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. Buy Drew’s new novel, “Point B,” here.
I am 44 years old now, which means there are many things I can no longer do well. I can’t lift weights. I can’t play football. I can’t outdrink you. I can’t eat an entire Domino’s order—six pack of Coke cans included—and feel as if I’ve eaten nothing at all. I can’t even masturbate well anymore. It’s like a chore. Literally. Some days I’m like, “Did I remember to jerk off today? OH GOD DAMMIT, DREW.” I can’t hear well. I can’t drive at night as well as I could in my youth, because my depth perception on the road goes to complete shit after sundown. I can’t abide loud noises. I can’t really do much of anything. I am just a sodden old lump of shit.
However, that fact serves me well in the one (and perhaps only) area where I DO excel: napping.
People, I can nap. I nap better than I sleep. When I have trouble going to bed at night, I often think about whatever nap I took earlier that day, to bring my mind to a more restful state. I have a mental inventory of my greatest napping moments. I napped once on the lawn of the U.S. Naval Academy on a visit to Annapolis. I napped so hard that when I got up, there was an imprint of my body in the grass. A grass angel. I napped on a flight to London for this R&T story when I had the whole row to myself, and discovered I was more comfortable when I slept FACING my seat backs instead of the other way around, so that the seat belt buckles weren’t digging into my haunches. I napped on an inflatable raft on a family trip to the beach. The kids got mad at me because I wouldn’t wake up, and so they couldn’t use the raft for, you know, raft things. I keep all those naps in the little nap bank in my mind. They are my guiding light.
My wife can no longer nap. This is a tragedy because, left unchecked, my wife would sleep 20 hours a day if she could. She loves to sleep and yet cannot nap. Her mom nerves won’t allow for it. Whereas I, a certified deadbeat, have only ENHANCED my napping powers since our children have arrived into this world. These loudass kids have trained me to nap in adverse conditions. I can sleep while they scream, and drop toys, and watch Game Shakers at disturbing volume levels. Their rambunctious idiocy has built calluses upon my subconscious that are tougher than saddle leather. These days, the only thing that can rouse me from a quality afternoon slumber is my bladder, which is very needy. But otherwise, when I get into my beloved recliner and pull a blanket over me, everyone knows what time it is. My wife goes right ahead and writes me off for the next hour. She knows I’m already halfway to paradise.
To that end, let’s you and I go napping for a spell. It’s a Thursday afternoon. What else do you have better to do right now? NOTHING. We’re all jobless and waiting for the president to die, so let’s burn the clock by paying a daytime visit to the sandman. Here is what you need to do.
1. Find a recliner or couch. As I’ve said in the past, bed naps are dangerous. You fall asleep for two lovely hours and then your nighttime sleep pattern is FUCKED. With a couch or chair, your body instinctively knows to wake up a little bit sooner. I have no biological evidence supporting this. But I am a dad, and so I know it in my soul.
2. Grab a blanket. I prefer cheap fleece, which often comes in the form of shitty Paw Patrol bunkies and what have you. The polyester lets you know that you are loved.
3. Keep the TV on. It’s your white noise machine. Also, and this is important, the TV acts as a clever diversion. People in the house THINK you’re zeroed in on the game, or on old episodes of Baretta. When they find out you’re not paying attention to the TV at all, it’s too late. You’re already out. THE PERFECT CRIME.
4. Ignore all ambient chatter after you close your eyes. Sometimes, I fake being asleep in order to get to sleep midday. I have no other choice. If everyone in the house knows I’m awake, they’ll come over to piss and moan about the wifi, or to ask me to “play” with them, or to ask me to cook soup. I’m not doing ANY of that shit. Can’t you see I’m sleeping? PISS OFF! Sometimes I can hear my wife chastising the kids to leave me alone because I’m sleeping, even though I’m not asleep yet. That’s when I bust out a devilish, sleepy grin. The ideal accomplice is someone who doesn’t even realize they’re an accomplice.
5. Keep your mouth open. This is the dad move. No rule against moms ALSO deploying it. It works no matter who you are. I really do open my mouth on purpose after I close my eyes because I know that’ll induce sleep somehow. I get a goodass drool going and that’s a wrap. Go ahead and snap a picture. Toss wads of paper into my mouth like I’m a carnival game. I don’t give a shit. I’m doing what needs to be done.
6. Wake up and bask in the afterglow. That moment when you get up from a nap is clutch in and of itself. The blanket is never comfier than in that moment. I like to linger for a little nap afterparty. Then I let out a very loud yawn to announce my reemergence from the black. Then I stand up and ask out loud, “Anyone get the license plate on that truck that hit me?” It’s very charming.
