perfect time to mock me about it. Because that's what a bunch of soldiers in their 20s live for: to give each other shit.
But since this was during the Clinton Administration, I think I got away with it. Eyes of the Eagle, bitches!
Never eat Burger King, regardless of how fresh it is.
And Now Let’s Go Down To The Sideline And Check In With Charissa Thompson
“Drew, I had a chance to speak with Jets offensive coordinator Nathaniel Hackett just now. He told me that he was ‘surprised’ that Robert Saleh was fired as head coach, but then he told me, ‘Look, we’re still the same guys we were a week ago. We’ll make it through this as a team, not as individuals.’ He then demanded that I rank the Hangover movies from best to worst. When I said I’d only seen the first one, and that I enjoyed it, he took out his phone and told me, ‘I’d better text Aaron about this. He’s not gonna like it.’ Then he spent two hours trying to turn on a nearby desk fan. Back to you, Drew.”
Thank you, Charissa.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Outlaw! Holy shit I gotta hear about this one. Ready Jeffrey has the scoop:
I had a golf trip with seven friends last weekend. As the orchestrator of this year's outing, I stopped at my local beer store to stock up on provisions for the trip. I found my usual easy drinkin' favorites, and then spied a pile of Outlaw 24 packs innocuously sitting near the other garbage beers. The 105 calories and three slogans sold me on its quality. I got to the counter and the lovely woman informed me that Outlaw was running a promotion where you could buy two 24 packs and they'd Venmo you back the cost of one if you sent them a picture of your receipt. I raced back for another rack; regardless of quality, 31.23 cents per beer is too good to pass up.
I promptly misplaced the receipt, the beer tasted like steeped aluminum foil shards, and I took an abominable dump that night after combining several Outlaws with a massive porterhouse steak and too much grilled asparagus and shishito peppers. 10/10, would Venmo again.
Incredible. And look at that can. “Punch the pickaxe” sounds like a hashtag the 49ers social account tags at the end of every post.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Patriots Fans
Branded To Kill, a classic Japanese hitman thriller that got its director, Seijun Suzuki, fired by the studio for being too arty. And when I tell you that this movie is arty, I’m not bullshitting you. You’ll get some coldblooded assassin shit. But then you get a lot of inner angst, boiling rice, butterflies, and nudity. I didn’t even know that old-time black-and-white flicks had gratuitous nudity, but this one does. Long ago, I was able to shed my bro-ier movie tastes and embrace artier fare. But in this case, I genuinely wasn’t cinema-literate enough to fully grasp what Suzuki was going for. I do know that Branded To Kill was cool to look at, though. Three stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“It was the most I ever threw up, and it changed my life forever.”
Enjoy the games, everyone. Love you, Mom and Dad.
