Oh, Jesus

Well, I told you - those Muslims are tough. Damn free will. Next to the platypus, it's been My biggest mistake.



I thought you didn't make mistakes, Father?

Everyone makes mistakes, Son. It's part of life. Speaking of which, remember how we were talking about how angry We get when athletes invoke Our names after wins, but never do it after losses? As if We actually cared about those games they play?


Yes, Father. I specifically remember talking about a young man named Tim Tebow.

Precisely, Son. We were fine with his outward praising of Us in college, but now that he's a pro, I've decided to show him and his Denver Broncos teammates that they should keep his deification to a minimum. Hopefully, I'll have rectified that mistake.

What did you do, Father?

Well, I ... I decimated his team.

You crashed their plane?


No, no, no. Nothing like that. I just tore their best young offensive lineman's knee apart back in April, put down their entire backfield in the span of 10 minutes on the first day of training camp, and then - this one's the kicker - took out their best defensive player just a few weeks after they signed him to a five-year extension.

Wow. That should teach them. Hey, hold on - I'm getting a picture message from a friend of mine. He's a Belgian monk, makes some great beer.


/checks phone

Oh, Me.



/shows to his Father

They should really, really think about taking the bus from now on.

Actually, Father, you know what would be worse?

What?

Turn them into Cleveland.

C'mon, Son. I'm not that mean.

Tebowned

Faith is a word that gets bandied around all the time in sports. You put your faith in an owner. They put their faith in a general manager. They put their faith in a coach or manager. They put their faith in the players. They put their faith in the fans to cheer them on, and the fans put their faith in the players to make the right decisions. The players put their faith in the coach or manager to put them in a position to make the right decisions. The coach or manager puts their faith in the general manager to let them handle the players the right way. The general manager puts their faith in the owner to allow them to build a team they think will win. The owner puts their faith in the fans to come out and watch.

It's the circle of sports life.

Rarely have sports faith and real faith intersected so publicly and controversially as they have with Tim Tebow, the Heisman-owning, God-fearing, championship-winning, circumcision-performing QB drafted 25th overall by the Broncos Thursday night.

I choose to keep my faith strictly within the sports realm, where I see results. That's how I see the world, how it's chosen to open itself up to me. I certainly don't begrudge anybody else their right to believe what they want to, so long as they don't force those beliefs on anybody else. Did Tebow do that at Florida? Only his teammates know for sure. He may or may not have with his personal faith, but there's no doubt that he did with his sports faith. He was a winner, and that is inarguable.

Do I believe he'll be a winner in the NFL? I don't. I don't think he'll ever be a viable quarterback in a pro system where he's required to consistently and accurately throw downfield. I think he should be more concerned with Mike 39 Razor than John 3:16. My "personal" faith in him is low; I don't think he's the "Mile High Messiah." (Or as BorL put it the other night during the Nuggets' loss to the Jazz, "You're the most negative fan I know.") But this isn't about my personal faith - it's about my sports faith. It's about believing that Josh McDaniels, Brian Xanders, and Pat Bowlen have watched hundreds of hours of tape, and presumably know what they're doing because they know their team, and they know what direction it should go. It's about believing.

I believe Tim Tebow will bust his ass. I believe he'll work as hard as he possibly can, while under the employ of the Broncos, to make the orange and blue winners, in whatever capacity is asked of him. That's about all you can ask for as a fan.

To borrow from something called ChaCha, I'm going to call Tim Tebow "Tim Tivo." In ten or fifteen years, I'll either want to rewind and watch all the highlights, or I'll want to fast-forward past all the misery and the horrors. Tim Tivo needs to pause, take a breath, and play. It's sink or swim time, now, for the Jesus fish of the NFL. There is no middle ground, no gray area. There never is when it comes to a leap of faith.

For Just Kicks

I saw some Asian man in his late-20s/early 30s wearing these on St. Marks this past weekend. I had to take a picture.

I stopped him and asked if I could, and of course he didn't speak English. So when I tried to tell him that "that's my favorite team," he must've thought I was asking if I could eat his shirt.

Fuck, those are some sweet shoes.

The Ugly, Ill-fitting Sweater

Before this manic-depressive Denver season comes to a merciful end, I thought I'd finally write something about the Broncos that referred to the team itself, and not a deceased icon in the stands.

I haven't written about the Broncos this year for a myriad of reasons, the biggest one being I haven't cared enough. As a fan that's tough to say, and almost tougher to write, but it's true. My heart just wasn't in it this season, and I think I can live with that.

It started with the tumultuous, whirlwind beginnings of the Josh McDaniels era, a coach just a few years older than myself. I mean, I'm an unemployed, waste of space at 30 - how the hell was this grinning, baby-faced geek going to do anything meaningful or ground-breaking while helming one of the classiest, most well-run organizations in football? We quickly found out as he alienated Jay Cutler, banished him to Chicago, then set about putting talented-but-petulant receiver Brandon Marshall in the doghouse for the better part of his Denver tenure.

