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.

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?

7 Ways I Wish Brett Favre Would Die

Scenario 1: After the Packers decide they can't trade Brett Favre - or, at least, get something decent in return - they invite him back to Green Bay to training camp. Once again, fans line up outside Austin Straubel International Airport. As his private jet approaches the runway, there is a problem with the landing gear. The plane lands and skids into a refueling truck. There is a huge explosion. As everyone holds their breath, Favre emerges ... carrying his severed left arm. As he comes to his senses, he realizes that his left hand is holding the only oxygen mask that fell from the cabin. Deanna is inside, struggling to breathe. But he can't re-enter the plane due to the encircling flames. He heaves his left arm - which is holding the oxygen mask - through the door, toward his choking wife ... but it is intercepted by a pilot, the only other survivor. Deanna succumbs to smoke inhalation. Favre, overcome with grief, jumps into the still-running Jet engine.

Scenario 2: Despite all the problems, all the hassles, all the drama, Favre comes back to Green Bay. Come November 9, the Packers are 7-1 and riding high. Entering their showdown against the rival Vikings in Minnesota, Favre is once again playing at an All-Pro level. In the middle of the third quarter the Packers lead 17-13. But something is brewing outside ... a violent snowstorm the likes of which Minnesota hasn't seen in years. By the end of the game (which the Packers win 23-20 on a last-second field goal), over three feet of snow have fallen in less than two hours. No one can get into the Metrodome, and no one can get out. After several hours, the stadium's food has been consumed. The fans are getting restless. They are getting hungry. They turn their attention to #4 in white. Nobody knows how they got past the offensive line, or any of Favre's other teammates, or who bit first. But they'll forever know a different meaning for "Packer."

Scenario 3: Javon Walker is upset. He's feigned retirement, offered $11 million in guaranteed money back to Al Davis, filled both of his knees with KY jelly and rock salt, and still the media ignores him. They keep talking about him. Favre. The asshole that drove him out of Green Bay. During the third week of preseason, Walker invites Favre to Las Vegas. Thanks to the LVPD, Walker knows who mugged him over the summer. Instead of pressing charges, he hires the two men to kidnap Favre, which they do after a night of drinking and blackjack. Except there's a problem - Favre's just too charming. After several stories of life in the NFL, the hit men are too guilty to do the job. Luckily for them, a short circuit cuts out the fire alarm at the Mirage. After a concentrated blaze started by a lit cigarette, all three die in the flames.

Scenario 4: Right before Favre cashes the $20 million check the Packers have given him to go the fuck away, he has a violent heart attack brought on by years of light beer and Wisconsin cheese. Due to his advanced physical conditioning, however, Favre survives. In the hospital, an intern, a lifelong Bears fan, smothers him with a pillow, then takes his Super Bowl ring.

Scenario 5: While watching the 47th story on himself on the third-straight viewing of an early-afternoon SportsCenter, a clip is shown of Favre early in his career with the Falcons. He feels nostalgic and reminisces for the days of his youth, when everything was simple. He calls Michael Vick at Leavenworth to see how he's doing. He then goes to visit the embattled quarterback in prison. Vick tells him it would be nice if he went and talked with his family. When Favre arrives, four Presa Canarios meet him at the door, tearing at his flesh. The alpha male, Koopa, removes Favre's genitals with one swift bite. Within minutes his carcass is picked almost completely clean.

Scenario 6: The time has come. Packers coach Mike McCarthy can't handle the dissension any more. He calls a team-only meeting to clear the air. As Favre talks, Aaron Rodgers sneaks up behind him and clobbers him over the head with the Vince Lombardi trophy. McCarthy then rains blows upon him with the playbook. Woozy and bleeding profusely from the temple, Favre asks for some painkillers. Mason Crosby kicks him in the dick. For old time's sake, Najeh Davenport shows up to shit in his mouth. After a massive loss of blood and oxygen to the brain, Favre is no more.

