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.
I am no longer a full-time writer primarily because I work too slowly and the pay sucks. But a secondary reason is that my brain does not carve out hardline stances that make for good takes. For example: I don’t particularly like Christmas! But even with my humbug sliders maxed out, I could never reach the level of contempt that ur-crank Albert Burneko doled out for Santa Claus:
It's funny to think of people getting up in arms about any capitalist appropriation of "Santa Claus," a 100 percent made-up corporate advertising mascot bearing the same relationship to the Christian historical figure of Saint Nicholas that Hannibal Lecter has to the murdered prison guard whose sliced-off face he wore as a disguise to escape confinement. This is a figure that exists pretty much explicitly to obfuscate the religious meaning of Christmas in favor of a Satanic monthlong veneration of shopping and consumerism. "Santa Claus," the ruddy-cheeked Greed God presiding over the modern December avarice bacchanalia erected atop Christmas like a ghastly Trump hotel casino built on the ruins of a chapel, is in that sense as close to a figure of pure evil as our society now has.
I agree with that paragraph, but gently. I have a strong distaste for the month spent at the altar of consumerism, but as a parent of grade school kids I must also bend to it; lashing out at the capitalist machine only makes the necessary gift-buying more unpleasant for me.
Even in the best of months, I am barely holding it all together—balancing the demands of my job, shuttling my kids to and from school and various extracurriculars, making separate meals for picky eaters and (somewhat) health-conscious adults, helping with homework, and attempting to carve out time for exercise and hobbies that make me feel like an individual human person with free will. It’s a lot!
Nowhere in that regular existence do I have the mental and emotional bandwidth for the full-time project management of December: Buying presents for everyone, wrapping those gifts and shipping them on time, writing and sending out the family holiday card to dozens of friends and loved ones, balancing a full workload (sports don’t take holidays off) with inevitable travel to visit parents or in-laws, and carving out evenings for family activities that happen concurrently with my kids’ end-of-term tests and projects. (My wife will read this with rolling eyes; she is a grade school teacher and organizes most of our holiday season. She is the driving force behind decorations and gift-buying, and every year she creates an activity-based Advent calendar for our children that, frankly, is more effort than it’s worth, but she created the tradition and is now stuck with it.)
I lack the stamina necessary for the season. I enjoy Christmas music for about a week before it starts grating on me. I would like one, perhaps two egg nog drinks per year. I don’t own and do not want a holiday sweater, ever. And Christmas movies: I watch Elf every year (delightful!) but would prefer to see it every 2-3 years. My wife—my beautiful partner!—cannot truly enjoy the season without watching Love Actually, and in the name of love I focus on Hugh Grant’s impish charm and not the rampant misogyny in each of the movie’s 42 story lines. Please don’t make me watch A Christmas Story for the 37th time. I still haven’t seen One Battle After Another!
I am not a Scrooge, I swear! I just have five days of holiday joy, and the season demands four weeks of it. It’s simply too much, for too long. And I don’t think I’m alone in this feeling. I have close friends who grew up in dysfunctional homes, and they struggle to create something that was never modeled by their parents. My social media feeds have featured moms, both single and partnered, who have lamented the invisible work the season demands. And I’m certain that non-Christians can’t help but feel excluded in many ways, even though Christmas has become, to borrow the words of a poet, the modern December avarice bacchanalia.
However, as much as I might want our Christo-consumerist culture torn down, I’m not doing myself or my family any favors with my shitty attitude. And so I’ve shifted my focus this year, and I’m sharing it with the hope that it will help someone else who’s similarly enervated by the sound of sleigh bells, or a chain of Christmas lights that goes out when a single bulb burns out, or by going to any store for a single minute between December 21st through 24th.