Whoops.

So already my expectations were nil. I expected them to win five, maybe six games at best. Then the season starts with them stealing a win, and building on that momentum to start 6-0. In the last two of these games, they beat the Pats at home in OT - culminating in McDaniels's spirited fist-pumping toward his family and the crowd, a moment that gave me goosebumps - and beat the Chargers on the road on a Monday night, winning (mostly) in a way the Broncos never do: with special teams.

And then ... and then the inevitable. During the start, the defense played far over their heads, especially in the 2nd half when they played out of their fucking minds. We knew that couldn't last, and it didn't. Only it had to, because the offense was not built to make up ground, only sporadically chew it up. Losses to more physical teams came, and they came quickly and furiously. Then a loss at home to the Raiders. Then a mini-miraculous comeback on the road at Philly, only to fall a field goal short.

So here they sit, at 8-7, needing to beat the Chiefs at home - without their Pro Bowl receiver, natch - and get a little help to make the playoffs. It doesn't matter, however, because this is not a playoff team. They don't deserve to be watched, at this point, by the whole country, in a Wild Card game. Ultimately they deserve to eke out an ugly win, secure a winning record, and begrudgingly call Year One of the Post-Shanahan era a (beguilingly dismal) success. Success in the way Bart Simpson defines success: spelling it S-U-C-C-E-E-S, and then falling off a roof.

So in this way this Broncos season has been the ugly, ill-fitting sweater. Like when your parents or somebody asks you what you want for Christmas, only you're an adult so you either tell them one reasonable thing you need (a new wallet, an iPod case, a flask) - knowing full well they'll get you that one thing you want and you'll be done with it - or you say "Oh, you don't have to get me anything." Because you're an adult. Or perhaps you're spending the holidays with the family of friends or a loved one, and they don't know what to get you. So they get you a sweater, either to give you something so you feel included, or as an addendum to the one thing you actually wanted. Because everybody loves sweaters.

Only it's not something you'd ever wear, because you don't like turtlenecks. Or the color or pattern is horrific. Or it's itchy. Or it's too small.

This season was all that. It was unexpected, sure, but not in the back of your mind. Somewhere, you knew it was coming. And sure, it's a nice gesture. You appreciate that. But you're holding this thing, saying you like it even though you know you hate it. And at some point you'll have to re-gift it, or try to return it.

And, in all honesty, you wish you'd never been given it at all.

Update: And there it is. To be honest, I expected it. They beat the Raiders by 20 early in the year, then lost to them by 3 when they needed to win. So, since they won in Kansas City in December for the first time in forever (by 31, no less), it only made sense that they would lose by at least 15 at home with a win and a possible playoff berth on the line.

Thus, for the second straight year, and basically the fourth in a row since they reached the AFC Championship game in 2005, this team wallows in mediocrity. Only it's worse since they play well early, get their fans' hopes up, and collapse spectacularly and miserably toward the end. I've never played pro football, and I'm just the proverbial blogger in his parents' basement, but it seems to me that this team has no fucking heart. Maybe there's a stock ticker where that essential organ should be, but there's no fucking pride in putting on the orange and blue. There's no urgency. Just complacency.

I want this team to be relevant again. I want it to succeed. I want to have a reason to watch, to feel attached. But only Josh McDaniels can fix this. Somehow. He holds the key. Unfortunately, it's a complicated and ugly fucking lock.

RIP, Barrel Man

The Broncos may have won in Kansas City in December for what seems like the first time in decades, but the team lost something bigger than a game this weekend: their Superfan.

Tim McKernan, otherwise known as Barrel Man, died last Saturday at the age of 69 from lung failure.

I've never been the face-painting, body-painting, wig-wearing, costume-donning type of fan. Never did it once, even in college. It's not my style. And those types of fans may be few and far between, but we've all seen them. They could be an airplane mechanic, like Barrel Man, or lawyers, or teachers, or plumbers. But when game time rolled around, these ultrafans would take it to the next level. You might roll your eyes at their getups, or their insane dedication to grown men playing games, but deep down, from somewhere in your sports-loving soul, you admired them, respected them. Maybe even wanted to be them, just for one day.

Part of the fun of going to Broncos games was either seeing Barrel Man in person or on the JumboTron or spotting him in the stands; it wasn't really an "official" game until then. And it didn't matter if it was a 97-degree preseason tilt in August or a snow-blown blizzard of an icebox day in December or January - Barrel Man would be in the stands, shirtless, cheering on the Broncos. He may have hung up the barrel in 2007, but there was still a presence.

