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.
Late afternoon football is the best football. The NFL regular season can make you forget this evergreen fact, because the 4 p.m. slot is custom-made for viewers to steal a nap while one shitty AFC West team battles another. But then the playoffs arrive, and you and I are reminded of what makes twilight football—outdoors and on grass—special. You start off in broad daylight as both teams fuck around for a quarter or two. Then the sun slowly begins to bleed away, taking all distractions along with it as it sinks below the horizon. Now we’re in primetime, when everyone is watching. Now every player on the field is in the spotlight, and you, the viewer at home, are dialed in. Our long afternoon’s journey into night is over, and shit is starting to get intense. Shit is starting to matter.
Also, it’s cocktail hour.
If you’ve ever gone to a Super Bowl party, you know that the best part of that party is the food. And when is that food served? Before the game, when the sun is still shining and everyone wants to pregame, often into the first quarter. You arrive sometime after five and get right to work on some wings, some Doritos, maybe a brownie bite or two in between. There’s nothing that Americans like me love more than snacks, and there’s no better time to eat those snacks than before dinner, when you’ve got a cold drink in your hand and all the time in the world to chill.
I come from a family that takes its cocktail hours very seriously. My grandparents loved their cocktail hour, and so did my own folks. They all loved their post-work cocktail, as many working adults do. But they were never satisfied with just that. They’d put out tasteful bowls of mixed nuts to go with … plus some chips and dip, and maybe even a tray of poppable appetizers. Sometimes phyllo dough would make an appearance. They’d do this even when outside company wasn’t around. Especially when outside company wasn’t around, because why offer cocktail weenies to guests when you can eat all of them yourself? Older generations of my family were never shy about enjoying themselves.
Neither am I. The Super Bowl begins right around 6:30 p.m. this Sunday: the perfect time for it to commence when the action is taking place on the West Coast, right before sundown. I’ll make chili for dinner, as is custom. But I’ll put even more time and care into what we eat before dinner. I’ll arrange pita wedges tastefully around a plate and set a tub of hummus next to it. I’ll bust out the limes and mix myself a proper fake gin and tonic. I might even buy some of those little pastry shells and fill them up with something fancy-ish, like a smoked trout dip. After that, I’ll pop a high-dose gummy, crack open an overpriced near beer, then commence with the gluttony. Will I have a small bowl of chili as an appetizer to a big bowl of chili? Reader, how dare you even ask that.
Because this is cocktail hour. This is my time to be good to myself. Every American loves their me time, but they’ll spend a lot of that time yelling into a phone, or playing some shitty video game that wants to upsell them a bunch of shit, or watching bad reality TV. That’s not good me time. That’s not really being good to yourself. Cocktail hour represents an opportunity to level your game up. You can mix your own cocktail instead of buying a premade one in a can. You can cook a snack instead of merely opening one. You can even put a nicer shirt if you feel like it. You don’t have to have company over. Shit, you don’t even need a special occasion for it.
Lord knows I never need one. I have grown into a man who cherishes cocktail hour for cocktail hour’s sake, and I don’t even drink alcohol. That’s why almost every day, after I’ve punched out from my blogging duties, I get my pregame on. I eat. I drink. I watch the afternoon sun go down with a light nosh in my mouth, and I live. I revel in the small pleasures that life has to offer, because those are the greatest pleasures of all. Never deprive yourself of them. Because eventually shit will get serious, and you’ll want half a tray of seven-layer dip inside of you once it does. This is the Super Bowl, and you and I have some partying to do. Welcome to your Super Bowl Jamboroo. Music, please:
Off we go.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms. And because I’m brave and strong, I pick every playoff game. All picks are guaranteed to win or your money back (you will not get your money back).
Five Throwgasms
Seahawks (-4.5) 35, Patriots 14. It’s not necessarily wise to pick against the Patriots when that team is on a historic “they can’t keep getting away with this” run. The way New England’s postseason has gone, half the Seahawks roster will die in a bus accident on their way to Santa Clara. But should fate prove kinder (ha!), you and I know which team is better here. I can’t pick against Seattle when they’ve got All-Pro talent at every level on defense and an offense that rips off 40-yard gains as a matter of routine. I’m riding with Sam Darnold and the gang … so congrats to New England on its next dynasty. Just what America needed in these uncertain times.