Here it is: Rather than a four-week slog to get through, I now view the season as an island-hopping campaign. The thankless stuff to grind through is most of the journey, and I accept that I will feel underwater for long stretches. But I can find a couple high points along the way—moments when the whole family is smiling, or an interaction with a stranger that feels warm and generous simply because it’s Christmas. Now, as I look back on this month, I can see the high points clearly: My children playing among the lights at Descanso Gardens as my wife and I sipped cocoa; standing on a small peninsula with my sister and her family to watch a parade of boats lit up with lights and holiday decorations; the reconnection with friends who were moved to reach out after they got my family’s card. The other stuff is just the long cold miles in between. It always has been.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Bears at 49ers: As a Seahawks fan, I am less charmed by Kyle Shanahan’s regular-season brilliance than neutral fans are. All this nonsense with Mac Jones being serviceable and Brandon Aiyuk being unnecessary and someone named Tonges kicking ass every time George Kittle exits with another injury. Humbug! I would like to see Jeans Stadium imploded and the earth below it salted. The 49ers are my wife’s favorite team.
Four Throwgasms
Texans at Chargers (Saturday): As I write this, the Chargers control their destiny in the AFC West and even have a shot at the top seed in the AFC. That they’ve done this without their two (excellent) starting tackles merits a third-place finish for Jim Harbaugh in the Coach of the Year vote.
Meanwhile, the Texans now have a modestly functioning offense after half a season of C.J. Stroud eating turf behind the worst line in football. I would like this game to be played 7-on-7 so these poor sweet quarterbacks have a chance to start a playoff game without a full body cast.
Seahawks at Panthers: I think it’s cool that the Panthers are fun and competent, and of course I’m grateful that they beat the Rams a few weeks back. I never want highly drafted quarterbacks to wash out (except Mitch Trubisky, but that was because of Bears fans), so it’s nice to see Bryce Young claw his way back from the brink. That said, I would like Leonard Williams to tear his spinal column out and hold it aloft for all to witness. Metaphorically, of course. I wouldn’t want Big Cat suspended.
Eagles at Bills
Three Throwgasms
Ravens at Packers: Drew complains too much about Jordan Love, but I can’t fault him because I feel the same way about Matt Stafford. It sucks shit when your team’s rival has an awesome quarterback! (But I think it’s even worse if your team’s rival has what you suspect is a mediocre quarterback propped up by Kyle Shanahan. The Niners should trade Brock Purdy to the Browns to test this hypothesis.)
Bucs at Dolphins: Three teams in Florida is too many. The entire state should be abandoned to the gators and mosquitoes—with the exception of Miami and the Keys, which for cultural and anthropological reasons (Carl Hiaasen books) should be kept alive via Berlin Airlift-style drops of snake oil supplements and various illegal drugs. Do not debase yourself and say “Disney World” to me.
Jaguars at Colts: I can’t quite carve out a spicy take on Phil Rivers being back in the league. Sure, I love having his lovably stupid expressions back on my TV; there is no five-year clock on having a Hall of Fame reaction face. I am both exasperated and delighted by the way every duck that leaves his hand STILL floats directly where a receiver can catch it. But I just come back to … why? I want the game to move forward. I waited a solid decade for Brady, Manning, Roethlisberger, and Rivers to wrap up their too-long careers. I want One Last Job in my heist movies, not in my NFL. Put Riley Leonard out there and see what you have.
Two Throwgasms
Cardinals at Bengals: Amazon’s game production is solid, but the product has a LONG way to go until it sniffs YouTube TV. On YouTube TV, the unit of time for the skip forward button is 15 seconds; click it twice in quick succession after a play and you’ll go directly to the next snap (or through a commercial). Amazon’s is 10 seconds, but you can only click it once – it reloads before you can click it again. As someone who habitually starts watching games an hour after kickoff, this is HELL. No one in human history has suffered as much as I do during Amazon telecasts.
Rams at Falcons: As much as I loathe the Rams, it’s been a disappointment to see Puka Nacua speed-run the Antonio Brown timeline. Professional sports teams, take note: I am available as a consultant to curate social media feeds and internet intake for your dumbest athletes.