Is standing around in near-freezing temperatures for hours on end, a mile above sea level, wearing nothing but a barrel, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat good for a person's body? Probably not. But that's why we loved him. And that's why he'll be missed.

Orton Hears a Boo

Oh, man. What a terrible debut. That's not really how I wanted to introduce myself to my new team, fans, and city. Wait, what's that?




Boooooooooooooooooo!





Hello? Who's that?





We're the Boos. We're Bronco fans.





Wh- where ... where are you? I can hear you, but I can't see you.





We're in your inner ear.





How'd you get in there? Bronco fans are people. They're normal size!




Not since Jay Cutler said we were a 6 compared to Chicago's 9. Because of the altitude, we shrunk even more. It had an adverse effect. That chubby, no-chin, cookie-eating bastard didn't know what he was doing. Particle physics are no place for a Vanderbilt grad.



Man. I ... I had no idea. Hey, what's that buzzing sound?





What? Oh, that? Nothing. We're just getting Chris Simms's initials tattooed on our legs.





Holy fuck I'm drunk.

Another Crazy Bowlen Movement

On Thursday, June 18, the Denver Broncos became the first NFL team to trade one of their fans.

Peter King tells us how it happened.

I could go on and on about the rude woman who took up two seats on the LIRR the other day, or the fact that the new Dunkin' Donuts sandwich should be served with a circular saw and an air sickness bag. But I won't. I'd like to discuss the unprecedented move the Denver Broncos made recently.

No, I'm not talking about the trade of Jay Cutler to the Bears. And no, I'm not talking about their acquiescing to Brandon Marshall's trade demands. Pat Bowlen and his two-time Super Bowl-winning organization backed up so fast on that one you half expected to hear a "beep-beep-beep" sound.

Instead, I'd like to start with the two chats I had with Adam Sivits. Haven't heard of him? Of course you haven't. He's a pawn in this game.

"It's really frustrating," Sivits said via Gmail Gchat instant message. "I've actually worked for this franchise. I raised the north field-goal nets. I hand-painted the horse's eyes in the end zones. And what they've done lately is just ... surreal."

Sivits says that he sent a text message to new Broncos coach Josh McDaniels expressing his dissatisfaction with the way the off-season has gone. McDaniels told me in an email that he received no such text. "We take the feelings of our fans very seriously," McDaniels wrote. "If he's truly upset, I'd like to talk with him."

After a phone call between Sivits and McDaniels early yesterday morning, Sivits blogged that he told McDaniels he wanted a conference call with McDaniels and Bowlen. McDaniels then posted a message on his Twitter feed that "[t]he Broncos organization has not received any requests for a conference call from Mr. Sivits."

Which was news to, of all people, Mr. Sivits.

"The way this organization has been run since the firing of Mike Shanahan has been a deplorable and ghastly joke," Sivits wrote on his Facebook page. "As of right now, I no longer wish to be a fan of the Denver Broncos. I hope Mr. Bowlen and Mr. McDaniels can see my side of things and do what's right."

After paging new Broncos GM Brian Xanders, I received an overnight FedEx package containing a stone tablet engraved with the following: "When determining whether or not to trade Adam, we must determine his overall worth. He is a tall guy with good reach, and he has amazing commitment. He treks to the same bar near Union Square in Manhattan every weekend to watch us. Sometimes he stands for the whole game, by himself, with no other Denver fans in sight. The thing is, can we get equal value in return? Since we don't pay him, it's a very, very tough question."

A source revealed to me that Al Davis and the Raiders sent up a smoke signal, offering the Broncos a dual-speed ceiling fan and $1 million. The Broncos simply wrote back "No" in Morse code.

Some members of the team have gone out on a limb with their views.

"We need Adam Sivits on our side," new safety Brian Dawkins wrote on his Tumblr account. "The dude is a real fan. You can't give that up."

After reading that information on InDenverTimes.com, ESPN's Chris Mortensen reported "Sivits safe as Bronco fan" in a sky-writing message high above the Denver skyline.

Minutes later, I received word that Sivits had indeed been traded to the Buccaneers for John Burkhardt, a 28-year-old electrical engineer originally from Tampa now living in Brooklyn, as well as a fan to be named later. I released the carrier pigeon and boarded the Metro North, Dunkin' Donuts bag in hand.

NECKBEARD!

Would I rather have this guy running the Broncos than some whiny, three-chinned, sugar-craving, cock-worshiping Hitlerbitch?

Yes. Yes I would.

Look, you can argue for either side and be technically correct. Both may have acted dishonestly, both may have acted immaturely, but the thing is: Denver has TALENT on Cutler's side of the ball. The defense would've gotten fixed, somehow. If you can't see the forest for the trees, get to high-steppin' out of the Mile High City.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

And good luck in Chi-town, Cutlerfucker. You're going to need it.

