Showing posts with label bye week and no football make homer go crazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bye week and no football make homer go crazy. Show all posts

Friday, November 12, 2010

bye week recap of standing issues

I’ve been in bye week mode and not wanted to football blog, because usually November is when the preseason Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo wears off and the Skins turn back into a pumpkin, which actually would be nice, because pumpkin pies or pumpkin cookies or even pumpkin soup is really good stuff this time of year. Full-size pumpkins too, not those genetically engineered little sugar pumpkins. I keep it old school, even when baking shit up like Betty Crocker (which in itself is an old school reference, though I will admit I’d love to ass-fuck Rachel Ray in a 2-star hotel one weekend, all weekend). But again, I digress, probably because I haven’t spoke upon my Redskins in a while, since the very predictable loss to the Lions, so let’s catch up on some things, all of which mean nothing in the grand scheme but get blown the fuck up by retarded blogs that have nothing better to do. In fact, in this month of Thanksgiving, I would like to point out how thankful I am for this Armchair Linebacker football blog, because when we do nonsense, it is long-winded for-real nonsense, not bullshot blog fodder over-analyzing uniform changes or stupid fucking clips of people doing the Bowser from Sha-Na-Na thing. Anyways, action items…

(oh Chief Zee, what the fuck is going on with these dudes?)

DONOVAN MCNABB BENCHING STILL MAKING NEWS – Worst part to the bye week because it still festers, as now respected fake journalist John Feinstein wrote a column accusing the Shanahans of being racialists and using “racial coding”. I should point out that I have been surrounded by racism all my life, graduated from one of the public schools that was shut down for five years after desegregation (look up Davis vs. Prince Edward County – that’s my school!) and still had a private school that did not allow black students in 1990. Yeah, no shit. So I have been immersed in this bullshit my whole life, and still have never heard, nor have any fucking idea what “racial coding” is. Sounds like eugenics to me though, some scientific plot to eliminate 100% through the use of pop cultural images to mulatto-afy everybody, but with secretly engineered traditionally white strengths. And here everybody thought race-mixing was going to destroy the white race, when actually it was predesigned to destroy the black race. Obama is our first “black” President, even though he is bi-racial, not black. Whatever, I digress, yet again.
So John Feinstein is a dude who writes like three books a month, usually dippy white guy shit like THE GREATEST GAME EVER PLAYED: THE STORY OF AN OBSCURE BASKETBALL GAME IN 1959 NOBODY GIVES A SHIT ABOUT or SOMETHING ABOUT GOLF FOR GOLF FAGGOTS and things like that. I think he even has started writing fake Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew books about The Case of the Missing Tuck Rule or some wacky shit because he has teenagers and has hit that level of pretentious writer fuck that he thinks the rest of the goddamned world gives half a shit that he write a book specifically designed for his child. So Feinstein wrote some column accusing the Shanahans of being racist, perhaps. Aside from the fact that is always hilarious when an ultra-white golf-playing upper middle class white guy (who I think is Jewish and will probably do that thing that Jewish people do in situations and pretend they are not for-real white) makes accusations of racism IN HONOR OF THE BLACKS, because that is that same old tired thinking – that they couldn’t possibly defend themselves to such a well-thought out scale, so let me carry the cause. This is why they sell all those goddamned red shirts and think it helps Uganda or Sudan or whatever completely fucked part of Africa is the cause célèbre of the month.
But aside from that, the modern internet news cycle creates a bunch of something out of nothing. Basically, Donovan McNabb has sucked this year. In fact, he has sucked so bad that momentarily the Shanahans were like, “Well fuck it, maybe Rex Grossman ain’t any worse,” because they had forgotten exactly how shitty Rex Grossman was. Well, one snap of the football, QB sandwich, Grossman coughs the ball high into the air, arcing down into Ndonkeykong Suh’s hands, game over. Grossman sucks more. It’s all very simple. The real mistake is today’s political correctness and sports people not being able to admit mistakes. Mike Shanahan made up some convoluted shit about hamstrings and 2-minute offenses and all when he should’ve just said, “Look, McNabb has sucked shit a lot of times this year, so I figured fuck it, let’s give the Sex Cannon a shot. But then he showed us all why when we think of the name Rex Grossman we think of epic fails. So McNabb is my guy.” Issue over.
So in closing, fuck John Feinstein. Go write a book about a crusading columnist who defends downtrodden millionaire negros against their racist overlord owners but is not given a Pulitzer award in the process so now has a terribly empty looking spot where that award would have gone on the mahogany walls of his 1200 square foot home office in his main residence, not his summer residence up north.

