In between a disgustipating sinus infection, a week’s worth of sun and siesta in Puerto Vallarta, a week crammed with work-related seminar action and a friend’s surprise birthday party, MFG has been missing in action for quite some time. What the fuck happened to January?
Speaking of which, why does anyone ask ‘What did you do on your vacation?’ only to recoil when you claim, ‘nothing.’ Isn’t that the point of a vacation?. Oh, whatever. Notably, I made friends with a giraffe.
His completely unoriginal name is Jeffrey.
Also, in case you’re concerned, a smartmouth bird nearly bit my hand off at a petting zoo. He’s right here.
I don’t know his name, but he’s still at large. At least my hand is miraculously intact.
Oh, what, you really don’t care? So people must ask about vacations simply as a rhetorical device, right? (Laughs uproariously at ridiculous pun.) But, really, how could anyone possibly care? I mean, with all the stuff that’s happened while I was away? Quickly, onto the hopelessly catty commentary:
Tony Dungy, gone. Everyone saw it coming, everyone is a tad melancholy, and just like the vanilla Dungy, commentary dissipated with nary a blink of an eye. Colts fans will miss him. As long as the new guy focuses on the O- and D-Line, we’ll be happy.
Herm Edwards, gone. The NFL is a peculiar league. Its postseason disappears in the blink of an eye, and the ubiquitous league is irrelevant for most diehard fans who have no playoff team to follow. As such, the heaviest commentary, reporting, speculation, and web hits surround dismissals of coaches. I guess that’s OK, it’s just fairly weird. And Herm Edwards sucked. And we love Joe Poz, but his Pollyanna act is ridiculous. Herm will live.
JD and Elliot, back together. Who didn’t see this coming? Also, Scrubs is in a weird, season-fattening loop owing to last year’s writer’s strike and ABC’s desire to fill airtime. Each hour of Scrubs features one viable episode and one ridiculous episode (Tonight’s features the Muppets, of all things.) Normally I’d pick apart JD and Elliot’s relationship further, but it’s also perhaps a sign the show is well past its prime that I’m simply ambivalent. But the tongue-in-cheek references to early episodes? Nice touch for us sex buddies. (trumpets) I mean, us diehards.
Oh, almost forgot, Jon Gruden, also gone. Speaking of the peculiar NFL, it’s almost as though coaches’ accountability is rendered moot with increasing pompousness, bombasticity (?) and sneering. Until this happened, let alone to the NFL’s hardest working coach, to hear each of his sycophantic reporters tell it (he gets up at 3 a.m.!).
Slumdog Millionaire was surprisingly good. In a year filled with flawed pictures, I wouldn’t be disappointed if Slumdog earned best picture. It’s not as good as last year’s power-pack of No Country For Old Men or There Will Be Blood, nor as good as, ahem, The Dark Knight. But its sly tale wrapped in the coalescence of chance, fate, offhand knowledge and destiny is an enjoyable ride. You’ll never guess who doesn’t like it.
As a pet owner, we enjoyed Bill Simmons’ recent column. Bill obviously is angling for some future ESPN radio spot by podcasting every day for umpteen hours. So who’s going to break it to him that his voice is way too grating for a massive audience? Occasionally, between phoned-in columns, he pens a column that reminds you why you started reading him in the first place. As a pet owner, this ode to the late Dooze made it, shall we say, a bit dusty in here.
KSK’s Peter King. Nothing in the universe is funnier than Drew’s weekly excoriation of Peter King’s ridiculous MMQB. Nothing at all. I know not why I even try blogging, let alone why I craft a predictable first-draft list column reminiscent of the bubbly King. I’ll shut up.
The Cubs now have a new owner. You try and figure out if the Cubs were better off with the incompetent Chicago Tribune, psychopathic Sam Zell, or the mysteriously devious Tom Rickets pulling the strings. We just hope they can survive the Kevin Gregg era. AND WHAT THE HELL WAS CARLOS MARMOL DOING PITCHING IN THE D.R. OVER THE OFFSEASON? Last year his arm almost fell off at midseason, and he’s coming off two years of overwork. How could the Cubs permit this? You’d think the Cubs didn’t know what they were doing. Shocking, I know.
Finally, the uninspiring Super Bowl is upon us, as we mentioned, on the heels of an uninspiring college bowl season. Both postseasons turned out so forgettable they inspired some normally rational Football Outsiders, and some normally rational college football writers to postulate whether the regular season in the NFL is rendered meaningless either by parity or a third “surprise team” to make the title game in the last three seasons.
These types of comments are totally self-interested, offered out of fear the writer may not know more than his audience: If the Super Bowl doesn’t represent the two best teams in PFP, clearly it doesn’t reflect the best quality teams overall. Call me crazy, but the NFL’s season doesn’t exist to rubber-stamp FO’s publications. In fact, it’s completely ludicrous when college football fanatics – or any writers, fans, talking heads, for that matter – whine that “the best team doesn’t always win” in other sports.
Because, yes, of course they fucking do.
In the NCAA, they win six games in a row. In baseball, teams survive a double-elimination tournament, or three rounds of elimination baseball. In the NFL, even the Indianapolis Colts, and New York Giants earn the right to be champions by winning four games in a row. I’m sorry, but in any of those leagues, if you make it through the denoted gauntlet, you deserve to win; and to be called the best.
It’s paramount arrogance that a web site assumes its stats, logic or analysis superior to the results on the field. That may not be a direct statement, but it’s the implication, it’s perpetually unfounded, and it indicates myopia at best and ignorance at worst.
No one watches sports hoping for an endorsement of anyone’s preseason web prognostications, no matter how complete and data-driven the predictions may be. We watch in suspense, hoping and waiting to find out who can emerge from the pack. And that’s who the best is. Period.
That said, Mister Faded Glory has called Pittsburgh the best team all year. So we expect them to win. See, complete hypocrisy, mixed tenses, hopelessly long posts, catty diatribes, unnecessary fucking cursing; you’re glad I’m back. Admit it.