An Open Letter to Jay Cutler

Dear Jay,

Shut the fuck up. Quit whining like that kid in 6th period Gym who couldn't climb the rope.* Rub some Vagisil on that rampaging rectal rotunda of yours and start leading this aimless fucking franchise.

Were the Broncos duplicitous? Surely. Could they have handled it better? Of course. Do they have the right to wave your chubby ass around like a fucking 1987 Dale Sveum Topps looking to dupe some retard into a Ken Griffey Jr. rookie? You bet your backside they do. It's a business. They pay you. They will gut you like a rainbow trout if they so choose.

Look, they're trying to fix this team. They've made some free-agent signings. Attempted to overhaul that gaping maw of a defense.

You're a legit player. You know it. They know it. Everyone knows it. Whose jersey is best represented in the stands at Invesco? Yours. I sat next to a live, walking cliche in the Meadowlands, and the moron couldn't stop screaming your name.

I bought a goddamn shirt that says "JC Saves" and has you in a prayer position.

Grow up. Get over it.

Be a man and take this team to somewhere other than a .500 record and front-row seats in January.

Make that shirt mean "games" and "seasons" rather than "tempestuous hissy fits for the offseason."

*I couldn't climb the rope, but I never bitched about it. Instead, I kicked everyone's ass at ring toss.

How the Broncos save the survivors after dropping The Bomb

Ok, so, that happened.

When the "hot seat" lists come out at the end of every year, there are always a handful of coaches who, even after mediocre years, would never be on them. Mike Holmgren. Jon Gruden. Andy Reid. And, the (previously) longest-tenured coach with one team in the NFL, Mike Shanahan, who, as coach and G.M., had the job by the throat.

Until the Donkeys choked the last two years, that is.

Is it a sad day for Broncos fans? Sure. He won a lot of games, and two Super Bowls. But the team had reached a stagnant level of putrid proportions, and any casual fan will tell you that they have played up-or-down to their level of competition for quite some time now. Only in the SB-winning years did they consistently pound teams, good or bad.

To me, this is much like the Iverson-Billups trade: part of me is sad to see such a talented person go, but at the same time, it's obviously for the good of the team.

The playoff run (um, beating the Patriots at home) in 2005 was orchestrated by a quarterback that nobody, fans or team alike, seemed to want running things. The defense has gotten more and more pathetic and predictable as the offense (seemingly) did the opposite, even though that was exposed lately due to injuries and a lack of a solid running game. Many of their top defensive draft picks failed to pan out.

However, this is a team with some positives, and here's what I think Pat Bowlen needs to do to get this team back to the perennial top of the AFC.

1. Go hard and heavy after Bill Cowher. Denver has many things which should entice the Chin. First, it's a football town. A guy like Cowher would appreciate that, as opposed to baseball-centric New York. Also, since the offense has many of the pieces in place, Cowher wouldn't have to worry about that as much and could focus on his passion, the defense, which is the biggest problem with this team. Speaking of the defense...
2. Make Romeo Crennel one of the highest-paid coordinators in the league. Crennel did such a poor job in Cleveland that it's highly unlikely he'll get another offer to coach anywhere. He ran the Patriots' defense in the early 2000s, when they won a few titles. He knows how to scheme, he knows how to find players (via trades, the draft or free agency) who fit the system, and he knows how to mold them into a unit. This would be especially prudent if the Broncos can't land Cowher, and instead go after somebody like Jason Garrett or Eric Mangini, i.e. offensive-minded guys.
3. No matter who you hire, do not give them total personnel control. It's just too hard to do both jobs nowadays. Would the Broncos have been maybe a bit more focused if, instead of scouring the scout teams and the waiver wire for a guy who could run the ball late in the year, the coach was preparing the team for a win it sorely needed? If the Browns are interested in the Patriots' Scott Pioli and he in them, then why wouldn't he be interested in the Broncos? Denver is always at the top of players' lists because the facilities are great and the players are treated well. That would make a top-notch personnel man like Pioli's job a whole lot easier.
4. Get the home-field advantage back. Teams used to hate playing in Denver. H-A-T-E. Now the weather's a bit warmer, Invesco's a lot quieter than Mile High, and it's not too annoying to hear "In-Com-Plete" only seven or eight times a game, since most visiting QBs complete about 75% of their passes against a woefully porous Denver D. I don't know how you do it, Pat - pour some extra concrete in the stands? - but it's gotta be done.
5. Make the right choices on #s 1 & 2. The top choice on everybody's list is Cowher, but Miami, Atlanta and Baltimore seemingly went the right way in getting a bunch of no-name coaches or coordinators. The defense needs a complete overhaul. Maybe he can poach somebody off Dick LeBeau's or Rex Ryan's staffs, or give Rex Ryan the reigns and see what he can do. Either way, the defense must be made a priority.
   