Two weeks ago: 2-0
Overall: 5-7
Drew’s Chili Recipe
I post this recipe every year, and every year at least one person yells at me for including corn in it. Calm down, corn haters. Let’s not say things that might get us suspended from Bluesky.
Also, go ahead and swap out the meats listed below for any other protein you’d prefer. This weekend I’m gonna use a whole chuck roast, plus some short ribs. Why the fuck not, it’s the Super Bowl. Let’s go cah-razay!
FOR THE CHILI:
2 pounds ground beef or chicken, at least 20% fat
1 onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped (ANNUAL NOTE: Shallots are the things that make restaurant food taste like restaurant food.)
1 jalapeno, chopped
1 large can crushed tomatoes
1 small can tomato paste
1 can tall red kidney beans, drained
1 can corn, drained
1 can beer
1 can chicken broth
1 tsp liquid smoke
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp fennel seed
2 tbsp cumin (add more at end if necessary)
2 tbsp chili powder (add more at end if necessary)
1/4 cup white vinegar
Salt & Pepper to taste
Ashes from a joint (optional)
Lotta Frank’s Hot Sauce
2 glugs olive oil
FOR THE SIDES:
Shredded cheese
Tortilla chips
Sour cream
Frank’s hot sauce
1 bunch scallions, chopped
Beer
Put a big pot on the stove on medium. Pour in the oil. When it’s hot, toss in the onions, garlic, jalapeno, and shallots and stir them around until soft. Toss in the ground meat. Salt and pepper the ground meat in the pot. Sautee the meat until it’s good and brown. Add the tomatoes, beans, corn, beer, broth, liquid smoke, sugar, cumin, chili powder, fennel seed, joint ashes, vinegar, and Frank’s. Bring it to a simmer. Half cover the pot and leave it on low medium heat for 3-4 hours, stirring occasionally and always tasting. The liquid in the pot should reduce into a nice, thick stew. Dip in a chip to see if the chili sticks to it. If it does, it’s ready to serve.
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Attainable,” by Gel! Recommended by Phil:
I can't remember how I first heard GEL but I listened to their EPs in a span of a day and then I decided to see them live a few weeks ago. I love the gravelly voice of Sami Kaiser, so I got hooked right away. Hardcore female singers kick ass.
Songs like this make me yearn for a punk rock revival in America, because honestly, what better time than now for it? There are a million discouraging things about the fascist takeover, but one I always get hung up on is the lack of protest art. Bruce Springsteen cosplaying as Bob Dylan doesn’t count. I need young voices, and I need them amplified. This moment calls for an anthem, not another goddamn Taylor Swift cash-in.
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—FIRED!
Pete Carroll—FIRED!
Kevin Stefanski—FIRED!
Raheem Morris—FIRED!
John Harbaugh—FIRED!
Sean McDermott—FIRED!
Mike McDaniel—FIRED!
Mike Tomlin—QUIT!
Aaron Glenn
Dan Quinn
Kevin O’Connell
In case you missed it late last week, the Vikings got in on the fun by sacking their GM at the exact wrong time to sack a GM. Now they’ll go into the combine, free agency, and the draft with a temp GM and a power-mad head coach who will do pretty much anything to make sure he doesn’t get fired after the 2026 season is over. That’s a recipe that just screams “Sign Aaron Rodgers to help you go 9-8 and blow your shot at a high draft pick.” That’s not cool, man. I protest this.
Also, they didn’t fire Paul Allen. Amy Klobuchar may as well own this team. Christ.
Jim Harbaugh’s Lifehack Of The Week!
“I’ll watch the Super Bowl from home this week, but make no mistake: it will burn me to do so. I’ll see the Patriots and Seahawks on my screen, and all I’ll be able to think about are the critical mistakes we made along our own path. Those mistakes eat at me. Every day. I go to sleep agonizing over them, and I wake up feeling much the same way. So this game on Sunday will eat at my very soul. It will BURN, and burn hotter than fires of hell. My stomach will cinch into a knot. My mouth will taste little more than bile and ash. Every cell in my body will cry out in pain, as if being it’s being attacked by a great fanged wolf. I’ll collapse to my knees and swear to the Almighty that I will not rest, NEVER rest, until I have atoned for my failures. I will not sleep. I will not eat. I will only drink enough to water to stave off death. My underbite will grow even more pronounced. I shall BECOME pain, and then inflict myself on my enemies as if they’ve done me a horrible wrong. Because they have.”