Scenario 7: Canton, Ohio. 2014. With the scarring memories of the summer of '08 long behind him, Favre strides confidently to the microphone for his Hall of Fame induction speech. Yellow jacket resplendent, sun glistening off the slightly graying stubble, Favre thanks his family, his teammates and, most of all, the Green Bay fans. As his voice starts to quiver near the end, a loud pop is heard. Favre's bust shatters into several pieces. Before he can react, a small red dot fixes itself on his forehead, between his eyes. Another pop. A single bullet enters Favre's skull, splitting his brain, ending his life. Several hundred yards away, dressed in a Southern Mississippi t-shirt and hat, Rachel Nichols looks through a scope. She never blinked.

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.

Rare Event: A Fan's Redemption

Tonight was shocking. Eli Manning joined a conversation that I never thought he would. The Giants became one of the most revered football teams in history rather than a stepping stone to history. Their defense put together one of the most inspiring performances I have seen in a super bowl in my life. And it was still the second most amazing thing I saw this weekend.


Growing up as a sports fan, I had no reasons to complain. My baseball team was mightily mediocre and the college team I cheered for was (and still is) a minuscule part of the national conversation, but the Celtics and Redskins always had the chance to make history. Both teams won championships during my formative years. Sure, there were bleak times, but I was lucky enough to have many bright spots. Two of those bright spots were given their due as Hall-of-Famers this weekend.

Imagine being a pre-teen and watching the lowly Redskins play the lowly Rams. Isaac Bruce-- an up-and-comer at this point-- is running a fly route and beats Darrell Green off the line. Easily. He has a step and a half on the veteran. Your hero, and a man revered for his abilities to match speed with speed, is getting smoked when the ball is thrown. Imagine groaning when everyone else in the stadium is holding their breath. This is your first live NFL game. You don't understand like the rest of the fans: don't give up on Darrell Green. Just don't. The ball floats a bit and he gains a full stride before diving to disrupt the pass just enough to see it fall harmlessly to the ground. You catch your breath long enough to see a punt the next play. This envelopes one of the greatest cornerbacks to ever play the game. (By the way, Issac Bruce was approximately 1,000 years younger then Green then.)

Imagine playing wide-receiver. Just before the peak eras of Jerry Rice on the 49ers, Michael Irvin on the Cowboys, the most steady-handed wideout in the league (though, admittedly not the most exciting by any means) played for the Redskins. Art Monk, for all intents and purposes, might as well have been handed a team trophy for most valuable offensive weapon on three super-bowl bound teams (though injured for one of the championship wins itself). Without him, Sanders and Clark would have been shadows of themselves. He was responsible for over 10,000 Redskins receiving yards and, along with Darrell Green, made the Redskins a respectable team: his "Quiet Man" ideal and insane work ethic were as legendary as his routes from the slot (or flanker, as it were) position. The records he set were taken quickly, but only by the best receiver to ever touch a football (Jerry Rice). #81 was a calming influence to the Redskins team and fan, even when they were losing.

It's fitting, then, that these two men should make their hall speeches on the same day. The dignity and brilliance-- on both sides of the ball-- behind a pair of championships and a number of great teams deserve to be honored in tandem. For Green, this is the end of what we expected. For Monk, this is the end of a long conversation and the end of a long overdue call. Now, in an era where players are revered yet prodded more than ever, the "Quiet Man" and one of the first "shutdown corners" can walk together in immortality-- the way it should be. Perhaps the Hall had it right all along.

Apparently, the Super Bowl is Already Over

At least, according to the Boston Globe.

Funny, there's no picture yet. Gotta find that image of Tom Brady where the confetti is hitting him juuuuuuuuuuuust right.

I have friends that are Pats fans, and I may even watch the game with them. But if I'm a New York Giant, and I saw this ... whoo boy.

Column Like I See 'Em: Super Blow

The Divisional round of the NFL playoffs is over, and frankly, it was a damn good one. Out of the four games, three were exceptional, and the one that wasn't at least had a super-pissed off Mother Nature. And that's always fun.

What we know is this: for this year, at least, we have again been spared what would be the most over-hyped, over-played, over-saturated, over-covered, overbearing event in the history of sports - a Super Bowl in which the Manning brothers square off against one another.