With lots of talent on offense, a supportive owner willing to spend and a division that is seeing its top dog (the Chargers) slide back down toward the middle, there should be no shortage of options for Pat Bowlen. The question is whether or not he picks the right ones. It's the end of an era, but hopefully the start of a new one.

Ruminating on Watching My Team Win in a Mildly Hostile Environment, While the Real Environment is Incredibly Hostile

It's been three full days now and I can still hear his voice. It was barely above freezing on the last day in November and the rain, while not completely piercing like frozen bullets, still had sting, had life. Cold, win and rain formed a palpable trio. But the voice cut through it, sharp. Swift. Raspy.

"Cutlaaaaaah. Cutlaaaaaah. It's Cutlaaaaaah, baby!"

When you go to see one of your teams play on another team's turf, alone, you hope to find solace and comfort in fellow fans. Knowledgeable fans, witty fans, fans who can take a shot and give two right back.

"Cutlaaaaaah time!"

He was not one of them.

I came in halfway through the first quarter (we parked at 3:15 and I still managed to get two-and-a-half hot dogs and five beers in) with the score tied 7-7. Walking up I heard about Thomas Jones' long TD scamper, so I asked the nearest Bronco fan -- a man wearing a bright-orange, shag carpet Cypress Hill hat -- how Denver scored the first touchdown. "The defense, baby, an ... interception return. Big play by the defense!"

He was promptly corrected by the long-time Jets season-ticket holder behind us, standing in work boots, jeans, an amazingly soggy Jets hoodie and no hat. Fumble return. Questionable call.

"It's Cutlaaaaaah!"

We traded some barbs (always fun when your team's ahead), and later we traded White Horse scotch swigs from my flask. It was a courtesy not extended to my nearest comrade-in-headgear.

Halftime came, Broncos ahead 27-14, and the stands magically emptied. Despite this, my girlfriend and I stayed in our nosebleed seats, believing that when one vantage point works, and works well, you stay there. No pictures exist of this vantage point, of course, because fingers weren't designed to operate in such deplorable conditions.

"Did Cutlaaaaaah throw a touchdown?"

"No, Peyton Hillis ran it in. But we scored."

"Yeah, but dat doesn't git me any fantasy points."

I was beginning to doubt if he was truly a Bronco fan.

With about 7 minutes remaining in the game, I got a call from my friend, who was down in the lower level, under the overhang. I assume it's a request to leave; the game was firmly in the hands of the sunrises and sunsets and the temperature was going as the sun goes in the latter, and not the former.

However we were told to head down, finish the win and dry off. Eagerly we raced down the spiral staircase, listening to the f-bombs and abuses of numerous Jets fans, wondering -- like me -- why Mangini decided to pass on three fourth-down tries. Upon reaching the lower level it was obvious that we were not the only ones treating ourselves to the cover; numerous Bronco fans took advantage, including the woman in front of me who heard ongoing cries of "Shaaaaaaaaaanon Sharrrrrrrrrrrrpe" and not once looked back, either because she didn't want to give them the satisfaction or because she didn't know who he was, despite wearing his jersey.

As the final seconds wound down I slapped strangers' hands, chanted "Here We Go, Broncos, Here We Go" and revealed my secret weapon: the JC Saves shirt. Since I got it three games ago, I've worn it each game day: they've won each game I've watched either on TV or in person (Falcons, Jets) and lost the game I didn't (Raiders). If it's adhering to my torso and my eyes are gazing at its inspiration, things are good.

It got some solid compliments. One thumbs-up.

The man who should've seen it, however, didn't. That's a privelege reserved for just a few.

"Cutlaaaaaah!"

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.

Hey, Marmalard

Karma's a bitch, isn't it?

In Rod We Trust

Rod Smith's retirement was a year in the making, and it won't be talked about much anywhere outside of Denver.

The wide receiver with the Hall of Fame-worthy stats never did an end zone dance, never popped off to the press about his teammates, never slipped on a fast-food wrapper and put his hand through an entertainment center, never skied down a mountain of coke and then snorted it while simultaneously banging 14 Peruvian hookers.

He just played football, and he played it really, really fucking well.

Need a five-yard out for a good gain on first down? Done. Rod's got it. Running a sweep, and need a solid block on the corner to seal the edge? Sure. Rod's got it. Need someone to run a route over the middle, go up for a ball thrown too high, and come down with the grab on third-and-long after getting spit-shined by a linebacker and a strong safety? No problem. Rod's got it. Fancy a clutch punt return to turn momentum on its head? Rod's in his mid-thirties, but fuck it - he's got it.

So, all in all, thank you Rod. Thanks for busting your ass. Thanks for being a professional.

The Christmas Eve Steakapalooza Broncos-Chargers Monday Night Football Live Blog

11:02 - And now I've got Morgan Freeman from the upcoming "The Bucket List" narrating the year's Monday Night highlights. You know what I want to do before I kick the bucket? Watch some quality football.

