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. You can also read Drew over at SFGATE, and buy Drew’s books while you’re at it.
Lemme tell you about this fucking dog. The shit I have been through with this dog, you wouldn’t believe. We got him as a Christmas gift for our kids nine years ago. Before that, our kids were like DOG DOG DOG DOG DOG! GIVE US A DOG! And I was like, “I got two jobs and three kids, and now you want me to add a dog to this pile of shit on my desk? No. No way. Let’s just get another fish and then watch it die.”
My kids weren’t having it. So we rescue this dog—literally, I broke into a POW camp in Hanoi to break the dog out of his cell; true story—and bring it home. I never had a dog when I was growing up, so I know fuck all about dog care. This dog, Carter, he can tell. He gets up on our bed and his eyes turn psycho on me when I approach. He’s like, This is my bed. Deal with it, cuck. Then, when I try to calm him down, he bites me on the leg. Way up on my leg. Almost in my jujyfruits. Not cool. Not cool at all, new dog.
I say to my wife, “I don’t know if we can keep this dog.” Then she’s like, “But the kids love Carter because he’s so soft and fluffy!” And I’m like, “Listen man, those kids would love a Tommy gun if we bought one, it doesn’t mean we should.” I got my testicles to think about here, and my testicles take priority over any dog. Or any human, for that matter. Sorry, my family.
Then my wife is like, “Why don’t we hire an expensive trainer?” When my wife asks me a question, it’s never really a question. It’s an order. You know, like the Mafia. “Why don’t you go down to Havana and help our friend Joey The Smooch see the light, will ya?” That kind of thing. Still, I try to wriggle out of the order. I say to my wife, “What if, instead of spending a shitload of money on a trainer, we just lace all of his meals with Benadryl?”
We get the trainer. He teaches us how to communicate with Carterfarter, usually in the form of awarding the dog treats when he does what we ask of him. But I’m not a crazy dog person yet, and Carter is still a rescue dog trying to understand what the fuck he’s doing with this big tall guy who always wants him to sit. So while the dog calms down around everyone else in the family, he still has it out for me. If I walk into the TV room, he barks.
“Just try to enter the room more quietly,” my wife says. Excuse me? You want ME to come correct? This is my house, motherfucker! This dog needs to adapt to me, not the other way around! I got 200 pounds on him! HE SHOULD BOW BEFORE HIS ALPHALORD!
He doesn’t. He has a mind of his own. I proceed to have a stroke. This is not the dog’s fault, but he could have at least used his super dog nose powers to sniff out the aneurysm hiding in my skullpan. Carter, you are lazy.
Years pass. I slowly recover from my stroke while, at the same time, figuring out how to coexist with this dog. He gets eye surgery during the pandemic, and I have to administer drops into his eyes while holding him by the collar, his mouth open wide like a croc ready to swallow an otter whole. He only gets down for walks if my wife asks him, and not me. He bites me on the foot, which is acceptably far enough away from my scrotum but still … ow.
So I spend years and years treating Carterfarter as some wild beast that must be brought to heel, instead of a scared 20-pound mutt who’d been abandoned and left out on the street when he was young. That’s a chasm you can’t cross merely with offers of cheese cubes. It takes work (ugh, work). It takes learning each other’s wants, needs, and cues.
So, despite my exasperation, I try. Carter mellows out, because I mellow out. Same as how a child takes cues from its parents, a dog takes cues from its guardian. He stops yelling at me when I walk into the TV room. He graduates from sleeping in a crate downstairs to sleeping in a crate in our bedroom to, finally, being chill enough to sleep in the bed with us. All the time, I’m learning Carter’s doggy language. I learn that, when he freezes in place at the end of our front walk, he’s looking to me to signal to him that no cars are coming down the street. And when he refuses to eat a meal, it’s not because he’s being a picky little brat, but because the wet food has gone bad (I didn’t know dog food went bad). I’m learning all of this shit about a dog I’ve now owned for years. Turns out your relationship with your pet evolves over time. Astounding.