On the Monday after the conference championships, we would get the basics: older brother Peyton shuns father's Ole Miss legacy to Volunteer it alone, sets all kinds of records. Oh, they happen to win the National Championship the year after he leaves. Hmm. Regardless, Peyton goes on to Indy, where he again puts up huge numbers, only to fail spectacularly in the playoffs - until last year, when he exorcises his Nor'Easter demons, then beats a team with a man nicknamed "Sex Cannon" at the helm. Younger brother Elisha, who is obviously not the talent of his elder sibling, follows in his father's Rebel footsteps, and trips. Repeatedly. He refuses to play for a mid-market-sized team with a stacked roster in order to play in a plus-sized market with a mediocre roster. He trips. Repeatedly. Finally, summoning the Squash Succubus, his failures succumb to his skills (sorta).

On Tuesday we'd get a recap of their extensive endorsement deals - Double Stuf, anyone? - and endless repeats of the ESPN commercial where the Mannings visit the set. On Wednesday we'd get Zapruder film of them playing catch in the backyard in New Orleans as junior high prodigies. On Thursday we'd get awkward interviews with their father, Archie, and their mother, Olivia, giving bullshit answers about how they'll roshambo to see which one wears which son's jersey during the game. On Friday we'd get a quick recap of Peyton hosting SNL, and maybe even a bit by Kenny Mayne about how eldest bro Cooper was a talented receiver but unfortunately had the spinal canal of a canary. On Saturday we'd get a heart-warming look at how the Mannings helped the people of New Orleans in the days and weeks and months following Hurricane Katrina, and how they continue to help rebuild their hometown.

And then - and only then - would they maybe start to talk football. And there's a whole 'nother week of that!

Unless you have a deep, deep rooting interest in one or both of those teams - or perhaps you're a sadist, and own an extensive collection of leather, chains, whips, torture devices, etc. - then you can see how this scenario needs to be avoided at all costs.

But there are still four other possible match-ups, and all will present their own storylines that will be absolutely, positively, point-blankedly driven to the ground.

The inevitable: New England vs. Green Bay
Actually, this one might even be worse than the Manning Bowl (just kidding). Despite the ever-abiding man-love that every journalist from Honolulu to Hanoi showers upon Brett Favre, the fervent fellatio thrown the Dreamboat's way may be even worse. Throwing for 50 touchdowns and winning a near-unanimous MVP award will do that. Still, the "will he or won't he?" talk regarding Favre's impending-on hold-impending-not true retirement will get mega-old, mega-fast. And despite his solid career, Favre is 1-1 in Super Bowls. That one win? Oh yeah!

The bias continues: New England vs. New York
This has to be the second-likeliest only because the Patriots look unbeatable, and the Giants D is playing out of their mind. Expect the Boston vs. New York angle to get turned on its head, with many references to the Yankees and Red Sox (and their dramatic 2003 and 2004 ALCS battles, no doubt) sprinkled in. Also, did you know Bill Belichick used to coach the Giants' defense in the 80s? Did you? Oh, you did. That's right. I can also imagine side-by-side comparisons of Randy Moss and Plaxico Burress - but done in a cheap, suspended-animation rotate-the-players-360 degrees-type of way. By the end of the two weeks, there won't be anything "New" about this - unless you're one of the eight people on the planet who don't know the Pats are gunning for a perfect season.

MarmaFavre: San Diego vs. Green Bay
Many thanks to Big Daddy Drew for dubbing Philip Rivers "Marmalard." Anyway, this is probably the least-interesting potential match-up, story-wise. They'll talk about Favre. A lot.

The trade: San Diego vs. New York
It's mentioned above, but you remember: the Chargers had the first pick in the 2004 NFL draft, and Eli Manning informed them he did not like warm weather and bikini-clad women and tough intra-conference opponents. So the Chargers selected him and traded him to the Giants for the Giants' choice three picks later (Rivers), their third-round pick in that draft, and a first- and fifth-round pick in 2005. The rest, as it's wrote, is history. Albeit boring history that will be talked about, explored, analyzed, discussed, graphed, mapped-out, dissected and thoroughly detailed so much you'll want to cut away your frontal lobe with a nail-clipper file. Anyway, this is the least-likeliest option, as both road teams winning (especially one as hobbled with injuries as the Chargers) in the conference championship is pretty rare.

