Anyone who knows me knows how much I love football. I’ve had unhealthy man-love for football since I was young enough to want a rat-tail (thankfully, I never got one). But this has been the worst, least-satisfying NFL season of my life. Everything about the 2007-08 NFL product has been a stunning bore – until tonight, Super Bowl Sunday. Thank you, New York Giants, for saving me and redeeming pro football in my eyes.
Before tonight, I wanted everything about this season to fuck off. I’ll admit that much of this is sour grapes on my part. You see, I’m a lifelong Miami Dolphins fan, and the Dolphins absolutely ate ass this year. But it’s not like this caught me by surprise – they’ve been a joke for about six years now; it wasn’t until now that it all fell completely apart. Cam Cameron was a fucking joke as a coach, starting with his decision to bring in over-the-hill, brain-ratted Trent Green to guide this shitty team to the Promised Land. Yeah, see you there, Cam. Good riddance, dickface. Luckily for him, he landed in Baltimore, where they’ve got a broken-down has-been Steve McNair for him all ready to be drop-shipped to the trainer’s room. The only good things about this season were Ronnie Brown – for six weeks he was the best running back in the league … then he got injured – and Ricky Williams – my football hero only ran the ball four times before getting his shoulder stomped on and separated, but him just being back is awesome! Everything else about the Dolphins was unwatchable. Let the deconstruction begin. You better have this shitwreck operational before I go to see them play in St. Louis next year, Parcells.
The hierarchy of my favorite teams goes like this: 1) Dolphins; 2) anybody but the Patriots. So, naturally, watching the Pats go 18-0 and pretty much fuck up every team in their path was torture. Eventually, I stopped paying attention to pro football and instead turned to the wonderful world of college football, where my longtime favorite team, USC, is actually worth paying attention to and the whole season was so unpredictable you knew every week some big-deal team was going to get its ass handed to them by someone they should have killed. But back to the NFL, even without my previous bias, the Patriots – the only team you’d logically never bet against, are completely unlikable. Part of that is their fault – Their evasive, condescending cock of a coach, Bill Belichick, somehow houses all the worst personality traits of Bush and Cheney, oh, and he’s a documented cheater, though the NFL doesn’t seem to mind so much. But, with the possible exception of Rodney “HGH” Harrison and Vince “Cheap Shot Artist” Wilfork, the players themselves don’t really do much but play great – and they do, no question, which you can’t really hate them for. That’s where the media comes in, constantly praise-fucking every noteworthy Patriot until it’s impossible not to want them dead. Tom Brady, can you tell me what it’s like to have your dick in 10,000 mouths at once?
Sidebar: Even though we were mercifully spared a Patriots championship this year, they’ll inevitably be back next year, thanks largely to the Raiders’ inexplicable decision to trade them Randy Moss for, seriously, a 4th round pick. I realize the man who made the decision, Al Davis, is old enough to poop his pants and have nobody think less of him for it, but what the fuck? What was his thought process: There’s no way we’re winning a Super Bowl before the nuclear winter, so nobody else is going to, either? Go to bed, old man. The same thing almost happened to my beloved Minnesota Twins with Johan Santana. That’s why I can’t figure out why everyone thinks they fucked up by trading him to the Mets when they could have gotten better players from the Yankees or Red Sox. Think about it, morons: does it really matter how good Phillip Hughes or Jacoby Ellsbury play for the Twins when they’re getting bounced by Santana and the Yankees/Sox in the ALCS ever year? How could you blame the Twins for not forcing us to choke down a Yankees/Sox world title for the next five years?
Now, to illustrate this point about the media, it wasn’t until recently that I realized that it wasn’t really Tom Brady that I’ve hated for years. It was every sportswriter’s biological urge to suck his cock and slurp cum out of every one of his dimples. I don’t hate Brady because he dates models that I’ve never heard of, but I can hate the media for telling me this constantly when all I want to know about football players is how they play football. One of my worst fears has come true at a nightmarish level: the National Enquirer has taken over the field of sports journalism.