Broncos at Chiefs (Christmas): Please. Someone in the Denver metro area. I need you to shove Bo Nix into a 21st century barbershop and tell someone with clippers to give him something besides the Johnny Unitas. It’s embarrassing seeing a 25-year-old with an $18 million contract trotting around like someone who voted for Nixon.
One Throwgasm
Patriots at Jets: I don’t care if Drake Maye adopts puppies, donates to progressive candidates primarying legacy Democrats, and even playfully negs Pats fans: I will not, for a single moment, open the door to sympathetic casual fandom of the Patriots. I need the team swept out of the playoffs before the AFC Championship Game. I have to spend Super Bowl Week at Radio Row this year, and I refuse to spend it around Pats fans all giddy and excited about their team. Send those cockroaches scuttling back into darkness.
Steelers at Browns: I will die on the “DK Metcalf is cool as hell” hill. The man learned ASL to freely talk shit in his touchdown celebrations; he can do no wrong in my eyes. Anyone he punches had it coming.
Cowboys at Commanders (Christmas): One of the great pleasures of living in California is that I am finally free of the dogshit football teams of the NFC East. Stephen A. Smith swaggering around with a cigar in his mouth when the Cowboys lose, the latest nonsense about the Commanders’ next stadium, Giants coaching rumors inevitably mentioning Bill Belichick – all of that is a newspaper in a trash can as I walk towards a canyon trail on a sunny December morning. Dull and unimportant news from a cold and distant planet.
Lions at Vikings (Christmas)
ZERO Throwgasms
Giants at Raiders: As someone with soft spots for both Geno Smith and Pete Carroll, I am super-bummed about the Raiders’ season, even if Mark Davis specifically and Las Vegas generally deserve it. In related news, I would rather hear about a venture capital firm dismantling the Giants than one more grown adult saying “Mr. Mara.”
Saints at Titans: Get rid of regular season overtime. The only argument for OT is “But I want a WINNER and a LOSER!” So what. I want government services funded by a wealth tax. Those teams had 60 minutes to figure it out; send them home with a tie and let playoff OT be the only set of overtime rules anyone has to know.
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“I’ll Believe in Anything” by Wolf Parade. When I eagerly agreed to write this column two weeks ago, there were year-end music lists featuring both Geese and Goose, which I have recently learned are two separate bands. It reminded me of the Great Wolf Band Mini-Boom of 2006, when both Wolfmother and Wolf Parade had new albums that carved out a space in the robust indie rock scene. Wolfmother was Australian, Wolf Parade was Canadian, and the two bands sounded nothing alike, but they were both Wolf-something so we had a trend. (Pitchfork also cited the existence of Wolf Eyes, Fuckwolf, and AIDS Wolf, which I note only to welcome additional goose-based band names.)
Anyway, I was going to remind you about the forgotten brilliance of “I’ll Believe in Anything,” except it is now the #1 song on Spotify after being featured in Heated Rivalry, the Canadian queer hockey romance now streaming on HBO. Scooped by the gays!
Please do yourself the favor of listening to the rest of the album, Apologies to the Queen Mary. It holds up.
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
Mike McCoy
Pete Carroll
Dan Quinn
John Harbaugh
Kevin Stefanski
Raheem Morris
(* - potential midseason firing)
No one else is getting fired until the end of the season. Mike McDaniel, through run game wizardry and Tua’s benching, has probably saved his job. Zac Taylor is safe because Mike Brown will never pay to make a coach go away.
Jim Harbaugh’s Lifehack Of The Week!
I will not be adopting Jim Harbaugh’s voice in this section, but I will share a piece of lore from my in-laws. They live in Oakland, and so did Harbaugh when he was the Raiders’ quarterbacks coach. Every year, an organization tied to the school my wife and her brother went to hosts a father/child two-on-two basketball tournament. I’m told the vibe of this tournament is relaxed; the dads mostly rebound and pass to their kids. The intent is to let the kids shine.