These are your choices, America. One of them is about to come true - and then shoved relentlessly down your throat. Luckily there will be, at most, only one Manning involved. No Double Stuf-ing necessary.

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.

Lost & Found: Chains

Fuck you, Shawne Merriman. Fuck you, Philip Rivers. Fuck you, Norv Turner. Fuck you, Herm Edwards. Fuck you, Larry Johnson. Fuck you, the high school kid who coaches the Raiders and whatever dishwashers/heroin addicts/pregnant mothers/Too $hort cover artists/jizz moppers are currently dressed and/or employed as players. Fuck all y'all. We're pissed off. Hungry. Thirsty - for fucking blood. Whether it comes from your jugular, your carotid artery, or in spasmodic menstrual squirts from your bloated, puffy, vaginal slits of shame, we will take it and toast to the festering piles of your decapitated corpses.

The Broncos ride tonight.

Are you prepared for: Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos?

This week:














Shackles.

These were found just outside the home locker room at Mile High the second, at about 8:25 pm Monday. Art Pleeson, a stadium security guard, happened upon them ... and heard a mighty shriek, which turned his pubic hairs white and chilled his blood to near-devastating temperatures. After a cup of coffee and a Camel Light, however, he was fine.

So, in closing, fuck apathy. And bullshit. No, tonight felt a bit more like it's supposed to: Good.

Lost & Found: Weight

You know what one of the worst things in the world is? And I don't mean that in a nuclear-holocaust, AIDS-on-every-corner, Al Roker-naked kind of way; more like an I-hate-when-shit-pisses-me-off kind of way.

One of the worst things is that feeling in the back of your throat when you know you're about to get sick. For me it was Saturday night, walking out the door on the way to go to dinner and No Country For Old Men. (Quick recommendation here: if you're at work right now, leave. If you're at home, leave. If you're at an internet cafe, why are you wasting precious time reading this garbage? Stop and leave. Trample, stomp, and otherwise run the fuck over everyone and everything in your path to the nearest theater playing this movie; pay whatever obscene amount they're charging; sit and enjoy. And if you're located in one of the many armpits of this country that does not have access to this majestic piece of filmmaking; wait for the calendar to read "November 21" and proceed.)

Everything seems fine, and then you feel it. Back there. A little clammy ball, or something. And you think, "Aw, fuck." You know it. Sure as you live and breathe, you know you're about to deal with anywhere from two to five days of stuffed nasal passages and a runny nose (how the hell does that work???), coughing fits, and an overall encompassing shittiness.

The worst part, I've decided, is the hygiene. At least here in New York, when you're on the subway or in the elevator and you have to sneeze, you frantically try to pull out that ancient parchment of a Kleenex that's been in your coat pocket for about two centuries. Funny thing is, if you don't pull it out, you probably have a relatively dry push. But when you do yank that dry, flaking piece of trash out, that's when you have a splendid tsunami burst forth from every orifice in your face that doesn't see things. And when you try to wipe up all your own goo, you look like Peter Venkman in Ghostbusters collecting the slime in the petri dish at the library.

And everyone around you looks at you uncomfortably, and shuffles slowly away like you have the plague.

So, suffice to say, I didn't go to the bar to watch the game on Sunday. I did, however, watch it today at work.

And, without further ado I bring you: Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos!

This week:


Weight.

A baby gorilla was found after the game wandering around a parking lot outside Arrowhead Stadium. If it had been before the game, the poor little thing would've been barbecued.

It was not only a big relief to get a win at all, considering the Monday Night debacle against the Packers or last week's testicle-flattening at the hands of Detroit, but it was good to get the first win in Kansas City since 2002.

Denver took some dumb penalties, and Jay Cutler hit his customary highs and lows, but the defense looked pretty solid once again (playing against the woefully inept Chiefs' offense notwithstanding). All in all, the Broncos would be tied for the division lead if it wasn't for some douche named Adam.

Next up: a Monday-nighter against the Tennessee Titans and hometown boy LenDale White, featuring the battle of the Texas Youngs. Selvin vs. Vince, only on ES....er, only at Inv....umm, only in Denver on Monday Night!