How did I come to understand this? Tony Romo. After having no ill feelings toward Romo at the start of the season and actually being pretty impressed with him, I found myself hating him just like Brady after it came out that he’s dating Jessica Simpson. This pissed me off for two reasons: 1) See above about Brady; 2) I had no idea Jessica Simpson was still around. Before the Romo thing, I knew practically nothing about her, other than she’s a terrible singer who has a reputation for being stupid – and I don’t even know how I know that. I’ve never heard her speak or seen her in a movie, but thanks to the goddamned media, I know more about her than ever before. Slowly, I realized Romo didn’t do anything to piss me off – if he wants to date some unattractive imbecile, whatever – but the writers who insist on telling me about it constantly were the problem. If I can’t hate Romo, I can’t hate Brady, not even for beating the Dolphins. After all, until this year, the Dolphins traditionally play the Patriots tough once a year and even beat them regularly – even when they suck dick! (See 2004, MNF.) As of right now, I refuse to read anything from the sports media unless it’s by D.J. Gallo (sportspickle.com – it’s seriously hilarious) and Bill Simmons – unless he’s talking about the Patriots.
My honorable mention for most despicable story of the year goes to “Wes Welker being ‘thrown away’ by the Chargers and Dolphins, only to prove them wrong by starring for the Patriots.” I think Wes Welker is awesome, but any reporter who thinks the Dolphins “threw him away” for 2nd and 7th round picks is a fucking moron. The Dolphins didn’t want Welker to go, but the Pats surprised them by signing him to a big offer sheet, complete with one of those despicable poison pills. To Miami, he wasn’t worth the cost. And while I’m glad he’s playing great for the Pats, is anybody out there really stupid enough to think he’d be putting up those kinds of numbers (112 catches, 1,175 yards, 8 TDs) in Miami? He’d be wasted by shitty QB play, just like Chris Chambers was. Like Welker, I like Chambers but I’m thrilled he got to go somewhere where someone can get him the ball. Yes, leaving Miami to catch passes from Philip Rivers is preferable!
I was at the end of my rope after a regular season that nearly turned me off the NFL altogether. But thankfully, along comes Eli Manning, Plaxico Burress, Justin Tuck and Co. to resurrect my faith, if you can believe that. Thank you, Eli. I’ll never make another joke about you looking and sounding like the NFL’s Beaver Cleaver ever again. (Seriously, this guy just looks like he says “Geepers, fellas, we’ve gotta make my dang-diddley-darned play right now, please?” Sorry, it’s a habit.) As for the Dolphins, I’ll be back watching again year: my 21st in a row. Give the ball to Ronnie and Ricky, and don’t fuck it up. And, seriously, if you think Brady Quinn is going to fix Miami’s problems, you’re dumb as hell. I’m glad he impressed you with four years of Notre Dame beating no one impressive with him at QB, but I need a little more.
Oh, and my favorite part of last night’s game was definitely Belichick sulking off the field before the game was over – where’d you learn that one, Coach, from your star receiver? Then, he pouts his way through the press conference – all 45 seconds of it – and goes home to cry and suck off Satan. It’s always a joy to see how fascist rulers react when they have to drink down the creamy cum of defeat. You’re a big man, Bill.
… Wait, what’s that, you say? The people who come to this site don’t care about football? Well, fine then, I’ll review a movie, you single-minded knuckle-knobs, you. Tonight’s undercard to football discourse: Bucket of Blood. Because Roger Corman is from Detroit and therefore probably is a huge Giants fan …wait, huh? What, you expect him to be a Lions fan? Just read the review.
This is actually a movie I’ve wanted to see for a long time, but I was never sure where to get my hands on it. Then I found out that it’s in the public domain and is available in every one of those “100 Horror (Public Domain) Movies for $14.99” collections. Without ever owning one, I now have no less than six copies at my disposal whenever I want.