Got all that? I know you already know how to nap, but this is one of those how-to articles where I go through the steps mainly so that you and I can get into that dreamy napping mindset. Everything is so awful all the fucking time now, and everything that’s presented to you as a respite from the onslaught—football for instance—is anything but. The only rest any of us can get from the world right now is the literal kind. Embrace it. Nuzzle against it. Feel it warm your fingers and toes as you drift off further and further… forgetting that Matt Patricia ever existed.
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Bills at Titans (maybe): If any player dies from the rona this season—and it could definitely happen—you should blame the owners first. But then you should blame Adam Schefter and the whole flotilla of asskissers who heralded mass negative test results like Roger Goodell himself had fended off the pandemic with a fucking crossbow. All those negatives proved instantly worthless the second ONE player tested positive and had the capacity to start a chain reaction of infection. You and I are witnessing the beginnings of that reaction, and I promise you that the NFL doesn’t really give a shit how out of hand it gets. They’ll put YOU on the field to keep the assembly line moving if they have to, and they already have a whole infrastructure of enablers like Schefter in place to sell everyone on the idea that they’re taking on this virus head on. They should all have to frolic in bed naked with our dying, fuckhead President. Can’t stand these motherfuckers.
Also, I’m sad this game won’t happen.
Raiders at Chiefs: In the predictable bit of karmic retribution, there’s a swear jar in our kitchen now. It’s for me and me only. A week ago, the 8-year-old asked me not to swear because he said HE was swearing too much because of me. Now, he remains unaware of the full extent of my verbal depravities, but I have to indulge in my hypocrisy for the time being. So far I’ve had to put three bucks in. In nearly a week! NOT BAD, DREW.
Bucs at Bears: I refuse to believe the Bucs are worth a shit and I’ll keep believing that right up through the NFC title game, when they lose to Seattle because of a shitty call.
Colts at Browns: Eddie Van Halen died this week and I immediately closed any obit of his that used the word “rocker” to describe him. Fucking Variety-ass word. I know I have boomer taste in music but even I don’t call rock stars “rockers.” Fuck kinda old-man shit is that.
Bengals at Ravens
Chargers at Saints: I should hate the Chargers—and, by extension, Justin Herbert—more than I do. But I just can’t. Their uniforms are too cool. Dean Spanos may be an anal wart but he’s a second-string evil owner compared to Stan Kroenke. You better believe I was rooting for that empty telephone of a team to beat the piss out of Tom Brady. The helmets are magic.
Vikings at Seahawks: Every ad during the break now is some 60-second spot featuring close up shots of serious Americans wearing masks, maudlin piano music, and supers that say shit like WE ARE DOING THIS TOGETHER. And then there’s a logo for, like, fucking Exxon at the end. Every brand ad now looks like a political ad, because it is. This is what happens when brands own a government. I told my wife this and she was like WHOA. I radicalized my own wife in a single minute. WE MUST SEIZE THE MEANS OF PRODUCTION.
Dolphins at Niners: On a surface level, I get why Brian Flores is keeping Fitzmagic out on the field to burn the season away. Tua Tagovailoa’s hip turned to fine ash toward the end of his college season, and Miami is still in the “collecting assets” phase of their sure-to-be-endless rebuild.
But listen, man: There are only so many teams I’m willing to watch right now, and a team QBed by Ryan fucking Fitzpatrick isn’t one of them. I need more options in the rotation. I’d say Tua’s long-term health is a concern to me, but I’m an NFL fan in the middle of a pandemic. How much do I really give a shit about player health? GIMME TUA, BRIAN YOU PIECE OF SHIT.
Jaguars at Texans
Broncos at Patriots
Rams at WFT: I’m absolutely ready for Washington fans to adopt new starter Kyle Allen like he was the first overall pick in last year’s draft. I was at the game where Alex Smith’s leg disintegrated. The “COLT” chants began within five minutes of the Smith dying on the field. These fans will glom onto ANY presentable, undersized white boy at QB. It’s about heritage, you see. Also, Kyle Allen—say it with me—KNOWS THE SYSTEM.
Always with the goddamn systems. Kyle Allen threw 16 picks a year ago. He may know this offense but he sure as shit can’t execute it. Like I said, you’re gonna see Alex Smith take the field again this season, and you’re gonna be told it’s inspiring right up until the moment Smith’s mangled leg, and no other part of his body, tests positive for the virus.
Panthers at Falcons: Here’s good news:
I don’t give a shit as to the WHY of this trend. I don’t care if the refs are rusty from the pandemic or whatever. All I know is that I love it. I feel like I just recovered from a nasty bout of the stomach flu with so few flags getting thrown. If anyone tells you the decrease in penalties constitutes a problem for the NFL, murder that person.