Lost & Found: Bloodflow

You know things are bad when Vikings fans are coming up to you and saying, "You guys are gonna get blanked? By the Lions?!?"

Well ... almost.

We could delve into the particulars of the Broncos' 44-7 anal-raping at the hands of the Lions, but I don't want to. I've got better things to do: scrape the inside of my eyelids with the little nail file on my toe clippers; masturbate with shampoo; lick the two-day-old dog shit off the bottom of my New Balances; see how many shotgun casings I can swallow in a minute.

All of these are viable options right now. Which speaks to the depths I visit when I write about this team.

So it's time for ... Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos!

Last week showcased a specific need. This one's a little more abstract:


Heart.

This was found on the tarmac of Detroit-Wayne Major Airport sometime between 2 pm Friday and kickoff on Sunday. You can tell it belongs to the Denver Broncos because while it still bleeds orange and blue, it wheezes and coughs and generally just doesn't give a shit anymore.

Bloody, pulsating, and worthless, this organ will be shipped to Mike Shanahan, c/o The Denver Broncos, P.O. Box 44-7, Englewood, CO 80315.

They're mailing it in - we might as well, too.

Lost & Found: Manhood

No more "Which J.C. did Jay Cutler Play Like?" around here anymore. The reasons are: a) the answer has been the same pretty much every week (read: kinda shitty, with little nougats of goodness thrown in to mix it up), b) he's young and doesn't deserve the criticism, next John Elway, all that PC glad-handling wish-wash hullaballoo, and c) nobody gives a ratcock, anyway.

So it's done. Good. Whatever.

But in order to placate my ego, and further shat upon this now-dismal team, I introduce a new feature: Lost & Found with the Denver Broncos!

This week:


Dre' Bly's jock.

This item was found by Ross Kurcab, head turf manager at Invesco Field at Mile High, during Monday night's post-game walk-through. It was laying near the east sideline, a few yards shy of midfield.

If anyone knows or sees Dre', please let him know that we have his jockstrap. And Brett Favre has his testicles. Oh - Greg Jennings has his nose, too.

Miss Teen South Carolina Previews the AFC

We here at the Pretzel Factory are honored to have a special guest: Miss Teen South Carolina 2007 and future Surreal Life star Lauren Caitlin Upton is with us this week to take a look at the upcoming NFL season.

We're going to break the interview up into two parts: the AFC and the NFC. We'll propose one major question for each team, and let Lauren get after them, South Carolina-style.

Tomorrow will be the NFC. Today: the AFC.

AHCtP: Despite losing last year's AFC Championship to the Colts, the Patriots are the trendy pick to go all the way based on their acquisitions of Randy Moss, Adalius Thomas, Wes Welker and others. Do you see New England returning to the top?

LCU: I really think that the Tom Brady and, um, our construda will be the thing that brings their to, uh, a champion, such as a more effective, umm overall passing attack.

Interesting. Now, with the New York Jets, is Thomas Jones really the answer to the departure of Curtis Martin at running back?

It was very devastatingly when I believe the Toni Braxton break-up is, uh, terrible to them in that our Mangenius, is, umm pigeonholed by Chad Pennington's lack to the ball and throwing it, uh, down field.

Good point. Now on to Buffalo, where highly touted rookie Marshawn Lynch out of Cal takes over for the departed Willis McGahee. Can he succeed?

It was, well, very obvious to the I think, The Departed was very good, such in Leo DeCaprio looked amazingly amazing but he acteded believable so in as to assume, I strongly feel, academy was honoring Martin Scorsese, umm, for an body of, we overall work.

Uh ... ok, that's not really what we were going for on that one, but ... in Miami, their QB situation last year of Joey Harrington and Daunte Culpepper was a complete mess. They countered by bringing in 37-year-old Trent Green. They've got a good defense, but can they score?

It is clear to me that the Joey is a, uh, [pause] [breath] [eyes dart down and to the left] show not as funny as in not as funny as the Friends, while I truly do, umm, hope that us U.S. Americans never did like the Trent Green's style of, uh [... long pause ...] Dottie Pepper.

