The Super-Short, Super-Quick, Thanksgiving Giving Thanks ExtravaTonyDanza

I'm going to try to be positive here. I ... really will. Ok.

[takes a deep breath]

Here we go.

[drinks a rocks glass full of rye whiskey]

I'm thankful for ...

• The AFC West. Way to go, Chargers! I appreciate you playing on that shredded knee, Herr Merriman. And I like that you've disappeared completely off the face of the earth, LT. Seriously, the Broncos are going to be one of the worst division winners in the history of sports. Right up there with my 2005 San Diego Padres! Christ.

• The trade that brought Chauncey Billups back home. I loved watching Iverson play, and I always will. But you have to play defense some time.

• Time Warner Cable not carrying Versus on its normal digital cable package. This way I don't have to watch Super Joe Sakic finish his career in the dumps. Hey, remember when they had a chance to get Roberto Luongo, and instead went for Jose Theodore? Me neither.

• The Colorado State Rabid Rams getting back to respectability. The good news: they're bowl-eligible with 6 wins! The bad news: they also lost 6. The gooder news: that's .500, baby, and in my book that spells respectability! Here we go, average, here we go! (clap clap)
  

• The economic crisis. Maybe it was needed to show the owners that spending two weeks' salary on four tickets, parking, some hot dogs, soda and beer and a hat or two is a FUCKING CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY. You're pricing the people who love your product out of the fucking arena. Assholes.

• My co-writer here at the Pretzel Factory. He is one super-neat human.
  

• My significant other, Clare. I don't say it enough. She's awesome.

Enjoy your holidays, everyone.

A Day in the (Non-Football-Playing) Life of Jamie Winborn

10:04 am: Rolls over. Farts. Reaches into nightstand drawer, grabs air horn. Honks it for thirty-five seconds.

10:22 am: Gets on treadmill for a light run. Fifteen minutes in, calls his cardiologist to tell him he has not sustained a heart attack.

10:49 am: Takes a shower. Shaves successfully without slicing carotid artery. Goes into garage, gets a pair of hedge clippers, writes "GRATEST SHAVER IN DA UNIVERZZ" on the handle in black marker, affixes hedge clippers to tire chains with copious amounts of glue, wears around neck. Slyly reflects on clever "gratest" pun, giggles.

11:36 am: Prepares late breakfast of egg white omelet, toast, orange juice and milk, and fresh fruit. Calls Denver Post, asks if they can send a photographer over to take a picture of his creation for the Food section.

12:41 pm: Pops in Madden '09 on XBox 360, puts it on Rookie mode. Picks the Cowboys as his team, selects the Lions for the computer. Home game in Arlington. Needs to convert on fourth-and-goal with :02 left to win 37-35. Calls up producers of ESPN's "Madden Nation," tells them to "let them bitch-ass youngstas know that Jamie Mothafuckin' Winborn was BORN to WIN. Get that bus on out here to Denver, we see what's what!"

2:15 pm: Heads out for a quick position meeting at team headquarters. There's a desk open toward the front, but they keep saying it's being saved for some dude named Carl Hecklebird or some shit. Sits in the back, alone. Again.

3:35 pm: Late matinee. Enjoys Zack and Miri Make a Porno, but isn't totally satisfied. E-mails writer/director Kevin Smith: "Loved the tittays, but I gotta say - I felt a real emotional detachment with the characters. In the end, I'm not sure I cared whether they succeeded and fell in love or not. And next time, more bukkake jokes."

During the movie, eats entire large tub of popcorn and a box of Whoppers. Takes a triumphant shit while raising one gloved fist.

6:27 pm: Picks up his daughter for dinner. She runs out of her mother's house and leaps off the porch, into his arms.

Drops her on her head.

6:28 pm: Successfully dials 911, starts penning an opening to his 2009 "Father of the Year" speech.

7:13 pm: Asks many nuanced, intelligent questions about neurological disorders and head trauma. Explains to hospital worker that, as a result of his profession, he has suffered quite a few concussions and near-concussions in his day. Cashier at the flower shop in the hospital lobby politely asks for $12.74.

7:36 pm: Hospital food is no good, so it's off to McDonald's. Successfully remembers order of Happy Meal with McNuggets, but got honey mustard instead of BBQ sauce. Brings back bland BBQ sauce from hospital cafeteria, asks nurse for complimentary morphine.

8:23 pm: Drops daughter back off at mother's house under a scornful eye. Wonders what it would cost to start own clothing line with his picture on the pockets of the jeans.

9:00 pm: Studies game film of the coming week's opponent to figure out habits and tendencies and ... wait. Holy shit. The quarterback's lined up as a receiver, and the running back is taking a direct snap! Fuck. You can do shit like that?

10:38 pm: A few drinks with some old friends. Okay, buddies. Okay, acquaintances. Okay, dudes at the club who realize there is a Denver Bronco drinking by himself because the bartender somehow gets paid extra to announce "Seven & Seven for the Denver Broncos' Jamie Winborn!" loud as shit every time the situation demands.

11:27 pm: Talks to a fly honey at the club, tries to get her to come home and be a tackling dummy. All the boys keep pointing toward her and laughing, so she must be funny as fuck.