The intent, when Jim Harbaugh and one of his children entered this tournament, was TO WIN. What unfolded, as it has been told to me, was a basketball version of Peyton Manning’s United Way sketch on SNL. Harbaugh double-teamed and trapped the opposing kid. He threw elbows in the post. He was not there to let the kids shine. He was, in other words, exactly how you would expect Jim Harbaugh to be in a basketball game with no real stakes.
I had always figured this story was embellished over the years by my in-laws, who are lively and eager raconteurs. Except I recently Googled the tournament and discovered that there is a “Harbaugh Hustle Award” given to one dad every year. I don’t know for sure, but I believe the goal is to NOT win that award.
Great Moments In Poop History
I don’t have access to Drew’s email archive of poop stories, and I have somehow already shared my two worst (best?) poop stories online. Once was in this very space, though I believe the column was still at Deadspin at the time (I was backed up for three days, took a laxative, and filled – literally filled – my girlfriend’s toilet with the results. The toilet was broken. She had three roommates.) I have also written at great length about my wife and I getting food poisoning after our wedding in Mexico, and how we barved and shidded across two international flights. I am not sorry to say that the website where I shared that is now gone.
But I’m not here to recycle my own waste. New content only. Here’s a story Drew might call THE FOREVER POOP:
Spring of 2003. I’m in Iraq as a tank officer in the Marines. We’ve completed the invasion of Baghdad, and my unit has been slowly pulled away from the capital. There’s no infrastructure to support the U.S. military at this early stage of the war, so no one has had an opportunity to shower for weeks. We do our best with baby wipes, but when a bunch of people go that long without proper hygiene, the shits start going around.
One night full of bright gray moonlight, I awake with a cold sweat and twisted guts. With barely enough time to get my boots on – and certainly not enough to get them tied – I roll off the back deck of the tank, pull down my shorts, and before I can finish leaning against the tank’s ballistic skirt, I’m unleashing a torrent of diarrhea, a violent eruption of liquid shit that erases my dignity.
But the fun has only begun: During a break from the diarrhea, I lean forward and retch out the contents of my stomach so hard that vomit comes out of both my mouth and nose. Then I lean back and piss out my ass some more, then I lean forward and vomit again.
When I’m finally done, I wanly crawl back on the tank and drink most of a canteen of water and ingest a couple of saltines with the hope that they might settle my stomach. They don’t. Two hours later, I repeat the process. By the third time it happens two hours after that, it starts to become funny. I look at the crackers I’m about to eat and say, “I’ll see you guys in a couple hours.” And I do, shortly before the dry heaves.
The next day I woke up the surgeon at dawn and demanded an IV and drugs. I spent the entire day sleeping and rehydrating. Best day of the war, honestly.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
ZUBR! I texted this picture to Drew back in October, and he said he’d put it in the column the following week. He didn’t. You can’t trust a guy with a brain injury to remember anything. Here’s what I wrote to him back then:
I was looking for a cheap tallboy at Total Wine, and I found my match when I locked eyes with this Polish buffalo – $3.99 for a pint (tariffs). Like a Texas beer with an elephant on it, you KNOW it’s going be authentic.
At 6.0% ABV, it was heavy for a lager, but the flavor was malty and pleasant. Would buy again, but only for a Bills fan.
Thanks for writing in, me!
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Raiders Fans
LISTERS, which is the best movie I saw all year (again, I did not see One Battle After Another). Brothers Owen and Quentin Reiser examine hardcore birding by taking part in a “big year” – a year-long effort to see as many North American bird species as possible – despite being total novices. Complete dedication to a half-baked idea created magic: Their burnout vibe and lo-fi production frame a documentary that is both laugh-out-loud funny and journalistically rigorous, something made lovingly about birding that also takes the piss out of it. Five stars.
Oh and the whole thing is right there on YouTube. You can just, like, watch it right now. Go for it!
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“My glasses!”
Enjoy the games, everyone. Merry Christmas!