What? Dottie Pepper? She's a golfer. And did you mean Tom Green? Ok, we're going to just skip the team-specific questions and go by division. In the AFC North, the Ravens have their superior defense and, just maybe, enough offensive firepower to hold off the Bengals and the Steelers. Who do you see coming out of one of the toughest divisions in football?

[Laughs, brushes hair away from her face]

What's so funny?

To me, I find it irony that this is supposed the umm, tough division but for the all teams to have they such a homosexualistic tendencies, with what the Bengals and cross-dresser in the photos of Chris Henry, such as Steely McBeam the mascot and uh Brady Quinn which is why the Ravens will say 'No More!' and will such as they can win every game easily.

I guess I never thought of it that way. Moving to the AFC South, the reigning Super Bowl champion Indianapolis Colts look to once again dominate this division. Can Jacksonville, with their talented defense but spotty offense, Vince Young-but-gifted Tennessee, or the historically inept Texans put a dent in the king's crown?

It is to my knowledge that the Peyton Manning is better than, uh anyone else to have host the Saturday Night Live.

You're not even trying anymore! Seriously, we had to do some very forgettable things to your mother to get you here; the least you could do is give us one pure, sentient, football-related thought about the AFC West. Please. We beg you.

With Norv Turner taking the helm in San Diego, domination and tremendous success will give way to bad clock management and even worse game management. The Chargers still have enough talent to win the division, but with half a year under his belt, Jay Cutler and a revamped Broncos D -- fresh off the signing of Simeon Rice -- look primed to challenge the Bolts for West supremacy. The Chiefs could be a major factor, too, especially if Larry Johnson can put up monster seasons like the last two. Despite having the overall number one pick, the Raiders still have holes in just about every position, and shape up to be two wins for every other team in the division.

Holy shit. That was great! What happened there? And why did your voice sound deeper?

I ... I don't know what you're talking about. By the way, I was drinking coffee on the plane the other day, and I noticed that th--

Wait a minute -- Peter King, is that you? Do you have your hand up Miss Teen South Carolina's ass? Go on, get out of here! Go turn in 2500 words on how the bust sculptor at Canton won't be able to adequately capture Brett Favre's stubble. Ms. Upton, are you OK?

I personally believe that us teenage blondes don't have enough, uh, access to the anal fisting by slovenly overweight sportswriters, ummm, because we such as...

Oh christ.

Life is More than a Blitz Package

As everyone in the known world -- the media, the public, the NFL, the bloggers, the pundits, Larry your bartender, PETA, HSUS, the dog in "Underdog" -- buries Michael Vick under an avalanche of hate, it's easy to strap on the skis and glide on down.

He's a deplorable human being. He should never be allowed to play football again. We should take him to the dog park and tie some pork chops around his neck and throw a T-bone in his lap.

The entire free-thinking planet is ready to play judge, jury and executioner with Vick's career and, possibly, life.

But I have a question: aside from Texas, does anybody put the mentally challenged to death? In other words, should Vick be given some slack because he's obviously incredibly, tremendously, unbelievably stupid?

I have no reason to defend Vick, and I have (enough) faith that our legal system will do what's necessary to punish him mightily for his transgressions. But it's apparent that, since his transcendent athletic skills were discovered, Michael Vick has never had to do much of anything in his whole life. Wake up: think about playing football. Go to school: wait to play football. Leave school: play football. Party: talk about playing football.

What kind of adult in his mid-20s, that travels -- chartered flights or not -- as constantly as Vick does, try to take a water bottle with a secret compartment that may or may not have contained weed through airport security and onto a plane in 2007;? And what sort of person, upon signing a 10-year, $130 million contract, turns it over to his cousins and friends to fund a large criminal organization?

That's right: a pretty damn dumb one.

Bugs fly into zappers. Cows march hypnotically into slaughterhouses. Lemmings fall off cliffs and drown during migration. Humans do enough mindless things to fill up a shelf's worth of "Darwin Awards" books.

Unfortunately, Vick took some innocent animals down with him. But nobody should be surprised that he went down. He obviously never had the brains to look up.