12:09 am: Humping. Some good shit. Wall-shaking, earth-shattering, headboard-slamming, baby oil-spreading, neighbor's daughter-crying, stray dog-barking f-u-c-k-i-n-g.

12:12 am: She leaves, says she just remembered she has a big interview in the morning. Must be important because she forgets to leave her number. Briefly considers contacting Barack Obama to inquire about a possible Secretary of Sex position.

12:14 am: Bangs chest, King Kong-style, at bedroom window. Places hedge clipper-necklace on chair. Sleeps.

Compounded Reality and the Confused Arab Chicken Company

Down the street from my apartment, there is a company that advertises fried chicken and pizza. While it's obvious to most that one should never eat either fried chicken or pizza from a place that claims to specialize in both, my roommate and I were desperate to have fried chicken delivered to our doorstep. This was a mistake, and not one we will ever make again.

Also, we should have known the food, in general would be terrible since the company did not spell the foods themselves correctly, speak English enough to know that chicken was being ordered over the phone, and had no idea that they had advertised credit cards being accepted on their menu. All perfectly fine reasons not to order their food. Yet, we did it anyway. It was an unmitigated disaster, yes, but it was something we had to learn.

Alas, I cannot be angry at a lineup that includes Perkins, Glen Davis and Leon Powe trying to vie for the worst interior spacing in the history of modern basketball. I should not balk at the idea of having three different big men in the game while Eddie House defended Chauncey Billups (a known Celtics killer). I honestly can't get mad. Because I get it. The rebounding and hustle trio is too tempting an idea: three hungry (albiet slow-footed for 2/3 of them) players looking to dominate the paint and the glass. I get that. As a coach for a team that was underacheiving for the game, you wanted energy from the players. Something to spark the first unit. That's understandable.

But, now, Doc, you've eaten the chicken and it tastyed terrible. Please refrain from calling that number again. My sanity and love of good basketball is at stake. Not to mention my want of Celtics basketball, because I could just as easily watch the Warriors in a more entertaining fashion. Learn that lesson and mve on, Doc. My reality can't withstand a compund confused big man complex. It just won't work.

Order of Operations 2: The Delirium Waltz

Here it is: the list of ten teams I will be interested in watching as the season progresses, in order of their importance. This list will change as this season progresses, injuries pile up and trades rock the boat. Remember two things: I don't care if the team is bad if they are fun to watch and defense does count in some cases. This week is "progression", so I want to see these teams at least once this week. You can bet we'll be covering teams in the top ten playing one another, when it happens. Knowing our history with these promises, you might lose that bet.

1) Atlanta Hawks: For real? Don't care. Fun as hell until one of the starters inevitably goes down.

2) New Orleans: Chris Paul, still my savior.

3) Toronto: Rock those, glock hoes, I'm hungover on a Saturday morn.

4) Boston Celtics: Turnovers, bad offensive spacing, and general inept lineup changes are forcing them into large deficits. They can only overcome so much. Thought the loss the the Nuggets was bad, they got their shooters involved a little more.

5) Golden State: I love Nellyball. I just do. Plus, I love Biedrins.

6) Portland: Shoulda beaten San Antonio. Plus, the Oden transition period is going to last awhile. Still, I want to watch them as much as possible the next two or three weeks.

7) Cleveland: LeBron and co. are going to have a weird week. Trust me on this. They draw and injured Utah, but they get the Hawks (I'm watching that shit) and Pistons this week. Interesting week for a team trying to figure out it's scoring rotation.

8) Knicks: Am I saying this? They are fun as shit to watch. This will deteriorate, but for now, the team is buying in. They get Cleveland soon (25th), so that ought to be fun.

9) Houston: Until Battier comes back and makes this an explosion of role-playing contenders.

10) Detroit: Beating LA gets props even if you are my enemies, mortally. Cleveland lurks.

GOOD GOD NO

And so it begins-- and so it ends. The historic rising from the one-year ashes of playoff drought will soon be over. It seems the New York Yankees have come through on the promise to have a stellar offseason and make good on the promise of prominence in their new stadium.

As much as it pains me to say it, the Yanks got Teixeira. I held out hope that he would drift elsewhere, like flotsam or jetsam, and beach along the shores of California. Perhaps, maybe even corral on the Mass Pike. No, though, 'twas not meant to be.

His effect will be immediate, swift and sharp upon the heels of the Yankees enemies. Now, the Rays and Sox will deal with a true contender, pitching be damned. I mean, seriously, with this lineup, who can doubt the veracity and credulity of this team? Who can berate the smug look on the Steinbrenners' faces? Who, now, can cast the first or even last stone? Jesus Christ is risen, and his name is Tex.

The worlds darkest forests or scariest streets can no longer claim the fear of the mortal man. Now , that distinction belongs to the Yankee clubhouse: polishing their bats in effort to tarnish pitchers' reputations, banish lowly teams from the destiny of New York sports, and replenish their need for the blood of the crown.

OH MIGHT YANKEES WHERE IS THY STAIN, THE IMPURE BL

oops. Who the fuck is Kanekoa Texeira?

Well, as you were.