Most important, I’m learning that Carter and I aren’t as unalike as I might have once thought. We’re both animals, after all. We’re different animals, that’s for certain. I’m a crazy dog person, but I don’t call him my fur baby, and I don’t try to graft human qualities onto him. That would deprive him of his inherent dogness. Also, it would deprive me of the opportunity to understand Carter as a dog: his methods of communication, his wants, his needs. An interspecies friendship is different from a person-to-person friendship, but that’s what makes it so valuable. You learn how animals think, and then you learn to respect them from there.
Nine fucking years I’ve lived with Carter, aka Carterfarter, aka Scooter, aka Scootie Two Shoes, aka the White Lotus. I have learned as much raising this dog as I have in raising our human children. And, just like raising kids, the more work you put in on the front end raising a pet, the more it pays off down the line.
If you’re worried that this story will end tragically, with me telling you, “We just found out that Carter has only six weeks to live,” rest easy. I wouldn’t do you like that on Christmas. No, our story ends with this morning. Carter had to get a tooth pulled yesterday, with me and the family giving him the whole “Aww, our poor baby!” treatment all evening thereafter. But he recovered quick from the procedure and slept well, so much so that he came down the stairs at 7:15 a.m. this morning, which he never does. Normally, Carter is lazy as balls; I told you that pets take after their owners. Carter only got half a dinner last night (vet’s orders), so he’s hungry for breakfast. But first, he’s gotta be taken out for a piss.
He knows the ritual, as do I. He sits by the door, waiting for me to leash him up. He walks out with me into the cold and finds the exact right spot to rip a stream. Then he saunters back into the house and awaits his fully armed and operational breakfast. I prep the dish and then tell him to sit. Carter always has to sit before he gets served. Sometimes he won’t eat if we skip this part; he’s like a prisoner, but in a happy way. He finishes everything in his dish within seconds, then silly-gooses on our rug for a minute or two. Then hops up on top of the couch, securing his regular high vantage point so that he can see everything around him while, at same time, melting into the cushions. I head into my office to finish the very post you’re reading, and all is well.
This dog and I have been through a lot—strokes, eye surgeries, a pandemic, Blair Walsh missing from 27 yards out—to get to a day like today. But as an owner, I am now reaping what took so long to sow, and I am reaping it with great pleasure. Carter and I get each other now. He knows to wait when I say “wait,” and I know that he will take great offense if he doesn’t get to participate in steak night. And I know how good it feels, especially around Christmastime, to have someone to take care of. Not only is Carter the greatest dog who has ever lived, but he’s also the greatest Christmas present I have ever given anyone, or that I will surreptitiously receive myself. This fucking dog, man … I love him. So Merry Christmas to you, Fartercarter. And Merry Christmas to you and all of your animal friends.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Rams at Seahawks: I have some reservations about praising Puka Nacua for his stunning looks here in this space a few weeks ago. That’s because I have learned, alongside the rest of the world, that Puka is as dumb as he is sexy.
In Puka’s country, there is problem.
Packers at Bears (Saturday)
Jaguars at Broncos
Four Throwgasms
Bucs at Panthers: Let’s make ginger cookies, shall we? Here’s a recipe.
-3/4 cup ghee*, melted and cooled
-1 cup sugar
-1/4 cup molasses
-1 egg
-1 tsp vanilla
-2 tsp baking soda
-1/2 tsp cloves
-1/2 tsp ground ginger
-1 tsp cinnamon
-1 tsp salt
-2 cups flour
-Turbinado sugar to dip
(*Our friend Kim’s original recipe calls for Crisco, but my wife bought some packaged ghee at a grocery store to use instead, and it ended up tasting even better)
Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Mix all of the ingredients except the turbinado sugar in a bowl until you’ve got a big ball of dough. Wrap the dough up and stick it in the fridge for an hour or overnight. Take the dough out, form it into golf balls, and then dip each ball into the sugar. Place on a lined cookie sheet and bake roughly 10 minutes. Eat.
