Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The Random Thoughts Of A Degenerate Mind

Awww, no, come on, Drew, that shit was played out months ago.


After Drew Stanton scored a rushing touchdown early in the game against the Bears, he did what appeared to be The Dougie, but since he is a white boy whose previous dance experience probably consists of occasionally nodding his head while he tries to look cool or holding up a drunk sorority girl on the verge of passing out or sitting on his hands while a stripper grinds on him, it didn’t quite work out and ended up looking like The Dougie’s lamer, more uptight cousin, The Douglas.

I guess poor Drew felt like he needed to do something after he scored. I mean, after all, it’s not like the dude is going to get too many chances in his life to make a fool out of himself on television. Well, at least not in the endzone. But it’s generally frowned upon to break into dance after getting sacked or throwing an interception or rolling out into oblivion against the Jets, so this was one of the few chances Ol’ Plucky would ever have to show how he celebrates when something good actually happens. Poor, Drew. I can only imagine that his teammates just laughed at him. Actually, I can imagine him doing that at the club and I can imagine his teammates laughing at him then and then telling him that he should do it in a game after he scores a touchdown while attempting to stifle their laughter. I mean, I doubt they ever thought that it would actually happen, so why not have a little fun with Ol’ Plucky?

Still, it’s better than whatever the fuck that stupid Rollin’ dance was that Daunte Culpepper always used to do after a touchdown. I wonder if Daunte still does that in the UFL? I bet he does. I have a feeling that Daunte will do that shit when he is 55 years old and playing touch football in the backyard with his family.

And at least Drew didn’t attempt to do The Carlton a la Alphonso Smith. That would have been funny as fuck for all the wrong reasons, but Alphonso killed that fucking thing. No one should ever attempt to do it again. It is his now. Sorry, dude who played Carlton. Speaking of that dude, though, I wonder how many times he gets stopped by people who just want him to do The Carlton. How old is he, anyway? Hang on, let me look this shit up. (And yeah, this post has already given new meaning to the term “random”. Shit, just writing it makes me feel like I need Ritalin. I can’t imagine how disorienting reading it must be. Hey look, a bird!)

Okay. Alfonso Ribeiro, the dude who played Carlton, is 39 years old. And I bet that when he is 60, he will be signing autographs and some dipshit white dude will be all “Hey, man, do The Carlton” and they’ll giggle and Alfonso will just sort of grit his teeth before forcing a plastic, manic grin on his face and with all the hate he can muster he will do a furious version of The Carlton and then he’ll go home and cry and drink a shitload of Vodka and take a bunch of Tylenol because he fucked up his hip doing the dance again and then he’ll call Will Smith a bunch of times and just breathe into the phone while Will sternly says “Alfonso, is this you again, man? C’mon, man, this is the 40th time this week.” And then Alfonso will hang up and visit the grave of the fat dude who played Uncle Phil (heart attack, obviously) and under a cold, pale moon, he will silently weep and do The Carlton one last time. Or at least until some random dude on the street demands he does it again.

Perhaps The Carlton can only be done by dudes named Alphonso. Who knows? All I do know is that Drew Stanton should never attempt to do The Dougie again. Then again, I don’t think the world is ready to see him do “The Lap Dance Recipient” so . . . yeah. The good news is that Drew might not ever score another touchdown ever again, which means we’ll never have to find out what he has planned. So we’ve got that going for us.


Today, Ndamukong Suh was fined by Roger Goodell for, uh, pushing Jay Cutler to the ground while Cutler was running with the ball. In some circles that is known as “tackling”, which is an obscure method used to ensure that a runner is downed.

Fuck. I mean, just . . . fuck. I don’t get why everyone slobbers all over Roger Goodell. The dude should just walk around with a tiny tin badge on his jacket and a miniature cowboy hat because that motherfucker thinks he’s the sheriff. He’s fining everybody for everything. Shit, I’m pretty sure he just fined me for writing this. Does he just sit in his office, blindfolded, with a handful of darts that he just tosses at a board labeled with random names and dollar amounts? “Oh shit, Suh, and . . . $15,000! Good job, Roger, you’re the Commish! No, fuck that, you’re the Sheriff! Yeah, fuck you, Dad!”

And then I imagine his toady, Mike Pereira, slithering into his office, all hunched over, rubbing his hands together like some vile degenerate, licking his lizard lips in anticipation and I imagine Goodell maybe throwing a couple of darts at him just for fun and then demanding that Pereira gather the rest of the SS and make their rounds for the day. I can then imagine Pereira, surrounded by a gang of German thugs, limping (yeah, he’s acquired a limp now, and oh yeah, he carries a cane because, why not?) into the offices at Ford Field while everyone scurries and hides under the floorboards. And I can imagine him cackling at a terrified secretary, and then looking at his “special list”, licking his lizard lips once more and croaking “Bring me Suh,” and then loading poor Ndamukong onto a train bound for a special NFL reeducation camp.

Then again, I suppose this is what The House of Spears gets for daring to lay hands on another player or for, uh, playing defense. Everyone knows that the proper thing to do in that situation is to just yell at Cutler for a while and hope that he somehow breaks his will to the point that Cutler suffers from a brutal sense of ennui and just collapses to the turf. Then again, the lights would probably just go out in the stadium before they suddenly came back on and Mike Pereira would be standing there, cackling and flicking his lizard tongue in all directions while horrified fans and coaches all bull rushed the exits. He would point a bony and evil finger in Suh’s direction and tell him that Lord Goodell has fined him $50,000 and ordered him to attend “reeducation camp” for using “foul and unnecessary” language.

Yes, somehow this has morphed from Roger Goodell, Hillbilly Sheriff into Mike Pereira, Nazi into Mike Pereira, Mystical Evil Jedi. I should probably just quit before this gets completely out of hand. Wait, you mean that happened paragraphs ago? What’s a little harmless Nazi/Holocaust joke between friends?


Today came the sad news that Alphonso Smith, keeper of The Carlton flame, passed away in his sleep from a – and this is a technical term – fucked up shoulder. Well, of course he did. I imagine the football gods were going over their list and one of them saw Smith’s name, nudged one of his compatriots and was all “Oh shit, Bill, I think we missed one.” One finger point and one bolt of lightning later and Alphonso’s shoulder was cleaved in twain.

Lately, poor Alphonso has become a bit of a joke. The whole world watched him utterly implode on Thanksgiving and all my dudes and lady dudes who aren’t Lions fans were asking me “So, how much do you hate Alphonso Smith right now?” after that game, or some variation of that question, and all I could say was “Eh, not so much.” I mean, how could I? This season, he’s managed to be that rare beast, that dude the Lions have not had for a half decade – a cornerback capable of making a play. For one glorious stretch this season, it felt like he picked off a pass every game and turned the momentum in the Lions favor. And let’s not forget The Carlton, which was maybe the highlight of the entire season.

I’m sad that Alphonso Smith is hurt, just like it made me sad when he revealed that he couldn’t tackle a quadriplegic drunk with an inner ear disorder missing his wheelchair. When he fucked up so egregiously against the Patriots, I wasn’t filled with that sense of “Hey, fuck this guy” that everyone would expect. No, I found that I had developed a deep affection for Alphonso Smith and it made me sad to see him struggle so mightily. Sure, he stopped making plays a few weeks ago, and sure, he’s been a complete liability as far as tackling goes, but fuck it, this season is lost anyway, and I would rather root for a bunch of dudes who I actively like rather than for a replacement dude who’s thrust onto the field simply because there is no one else, you know? So, get well, Alphonso. May you live to do The Carlton another day. Vaya con dios, sweet prince. Vaya con dios.

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