Oh well. Maybe now I'll do some dishes, or ... drink. I've got Drunken Master on Netflix. Sounds like me. I mean, did you see that dinner? Holy shit, man. Holy shit.

Happy holidays.

11:00 - Final score: 23-3. Total score on the year between the teams: 64-6, SD. That's what you call an ass-whupping, my friends.

10:58 - Cutler throws a deep pick, and Kornheiser says that Cutler just walked off the field and sat right down on the bench. "Been one of those nights, one of those years for the Broncos," says Jaworski. Yup Jaws, you're right - my optimism on the eve of the season WAS short-sighted, misguided, retarded and dumbfounded. Thanks, Jaws.

10:54 - Marshall takes a short slant, plants, spins and goes the other way. There's really no other receiver in the league that makes that move better. And wow - John Lynch is in the baseball Hall of Fame for throwing out the first pitch in Marlins' history? Really? I'll take "Shit I Had Absolutely No Fucking Idea Of for $1,000, Alex."

10:42 - They show a clip of Philip Rivers talking shit after Cutler failed on fourth down. "Hey, get off our field, loser! Baby! My team wins in spite of me! I throw a football like I'm trying to shotput a frozen turkey to the cashier! The bus is over there - right where ours will be when we get back from getting rolled by the Colts in the second round of the playoffs! Gaaaaahhh!"

Am I ready to live in a world where Philip Rivers is a cocky douche? That's a good question. Even MJD would tell him to shut the fuck up.

10:39 - While talking about Norv Turner's stellar head coaching record, a graphic pops up saying that NORV! is 9-6 in his first season in San Diego. Really? Sweet! Broncos win! Broncos win!

10:31 - Cecil Sapp is stuffed on fourth-and-inches from the 1 3/4-yard line. As a fellow Colorado State alum, that play perfectly sums up three things: 1) the Broncos suck; 2) CSU sucks; and 3) I suck for following both of those football squadrons this year. Really, I should've spent all that time doing crunches, or helping the homeless, or cleaning my pee hole with melted pipe cleaners.

10:24 - Again they bring up the fact that Jay Cutler is from Santa Claus, Indiana. You know what I want for Christmas, Santa? A pass rush and a fucking running game. And a Wii.

And more scotch.

10:16 - Well, I was right. Sort of. 23-3, SD. And now a Cialis commercial. What's the difference between Cialis and Viagra? Color? Price? When all you want is an erection, are you really in the market to pick and choose between competitors?

10:11 - With Philip out of the game, superbackup Billy Volek hits the fullback's elbow with the ball before handing off, and the Broncos recover. Will they score? Maybe a field goal. Maybe.

10:07 - A pass goes right off Scheffler's hands and into a Chargers' safety's breadbasket. Kornheiser, again, talks about how Denver moves well between the 20s, but does horribly in the red zone. You know what, Tony? Maybe they're just not Communists. You ever think of that, you pinko bastard?

10:04 - The announcers are praising Brandon Marshall, just as Cutler underthrows him by about five yards while he's wide open. YAC only matters when you involve the "C" part, boys.

9:50 - Jesus. First Antonio Gates makes a one-handed grab, now Vincent Jackson tip-toes the sideline after Rivers scrambles and tries to throw it away. Basically, nothing is going right. Like all the dances I went to in high school.

9:43 - Hey, guess who's kicking off to start the second half? Yeah, this game's over.

9:30 - SD 16, Denver 0 at the half. I've seen things in my stool that look better than the Broncos' offense. Fuck. Well, there's highlights of players' legs moving fast and Berman's babbling about some shit - that means it's time for a cigarette.

9:28 - The Broncos give up another long pass play. Their secondary is like a Rube Goldberg sketch - it looks good on paper, but doesn't really work in the real world.

9:16 - I'm going to die. I can hear my heart cursing me.









9:08 - Ernster playgrounds another punt up the middle for about negative seven yards. It looks like he's trying to kick a NERF Turbo Football in winter at dusk. Christ.

9:03 - I've figured out the problem with Cutler. He wears his helmet low on his skull, but he also wears one of those big, plastic-cupped chin straps. The result is that his face gets scrunched; he looks like he's furrowing his brow AND pouting at the same time. Not a good look for an NFL QB.

8:50 - Luis Castillo makes a play on third down forcing the Broncos to punt. Shawne Merriman's also made a few plays in this game so far. Cut-blocking vs. steroid abuse - FEEL THE CHEATING!

8:40 - LaDainian Tomlinson says that he wouldn't want to keep playing just to break the all-time rushing record because he has so much respect for Emmitt Smith. Well guess what, LT? That's exactly what Emmitt did! He hung on with the Cardinals just to push Sweetness down! Further proof that Emmitt can lick Barry Sanders' balls.