Giants at Cowboys: I watched Game 4 of the NBA Finals last night and I’m now at the age where if I stay up for a game, I grumble “THIS BETTER BE WORTH IT” while the clock ticks past 11. I started off my blogging career ragging on all the newspaper dipshits who groused about late deadlines and seemed to despise the very sports they cover. And look at me now. I’m complaining about games going late before they’ve even had the chance to go late, and I judge the final score on whether or not it was worth staying up all night. Game 4 was not. Game 4 was a miserable hump game in which Miami fell behind in the fourth, strained to regain the lead, and then never could. It sucked. Then I came to bed and the dog barked at me and woke everyone up. It was horrible. Mark Jackson can fall down a trash chute.
Eagles at Steelers
Cardinals at Jets
Pregame Song That Makes Me Miss Eddie Van Halen
“316,” by Van Halen. This is not the hardest rocking Van Halen song. In fact, it’s barely a song at all. It’s a 12-string interlude on a Van Hagar album that’s dated even by Van Hagar standards. But it’s a genuinely lovely song. I love blip songs like this. I love “Sunspots,” by Bob Mould. I love “Faust Arp,” by Radiohead. I love it when any artist fucks around for 90 seconds and produces some beautiful shit that I could spend the rest of life trying to replicate and never produce.
I did try to replicate it, though. I took guitar lessons when I was a kid at the Ridgedale Mall in Minnetonka. I had seen Bill & Ted 900 times and wanted to play like Eddie Van Halen. My group’s teacher explained that such genius took time, and that I had to learn boring chords first. And that, my friends, is when I retired from formal guitar instruction. Too much work. Eddie Van Halen, by contrast, LOVED doing all that work. He kept his guitar with him all the fucking time, which is how you end up being the type of guy who can toss off “316” like it’s nothing and then go on about your day.
Gregg Easterbrook Memorial Haughty Dipshit Of The Week
I have always felt like if you work in media and know of too many other media people (just knowing they exist, not even knowing them personally), then you risk getting lost inside the media ecosystem’s withered rectum. You stop being a regular person and become a big ol’ fartsniffer.
Jonathan Chait is one such media person you should be blissfully unaware of. Like if I go up to someone on the street and I’m like, “Can you believe what that Chait fucker did this time?”, they’re gonna look at me like I’m a fucking Cyclops. This should be a standard reaction. If you’re like, “Oh god, THAT sack of shit,” you are infected with Media Brain and should be forced to live on a farm for 18 months. You need media detox. No one should know who this asshole is. I know I’m worse off for it. And now I’ve informed YOU of his existence. Please attack me with a hammer.
Magic Johnson’s Lock Of The Week: Jaguars (+6.5) at Texans
“LeBron and the Lakers now hold a 3-1 lead over the Miami Heat in the 2020 NBA Finals! If they win tomorrow, they will have won the NBA title in a five-game series! Games six and seven will not have been necessary!”
2020 Magic record: 2-1
Fantasy Player Who Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
Mo Alie-Cox, only because I don’t have him on my roster. Nothing worse than thinking there’s a guy available on waivers, and then you look him up and CRIMINY! COVIDeo Killed The Radio Star snatched him up a week ago! THAT MOTHERFUCKER! THAT WAS MY GUY! ONLY I KNEW ABOUT HIM!
Anyway, this section seems a whole lot less funny given that players, and their pregnant fiancées, may indeed die slow painful deaths thanks to the NFL’s pigheadedness. So I’mma retire it until wishing death upon people (non-Trump division) is mirthful again.
Bad Local Commercial Of The Week!
Not Just Pizza! Folks, are you DOWN with references made 20 years after they grew stale? HAVE I GOT THE SHITTY JERSEY PIZZERIA FOR YOU! From Alex:
This masterpiece hasn’t aired in years, but it hits all the hallmarks of bad local commercials: tone-deaf rapping, a baby, people dressed up as gorillas and bananas, and images not properly synched to audio.
That ad is from 2009. Someone was still making OPP jokes in 2009! Astonishing. Whoever made this ad went onto become head writer for Mike Huckabee’s Twitter feed.
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 2020 chopping block:
(* – potential midseason firing)
By now you know that the Lions have blown the six straight games in which they’ve held a double-digit lead. So in addition to being an accused rapist and a dickhead, Matt Patricia is a genuinely HORRIBLE in-game tactician. I remember a sideline reporter at a Lions game saying that Patricia didn’t make halftime adjustments because he needs to make adjustments every series, which made perfect sense to me. What makes far less sense is how AWFUL his series adjustments appear to be. You don’t routinely sabotage your own head starts without staring at a Microsoft Surface and taking away all of the exact wrong shit from the dailies. What an absolute moron Patricia is. I hope Notre Dame hires him one day.