Honestly, I can’t stand Corman, but I wanted to see this one because it’s the one H.G. Lewis ripped off to make Paint Me Blood Red, the third and final installment of the Blood Trilogy. I now have the Blood Trilogy on DVD, but before I break into that, I wanted to see Bucket of Blood. I would have been happy with just a decent movie, but Bucket of Blood is actually quite good. Maybe Corman is more than a Sandy Frank who makes his own movies. I’m still pissed off about The Terror Within, though.
Our story follows the sad life of Walter Paisley, who is played by the awesome Dick Miller. Walter is a wannabe sculptor who works as a waiter in a hippie house called The Yellow Door. Walter gets no love from the true hippies and lives in a crappy apartment with a meddlesome landlady whose cat gets stuck in the wall, yup. Proving that bad things come in threes, Walter fucks up his sculpture, burns his dinner and stabs the cat while trying to get him out of the wall. Rather than tell his landlady, he covers the cat in clay – with the knife still sticking out! – and passes it off as art, which of course the hippies eat up like Jared Lorenzen vacuums down pork. (Don’t take it hard, Dough Boy, for standing on the sideline and eating polish sausage wrapped in stadium pretzels [presumably], you get a ring that is worth more than my entire life! Way to go!)
Through an improbable sequence of events, Walter is given some heroin by an adoring fan and is followed home by an undercover cop. Severely overreacting to the arrest process, Walter splits the pig’s head open with a frying pan. Nice. Before we know it, Walter is unveiling “Murdered Man,” a life-sized, pretty fucking creepy “sculpture” of a man with a split forehead. Of course, it’s just the dead cop encased in clay. The sculpture is actually frightening, which makes this scene work where Corman’s movies normally flop. Walter follows this masterpiece up by strangling a rude beatnik chik and making her his third murderously awesome work of art. Later, he cuts off a guy’s head with a buzz saw to make a bust.
For some reason, I dig the beatnik vibes here, even though I hate hippies otherwise. Here, we get a healthy dose of rambling, pretentious hippie crap – just like in an advanced placement English class, but somehow the dark, grainy film skews it and makes it cool. Maybe you need to be on something – acid, weed, cheap film – to truly appreciate a hippie.
Unfortunately for our hero, it’s only a matter of time before people figure out there be real bodies in them sculptures. After being shot down by the woman he loves (who only loves him for his work), Walter evades his chasers, only to hang himself at home. It’s kind of a bummer, though, because Walter has grey paint on his face, which I think implies he was making himself into a sculpture – “His greatest work,” one character deadpans. It looks terrible, which is too bad because I think this scene could have been amazing and powerful if it had been done right. That’s our Corman!
Oh, well, I can’t complain too much, because this movie is one of those great “kinda creepy, kinda funny” old relics that don’t really work anymore. The sculptures are great – for their time – and the hippie element gives it je ne sais quoi. Get me, I’m already talking like a damn, dirty hippie!
When that happens, you know it’s time to stop. OK, so I realize this isn’t much of a review, but really I just wanted to talk about football. Forgive me, but I’ve been sitting on a volcano of football misery since the Dolphins began to suck and AP reporters began referring to Tom Brady as “the dimple-chinned quarterback with the winning smile.” But for one night, everything is right with the football world. The cock-sure Patriots are dead (until April, when no doubt some hapless franchise will deal them a superstar on the cheap for reasons only understood by them); the Giants are kings for a day and the Dolphins, while still terrible, are at least interesting. I’m excited for the future.
I can see it now: Me, watching the Dolphins win the Super Bowl; Quam plays the halftime show. Chinese Democracy spins in my CD player. A non-white guy is president. Electric cars cruise the streets. Michael Bay hangs in the town square. Later, I’ll go to the theatre to see a Hellraiser movie that doesn’t suck cock. Far-fetched? Improbable? 14-point underdogs to the usual crap? Sure, but for now, please just let me dream this wonderful, wonderful dream.
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