8:34 - After reporting that Todd Sauerbrun was cut do to a problem with a cab fare (the cabbie sold him steroids?), old-hand Paul Ernster promptly unleashes a monster of a punt. If a monster was a small, shivering, blubbering vagina. Jesus.

8:27 - ESPN does a kickoff after the Chargers kick a field goal without any sound, to honor a fallen colleague who headed up the audio department. Pretty cool, in a weird way - because Tirico ends up talking afterwards, anyway.

8:22 - While talking about the intensity between the teams, Jaworski says "this is the NFC West, remember a 41-3 thrashing the Chargers put on the Broncos, they remember that." I'm sure they do, but I'm sure they don't remember following the Seahawks to the NFC West, Jaws.

8:15 - Jay Cutler steps up to avoid the rush and fumbles. Yes, Booth, we know he fumbles a lot. He's got small, demure hands, more adept at holding a joint than a football. This is not a bad thing.

(Umm....yes, it is.)

8:10 (note - now times will revert to the REAL version, instead of when I saw shit on TiVo - and, yes, I know this defeats the purpose of "live" blogging) - Mike Tirico says that since the Buccaneers finally got kickoff return for a TD, the Broncos are next at 120-something games, since 2000. Sweet. Another thing we suck at. Where are you, Glyn Milburn?

8:37 - I DEFY you to come up with something better than this.









8:16 - I have no idea what the hell's going on in the game, but the tip of my right index finger is burned and my kitchen smells fucking awesome.

7:55 - Shit. I assumed the game was starting at 8:30, like always. Nope - 8 o'clock. Fuck. This throws everything off. Do I cook while the game starts, or use TiVo, which I luckily own? Stay tuned ... (although I'm probably going to use TiVo and pause that shit until I'm ready to eat. Which means ... wait, this doesn't affect anyone. Who am I here to please? I'm pausing this shit.)

7:32 - Slice mushrooms and onions that will go on top of the steaks. There's a million kitchen gadgets out there - and believe me, I love them all - but is there something that will let me not cut onions and shit at that annoying angle? I mean, we can have a phone, a music player and the internet in one hand-held device but I can't get a plastic doo-dad that lets me cut perfect 1/8" slices of the vegetable or fruit of my choosing? Fuck that.

7:01 - Start peeling potatoes. I have an ivory-bladed, swivel-head vegetable peeler. It's got a contour grip, and an easy dial to switch from left-hand to right-hand. God, it's fucking sweet.

5:02-6:46 - Uploading photos to Flickr. One of those "in the future, I should definitely do this as I take them, not wait for five months" kind of things.

4:13 - I shower with a beer. Our shower has a small window way up in the corner, which is perfect for the beer shower. Why? Because there's no chance of random shampoo or soap sprays getting in there. Every man should shower while drinking a beer at least once a month. This should be federal law.

3:44 - I get home and marinate my steaks. I bought two at the store, because I went to a few different butchers and they were pretty much out. So I got a pretty nice rib cut, and a filet mignon. Because why the fuck not?

I simply salt and pepper the filet and put it in the fridge. The rib cut I salt and pepper on both sides and throw into a Ziploc bag with some scotch, some beer, some bbq sauce, a little honey mustard, and the juice from a lime. Will it taste good? C'mon - it's a big-ass steak. As long as you don't burn it blacker than Luol Deng, you can marinate it in piss and it'll still probably taste great.

Lost & Found: Time

All my time-keeping devices are set to the future. My watch - five minutes ahead. My alarm clock - ten minutes ahead. My pocket watch with the dimestore whore engraved on the inside - fifteen minutes ahead. (OK, I don't own that. But it'd be sweet if I did.)

I'd assume that a very large number of people do this. The problem is, in the back of your mind, you always know that it's ahead. You wake up, see "8:18 am" and you hit the snooze, thinking, "Eh, I've got ten more minutes."

Appropriately, this week's "Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos" is being filed late. I thought I had more time.













A clock. That's also a calendar!

This was found outside the home players' entrance at Invesco Field shortly before kickoff on Sunday.

The Broncos played their most complete game of the season against the Chiefs. True, they were playing a pretty shitty team (sorry, co-worker Scott), at home, with the opposition's star running back on the bench. But whatever. When you're two games back in the division - two and a half, with the Chargers' earlier win - and just as far back in the wild card entering the final quarter of the season, you take a W when and where you can get it.

Unfortunately, it's probably too little, too late (damn you, Titans). Hit the snooze, roll over, and look forward to next year.

(Although I hope Mike Shanahan has a recurring nightmare this off-season: Don't kick it to Hester, don't kick it to Hester ... Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!)