Great Moments In Poop History
I’m outta grandpa stories, so we’re back to poop. Reader Aaron sends in this story I call A FART RAIN’S GONNA FALL:
Have you noticed how some of the most legendary poopers are the youngsters? I have a cousin, he’s currently 13 but for the longest time he’s been known to clog toilets. And I’m not just talking clog it because he uses too much toilet paper. Hell no, this dude would clog them with monster turds that could not possibly come from him. Some of these things, and I unfortunately have seen them because he made me look at a select few, are gigantic and I have no idea how it is physically possible.
This takes me to a story where we were on vacation. We were staying in a lodge in Virginia, and a bunch of us were staying in an upper room that could only be accessed from an outside door, separate from the rest of the lodge. One morning, my cousin did his dirty business and I thought all was well. I go in to take a piss and when I go to flush, appearances had fooled me. There was clearly some type of clog and the toilet began to overflow. Being separate from the rest of the lodge, there were not nearly as many cleaning supplies up there. So I ran down stairs and outside to the main part to try and get some supplies to clean up the piss water that had just flooded the upstairs bathroom.
As I’m making my way to the front door, my cousin’s grandpa comes out of the Lodge bewildered and frantically asked me “What the hell are you guys doing up there??” Turns out the bathroom was right above one of our aunt and her two young daughters’ room. The lodge was kind of old, and the bathroom wasn’t in the best of shape. The piss water had dripped down into their room, a deluge right onto their mattresses, a pretty horrible wakeup call if you ask me.
I have had experience with such leaks. Never own a house.
Gametime Snack Of The Week
Hard-boiled eggs! “I can eat 50 eggs.” When there are hard-boiled eggs in the fridge, I attack. I know an easy snack when I see it. I make myself a little hill of salt and then it’s BUSINESS TIME.
Also, I hate peeling eggs because it’s a pain in the ass and because I suck at it. That’s why, whenever I see pre-peeled eggs at the Giant salad bar, or even packaged in water at the big I-95 rest stop in Delaware, I think about it. I haven’t gone through with buying the Danger Eggs, but I still haven’t ruled them out of my future entirely.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
HABESHA COLD GOLD! From Doug:
I was halfway through my second consecutive redeye, en route from Seattle to the Seychelles, by way of D.C. and Ethiopia, when I saw this beauty staring at me out the corner of her eyes. Who was I to refuse her? I opted for two cans worth. Chugging the first, I remarked to my wife, “It kind of tastes like Bud Light.” It wasn’t until I began sipping the second that I realized how wrong I was. Habesha tastes like the industrial brown paper towels of an elementary school bathroom, a bare toilet paper roll left to flavor an unflushed toilet. To drink it is to experience the scent of an alkaline landscape evolving into a chunky abomination coating your tongue. Though free of charge aboard Ethiopian Airlines, you’ll pay with twelve hours of aftertaste regret. Economy class, indeed.
Oh that sounds AMAZING. And I know you want me to feel bad for you, Doug, because those two cans of Habesha surely gave you sourdough diarrhea. But you say you were on your way to Seychelles?
NO SYMPATHY. I’d eat that diarrhea to go Seychelles right now.
Jim Tomsula’s Lifehack Of The Week!
“Texas is big, okay? I live here now but I’ve lived here 68 other times, too. You go hitchin’ a ride here, there’s no tellin’ how far you end up. One time I got picked up by this guy Shane. Turned out to be a serial killer, but he was very nice to me. Guys like that know JimTom isn’t the vulnerable type. Well he invites me into the cab, hands me a bag of Corn Nuts, and burns rubber all the way till sundown. I fell asleep in my seat. When I woke up, I had this strange brown fluid pooling in my crotch. I look over and ask Shane, ‘What’s the deal here, bub?’ Well he’s chewin’ on some Red Man and he tells me that there ain’t no free rides, and that a spittoon is a spittoon no matter what I think a spittoon is. Couldn’t argue with any of that. He gave me a cat to mop up the juice. And after all that, we were STILL in Texas. Big place.”
Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Jets Fans
Touching the Void, which you can watch in its entirety right up above! That’s probably not legal. Anyway, if you ever wanted to watch a terrifying story about a man who gets trapped in a icy crevasse and saves himself by understanding that God isn’t real, I got you covered.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“This reporter’s opinion is for our lard-laden lads to shape up. Get out and try fun activities like military service, franetic dancing, or good old fasioned pee-wee football.”
Enjoy the games, everyone.