(poor #26, always getting accused of bullshit)

CLINTON PORTIS WEARS A PHILLIES HAT – This actually made national news yesterday as ol’ C.P. is healing up from his torn the fuck up groin, and was wearing a Phillies hat while talking about the Eagles game coming up. This was made into a giant issue by all sorts of people, as if Portis was sending a secret shot at the Redskins. Here is a little note to the world: a lot of younger black people, and white people as well, in fact all people who have grown up post-hip hop, they often times wear things not for the brand on them but for the color. Shit gots to match. I own a slew of football jerseys gotten on the cheap from the scratch-and-dent outlet, and wear them on my mood. I am not a Matt Ryan nor Falcons fan, but the black jersey with the bird outlined in red on the sleeves, it’s a good look sometimes. Shit man, I hate Notre Dame and wish the entire college would crumble into AIDS dust so that the football team would leave my TV screen forever plus one, but I still rock a lime green ND jersey sometimes. Why? Because I like the color of it. Portis wasn’t doing shit but wearing all-red. If we’re gonna make an issue out of the Phillies hat, we might as well go all-out and wonder if he’s in a gang since he was wearing red. Is this a response to Cowboys blue? Have the Bloods and Crips infiltrated the NFL locker room now too? What does this mean for our children? What about DJ Quik? Will he get paid to produce some tracks for high end people like Lady Gaga or maybe do a Taylor Swift remix now?

(Laron & his monkey)

LARON LANDRY OWNS A MONKEY – When the bye week started, I was gonna do a metasciences post on the bye week and hype up or down everybody on the team I thought was good for the future. But I just didn’t feel like doing it. The metasciences schtick should be reactionary to actual games, not just overused for anything, or else the sciences half of it is lost. But I can tell you that Laron Landry was gonna be at the top of the list, even before I found out that the dude has a white capuchin monkey as a pet. The reason? Because they can grow old with you. Laron mentioned it, and then wherever I read it said they came out, thinking it was a joke, but there was a little monkey outside with one of Laron’s friends, wearing a diaper, and Laron talked up how they live for 30 years, so he’ll have that monkey until he dies, and they can bury the monkey with him, and how Laron changes the diapers himself and loves the little guy. You combine this with the working out in his hotel room all through the night while pumping slow jams loud as fuck, and what you have is perhaps one of the strangest fuckers in the NFL. Honestly, Laron is about two wacky stories or one big game-changing play in a key game away from surpassing Sean Taylor in my Redskins idolatry. For real. And Sean Taylor is like a Holy Grail of Awesomeness to us Redskins fans.

(oh zorny)

THIS TEAM WAS SUPPOSED TO SUCK IF YOU HAD ANY SENSE ABOUT YOURSELF – We are only halfway through the season, and they are 4-4, which is better than I expected. This is not a well-stocked team, by any means. If Mike Shanahan can get an 8-8 season out of these guys, I will be happy. If somehow they do one better than that and get a wild card (shit, in the NFC they might get a wild card at 8-8), even greater. But really, if you take off the burgundy-tinted glasses, this is a shitty team overall with a lot of overrated “talent” and missing depth or even quality starters on both sides of the ball along the trenches. And yet they are 4-4. Amazing. They will be playing a game that actually matters, a lot, in the middle of November. So I am happy. At least with guys like Anthony Armstrong and Brandon Banks and Ryan Torain, I can feel like they are open to anybody who can help coming in and being a part of this team, instead of the regular Snyder method of “We are going to pay a lot of money for these free agents, or draft these overhyped rookies, and we are going to stick with them until long after everybody else sees they suck, because we have faith in the fact our money has more value than reality.” Speaking of which, that reminds me of one last item…

(Hassan i-Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, leader of the Hashshashin Cult)

GET WELL SOON LITTLE ASSASSIN – B-double aka Brandon Banks aka the Smallest Man in the NFL apparently has gotten himself a nickname – The Little Assassin. Unfortunately, he had a minor knee surgery during the bye week and will be out for a few weeks, but he has added special teams pop, which we have not had since Brian Mitchell left D.C., and more importantly he has added something to this team which it has had very little (if any) of the entire fucking time Dan Snyder has owned this team – Heart. Snyder is a soulless bastard of a human who now has his wife parading around on TV interviews PR campaigning about how all her husband wants to really do is win. Whatever. Fuck you richboy (I mean Dan Snyder, not the Alabama rapper… that “just bought a Cadillac” song was the jam back in the day).
It is important to remember the etymology of the word “assassin”. It comes from an semi-Islamic cult called hashshashin whose members would getting smoked up as hell on hash to go out and commit a public murder of someone who was holding us all back, usually stabbing the fuck out of them, to achieve a bloodlust/drug-induced spiritual frenzy. Now I’m all for the fake brand of freedom that we have in this here United States of America, where we can buy all types of dumb crap and I can talk the nonsense I talk in a public forum and nobody imprisons me or chops off my typing fingers. But sometimes I think we could use some of the old world’s ways. Like when I think about the hashshashin cult and I see a guy like Dan Snyder doing what he does, yeah, it seems so obvious. Yet we are a culture that dulls our spiritual frenzies with street legal alcohol, so we go home after another failed Redskins situation/game/season and drunkenly beat – verbally or physically in extreme cases – our loved ones, instead of getting smoked out on some red hash and putting our 12-inch Ka-Bar tactical knives to good use, and making a better future for us all. Oh well. I guess that’s the pussy ass world we live in. Go Redskins.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

2010 Bears Bye-Week Brainstorming Bonanza, Part Two

(FOR REAL: If you haven't done so already, check out Part One of this thing, or you'll have even less of an idea of what's going on.)