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Didyougetmycheezewhizboy sends in this story I call A TURD IN THE HAND:
I currently live in Western New York, but in my early 20s I moved to Chicago for a job. I’d never even visited the city before moving and had no real friends in the area, except for a couple with whom I’d gone to college about six years prior.
This couple invited me to a party at their townhouse where dogs were welcome. Apprehensive about going solo but hoping to meet some new people, I grabbed my grumpy rat terrier and headed out. There were about twenty-five people there, all clustered in the kitchen. After a few minutes of chatting I noticed that my dog had wandered off alone. I found him in a nearby (blessedly empty) room giving the hardwood floor a good sniff and immediately knew what was about to happen. For a second I considered how humiliating it would be to walk into a room full of people I didn’t know and ask for some wipes to clean up after my filthy animal, so without hesitation I squatted behind my dog, placed my hands together under his rear, and caught a warm pile of shit before it hit the floor. I then carried it to the (blessedly nearby) bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. After scrubbing my hands I returned to the crowd in the kitchen – no one had seen a thing. I didn’t stay for too long after that.
Almost 25 years later I’m still friends with one-half of that couple but have never told her this story. Maybe someday.
Hey! I caught my dog’s shit with my hand once, too! I had a bag over my hand though, so I’m not sure we count as poop buddies. But I still give props to any dog owner who bypasses the ground and takes their dog poop straight from the anus.
Brick Johnson’s Executive Proposal Of The Week
“Dad! Dad! Where’s the fucking keg tap? My friend Scrubb got a half barrel for our party, but forgot to get a tap when he put down the security deposit. We gotta have one lying around the house, right? We’re rich; we got one of everything. Come on, old man. Oh, and I’m also gonna need a riser. And a turntable. And strippers—good strippers, not ones from Jersey. And three dozen tomahawk steaks. And at least two kilos of pharmaceutical coke. And full access to the infinity pool.
"What do you mean, no? Are you fucking serious, Wood? Well then maybe I should un-redact some of those redacted Epstein files, hmm?"
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Real American Beer. Did you know that there’s a commemorative Hulk Hogan beer? You do now! From John:
The other night, my wife sent me out to get some wine, so I hit up a wine store I’d never visited before and grabbed a bottle. Next door was a bodega, so I stopped in to grab some beer for myself. Mixed in with all the IPAs and tall boys was something I’d never seen before—Real American Beer, which looked like it was exploiting Hulk’s “legacy.” So of course I grabbed one, plus a 12-pack of Narragansett since it had special Jaws 50th anniversary art on the box. Anyway, turns out RAB is actually owned by the Hulk, or his estate, so I am sorry for sending them part of my four dollars; I had assumed some anonymous con artist was behind it. Anyway the beer tasted like a sub-Bud Light lager and, due to the enormous can, it lasted far too long.
Hulk Hogan had terrible ring work and was an even worse person, so I’m glad his beer sucks. I MUST BURN IT.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Raiders Fans
The Guillermo del Toro Frankenstein, which I enjoyed a lot more than many other people did (read this excellent Kelsey review for an example). The CGI exteriors in this film are terrible, but pretty much everything else is gorgeous, including Frankenstein’s monster (Jacob Elordi, because del Toro loves monsters who are DTF). In fact, this movie has a lot of classical monster movie elements that I’d been jonesing for. The dialogue is fantastically overwrought, the interiors are lush and gorgeous, and there’s a spooky castle up on a mountain. Check, check, and check. Also, Oscar Isaac took a break from collecting paychecks to give a kickass performance, showy British accent included. I had a good-ass time watching the whole thing. And if you’re like, “Hey wait, does this movie feature a character having their lower jaw ripped off their face?” fear not. Del Toro has you covered. He’s always got you covered in that department. Three stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Ah, these Laramie cigarettes give me the steady nerves that I need to combat evil.”
“Gee willikers, Radioactive Man! Wish I was old enough to smoke Laramies!”
“Sorry, Fallout Boy. Not until you're sixteen.”
Enjoy the Super Bowl, everyone.