Three Throwgasms
49ers at Colts: Like Ray Ratto, I was strangely inspired by the return of Philip Rivers a week ago. I’ve been where Marmalard has been, man. I’ve been like, “I’m in my 40s but still feel great!” only for any camera to instantly prove otherwise. I’ve been like, “Hey, retirement sounds great!” before realizing how fucking BORING sitting around the house all day is. And I have that exact same beer gut. Marmalard and I, we’ve got a lot in common. Apart from the whole Jesus cult thing.
Patriots at Ravens: The Ravens are cooked, but good on them for pulling off a handoff lateral after a pick a week ago. Why more defenders don’t simply hand the ball to a friend rather than haphazardly pitch it is beyond me. Don’t coaches study tape for this kinda shit?
Steelers at Lions
Chargers at Cowboys
Two Throwgasms
Bengals at Dolphins: Tua Tagovailoa has officially been memory-holed:
Very rude to give this man that kind of treatment normally reserved for the likes of … Quinn Ewers.
Falcons at Cardinals
Vikings at Giants
One Throwgasm
Raiders at Texans: The Texans’ offense has finally turned a corner now that offensive coordinator Nick Caley has found a red-zone play that actually works for his team: the inadvertent running back fumblerooski. And you thought the tush push was unstoppable. You ain’t seen SHIT!
Also, there are an uncommon number of teams that have already checked out for the season, and yet the Raiders are somehow the worst of them by far. I have neither the words, nor the energy, to describe how bad these Raiders are. Even telling you “they’re the Raiders” isn’t damning enough. Imagine a Raiders team so bad that it makes other Raiders teams look bad. That’s the kind of suck we’re dealing with here.
Eagles at Commanders (Saturday)
Bills at Browns
Chiefs at Titans
Jets at Saints
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Psychobilly Freakout,” by the Reverend Horton Heat! I always knew who The Reverend Horton Heat was, but I never gave his music a shot. Nothing put me off him, I just never made the time. Reader Ryan would like me to correct that:
A few (Defector) Pals were discussing your excellent list of opening riffs. I realized one of the ones I offered up would also make a great Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall. It's Psychobilly Freakout by Reverend Horton Heat. This song answers the question, "What if we built the whole song out of opening riff?" I saw the Rev last month, and am pleased to report that even at the age of 64, he's still slapping as hard as ever.
OK yeah, this is very much my shit. But wait! Ryan has an even bigger Christmas treat for us. I’ve often been asked if I keep a playlist of the Brick Wall songs that run in this column. I do not. But guess who does? Tell ‘em, Ry.
As always, thank you for the constant riffage and wall-busting motivation. I faithfully maintain this playlist so I am never without it.
Don’t thank me, Ryan. Thank the readers. I’m just the middleman here. The Ian Faith of wall-busting riffs, as it were.
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 2025 chopping block:
Brian Callahan—FIRED!
Brian Daboll—FIRED!
Jonathan Gannon*****
Pete Carroll*
Zac Taylor
Dan Quinn
John Harbaugh
Kevin Stefanski
Raheem Morris
Andy Reid
Aaron Glenn
Shane Steichen
(* - potential midseason firing)
Here’s a cheap theory for you. The second Daniel Jones went down, new owner Carlie Irsay-Gordon knew she’d have an excuse to clean house after this season is over. All her team had to do was collapse. So when GM Chris Ballard was like, My old pal Phil Rivers wants to play for us again! she had zero problem approving the move. This isn’t the same as her old man giving the same sort of wild personnel blessing while on a ketamine bender. This is someone looking to fumigate the place. She would’ve let Ballard sign Tim Tebow if it had helped the Colts suck even worse.
Jim Harbaugh’s Lifehack Of The Week!