Lost & Found: Hands

Do you know how much a large birthday cake costs? A gigantic, mouth-watering chocolate mousse cake? That can feed 40 people, or 240,000 Olsen twins?

A lot. But holy cake-eating Christ was it good (if not slightly misspelled).

It was my girlfriend's birthday recently. I got her a bracelet. Why? Because women like jewelry. (If you're a man, and you did not know this, walk over to a table, place your penis on it, and smash it with a hammer.)

Luckily, she liked it. And it ended up being her birthstone! Score, and score (she didn't know it, either). Sometimes, I do things right. These times are like lunar eclipses or a James Dolan coherent thought: they occur very rarely, and are extremely short-lived.

I mention this only because I nearly bought her something else: a pair of gloves. She has a semi-cheap cotton pair, the kind you get for three bucks off a guy's table on 18th St. and Fifth Avenue. So I walked around the Union Square holiday booths, and found one that was all gloves.

Leather gloves with laces. Leather gloves with zippers. Leather gloves with buttons. Leather gloves that go halfway up the forearm. Felt gloves. Silk gloves. Satin gloves. Gloves made from the meat curtains of nubile Russian strippers.

We're talking quality shit here.

But I decided against it, ultimately, because of why she needed them in the first place: she had lost them. Fuck that! I'm not spending money on something that's going to be left at a bar. I'd rather spend money on something that's going to break and fall off because of shoddy workmanship; that's an overriding philosophical principle, right there.

This quaint little foray into lessons of relationships brings us to: Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos!

This week:











Gloves.

These were found outside Oakland's McAfee Coliseum, new and unused.

Now these guys needed some fucking gloves. Or maybe some 70s-era Raider stickum on the ones they had. Something - christ. We've got normally sure-handed Brandon Stokely dropping passes, we've got Travis Henry fumbling the spliff all over the place, We've got Jay Cutler coughing up the pill ... what a mess.

This season was supposed to be for Darrent and Damien. Now it's for naught, and the Broncos are even teaching others the Denver Way To Honor Your Fallen Brethren.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go smash my penis with a hammer.

Lost & Found: Common Sense

Todd Sauerbrun: Wait, wait, lemme get this straight ... you want me to punt it to Devin Hester?

Mike Shanahan: Yeah. That's what I said.

TS: To him? As in, so he can catch it and run with it? How's about I give it the ol' Pythagorean pooch and angle it out at about the 30 or so.

MS: How many times do I have to say it? We've been covering him good all day. Hell, he even muffed one earlier that we turned into a touchdown.

TS: I know, coach, it's just that ... well, look at their offense. They can't do anything! We hurt Cedric Benson and got him out of the game, which would be doing them a favor - because he blows - if it weren't for the fact that they have the wrong Adrian Peterson coming in to replace him. And have you been watching Grossman shoot passes all over the field? Christ! He makes David Carr look like Joe Fucking Montana!

MS: Dammit, Todd, the second half just started. If he was gonna do something spectacular, he'd have done it by now. Just get the hell out there and punt that thing as far and as straight as you can.

TS: You're the boss, Shanny.

[Sauerbrun punts to Devin Hester. Hester returns it 75 yards to tie the score at 13.]

TS: Shit, coach, what'd I tell ya? The guy's too good to keep down. Tacklin' that guy is like watching Carlos Mencia - no fun at all.

MS: [glares, makes mousy-face]

[Several minutes later, the Broncos score to go up 20-13.]

MS: Kick it to Hester.

TS: No fucking way. Really? Are you ... are you watching the same game that I am? Look, I got nothing but time over here on the sidelines while these two record-setting offenses titfuck each other all day. And I've been looking at the rule book, and - check this out - nowhere in here does it say you actually HAVE to kick it to a guy on a kickoff. Nowhere at all! I can shoehorn that badboy straight the fuck off Lovie's dome over there, and all they're gonna do is put the ball at the Bears' 40. That's it. No return, no dirty hands, we give them good field position and laugh when Grossman slingshots it right into Ian Gold's numbers. Or fumbles the center exchange like a Notre Dame third-stringer. Either way, you gotta admit, it's a pretty solid plan.

MS: You heard me. Kick it to Hester.

TS: [Sighs] You got it, Chief.

[Devin Hester receives the kick near the 10 and goes all the way to the house to tie the score again at 20-all. Thousands of Broncos fans curse in agony, even more so after a ridiculous 37-34 OT loss.]

TS: [shaking head, under his breath] Fucking "Mastermind." Mastermind? Who the fuck played that? It was like the goddamn Yars' Revenge of board games. Fucking Mastermind. Goddamn Jenga is more like it. One wrong move and - bam! - you're under a pile of shit. Jenga Shanahan.


And now, Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos:
















Brains.

These were found at the Broncos' practice facility in Englewood. Apparently, they didn't make the trip to Chicago.