“This time of year, I always harbor a disturbing thought in my mind: What if the Virgin Mary had aborted Jesus before his birth? Can you imagine what the world would be like today if she’d resorted to such wickedness? And just think: God may have sent Jesus back down to us at some point in this century, as the scripture promised, only for him to be aborted that time! How many Second Comings have we been denied by these selfish women? I know our tackle room could certainly have used that new Jesus, good gosh almighty!”
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Scott sends in this story I call ON THE COMMODE:
A few years ago I drove cross country to San Francisco with my older son, who'd recently graduated college. We left at 9:00AM the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Leg 1: From NC to Little Rock, AR, stopping in Nashville for dinner. Leg 2: from Little Rock to Albuquerque NM, stopping in Oklahoma City for lunch. Great breakfast in Albuquerque, then on to Las Vegas NV, broken up by a quick visit to the Grand Canyon. We arrived Las Vegas at 1:00, and then ate and drank until early morning, when we had a huge breakfast at the MGM Grand. After that, we headed out for Leg 4: Vegas to SF. We arrived about 9:00 PM and celebrated with crabs in butter sauce.
As we drove from dinner to our hotel I think the butter started agitating my intestinal control systems. The sweats came on, along with some serious sphincter clenching. We parked and went to check in, at which point I was dancing in place, gritting my teeth. We should've gone straight to the room, but went to get our bags from the car instead. As I was leaving the car, I spotted a wad of napkins in the door pocket. I already knew I was doomed, so I yelled at my son to go and unlock the room while I ducked behind a Lincoln Navigator and barely managed to pull my pants down before spraying the area with high velocity feces. It was horrible, but I made it to the room without further incident.
We didn't tell my wife or younger son about this for several years, but this father-son bonding story always makes us laugh.
As it should. Clark Griswold would have killed to party in Vegas with his kid and then shit in a parking garage.
Brick Johnson’s Executive Proposal Of The Week
“Dad, we’re doing a music fest for New Year’s in Turks & Caicos. No no no, it won’t be like that Fyre Fest thing. My friend Dame-onslayer has legit connections all over the industry. We’ve got sombr already committed to one night doing the main stage, plus Salt Bae is doing all of the food! It’s gonna be fucking massive. I’m gonna score some serious tail. Trust, Dad. Trust.”
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Barley Extra Strong! For extra strong boys and girls! From Max:
After a week of weak Italian piss beer, I wandered into a local Carfour Express and found this sneakily strong, and shockingly tasty, beer. I was delighted to find out that Barley isn’t even British. It’s made in Poland, which is probably why it only cost €2.50. It pours dark and tastes like I should be eating salt and vinegar chips while playing darts. My only regret is that I only bought one before the carfour closed at 8pm.
Hey man, how come American beers don’t get to be labeled as “Extra strong”? And don’t tell it’s because of laws. This is Donald Trump’s America. We don’t have laws here. We need to show people who the extra strongest country is, and we must do it by tripling the ABV of our own domestic swill and then plastering a big WILL MAKE YOUR PENIS 30 percent GIRTHIER across the label! Who’s with me?!
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Raiders Fans
Doctor Sleep, the 2019 sequel to The Shining that’s perfectly good on its own, but still not nearly as good of a movie as its predecessor. Of course, Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece is one of the greatest horror films ever made, so anyone who thought writer/director Mike Flanagan could match it was bound to be disappointed. However, for those of us who are NOT breathtakingly stupid, you’ll get rewarded with a suitably creepy airplane flick. You’ll also get plenty of Rebecca Ferguson, looking shit-hot even though she’s wearing a silly hat for the entire film. Rebecca also kills people, but any red-blooded moviegoer would love being murdered by someone that talented and attractive. Three stars. Now go watch the original again.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Is it more iced tea ye be needing?”
“OK.”
“YARR HAR HAR!”
Enjoy the games, everyone. Merry Christmas!