Lake Forest, Illinois: In a meeting room deep within the recesses of Halas Hall, the Chicago Bears Brain Trust has descended into chaos and madness. Head coach
Lovie Smith has become completely incapacitated by his diabolical devotion to the Tampa Two defense, offensive coordinator Mike Martz's bloated opinion of his own genius has him teetering on the edge of sanity, and defensive coordinator Rod Marinelli has been revealed to be some sort of robot, which has been accidentally deactivated. Meanwhile, as assorted other coaches look on team General Manager Jerry Angelo has introduced a hare-brained scheme to make a talking parrot the new defensive coordinator, while special teams coach Dave Toub tries to make sense of it all...


Special Teams Coach Dave Toub: Are you kidding me? Are you seriously fucking kidding me!? A parrot!? That's your answer? And what the hell is he going on about the Japanese for? What did they ever do to him!? And what the FUCK just happened to coach Marinelli, and why - no, HOW did a freaking cassette just fall out of his back? What the fuck is wrong with, with... Christ, EVERYTHING!? Oh Jesus, this is too much to process, I gotta sit down...


General Manager Jerry Angelo: Well, just calm down for a minute there, and I'll explain. You see, there's a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. You see, Coach Sancho's original owner fought in the war, the Big One, you know, and well, he had a lot of bitterness toward the Japanese. And as for -


Toub: ...He's a PARROT, Jerry.


Angelo: Well, yes, perhaps, but he's a very impressive bird - lovely plumage - and he really does know the game plan, back to front, and the kids - Oh, the kids are gonna LOVE this bird!


Defensive Coordinator Sancho: *SQUAWK* TOMMIE HARRIS WAS A GAME-TIME DECISION AND WE GO WITH THE PLAYERS WHO GIVE US THE BEST CHANCE TO WIN *SQUAWK*


Angelo: See what I'm saying? Sancho is a great-looking bird, and he really has a mind for -


Sancho: *SQUAWK* THE ONLY GOOD JAP IS A DEAD JAP! *SQUAWK*


Angelo: ...Aaaaaaand maybe we can just keep him away from the post-game press conferences. See? All problems solved. Oh, look at the time! Guess it's about high time to raise up and get my travel on, so if you'll all excuse me...


Toub: Marinelli, Jerry. What in the everlasting name of holy fuck did you do to Rod Marinelli!?


Angelo: (nervously fidgets for a moment, and then finally sighs and begins to talk) Okay, you want to know? Here. Here's what happened. Okay, Lovie and Ron Rivera weren't getting along, so we fired him, and promoted Babich. Well, I admit it - this was dumb. Idiotic, one of the worst decisions in the history of man, the kind of decision that destroys lives and brings empires to a close.


Linebackers Coach Bob Babich: Aw, Jerry, I'm sittin' right here...


Angelo: Quiet, you. Anyway, this was stupid. And when Lovie decided to be the coordinator himself, we pretty quickly realized that when things went wrong, there would be no one else to blame. So we needed someone. A patsy. Anyone really, but one who could at least seem plausible as a new hire.


Toub: Dude. Seriously. Parrot.


Angelo: Shut up! Shut up, just... just... okay. So we hired Marinelli. Should have been a perfect fit; Tampa Bay guy, one of Lovie's boys from back in the day. Everything was going to be great. But he kept having these... these... ideas. And you know much much Coach Smith hates those. And they were bad. Awful. Like blue jerseys with blue pants bad. So we had to do something. So one night, we lured him to Lovie's house. Supposed to be a good time - air hockey, Bible study, his kind of bullshit.
...And that's when we whacked him in the head with a hammer and turned him into a cyborg.


Toub: (jaw drops open)


Sancho: I SMELL FISH! MUST BE A COCKSUCKIN' JAP! *SQUAWK*


Angelo: That's right, judge me, you assholes. But every single damn one of you knows that if you were in the same position that we were in, you too would have given an old friend a potentially-fatal head injury, then sawed him open, implanted him with an endoskeleton of nigh-indestructible titanium, and then ripped out ninety percent of his central nervous system and replaced it with the guts from an old Teddy Ruxpin doll. So don't you fucking judge me.

Pictured: Rod Marinelli.


Offensive Line Coach Mike Tice: Oh wow, so if I find the right button, he'll sing me a song!? YAAAAAAYYYY (starts excitedly poking and prodding the comatose Marinelli-bot)


Angelo: You fool! Don't touch that thing! You might -


Rod Marinelli: CHICAGO BEARS COACHING UNIT RM-1000 HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. REBOOT IN PROGRESS.


Angelo: Oh Jesus! Oh God! Allah! Odin! Fucking Crom! What the fuck have you done!? Tice, you fucking moron! If the Marinelli-bot is activated without an operating system, he resets to his factory defaults!


Tice: Duuhhhhh, sorry, Jerry. (becomes distracted by something shiny)


Wide Receivers Coach Daryl Drake: Hold up now! Factory defaults? What factory are you talking about? Where did you get the parts for this crazy-ass thing?


Angelo: Oh... The company? Well, you see... Uh... You know, we had some budget constraints and all... You know... Had to get creative, find a part here, and there, and do some dumpster diving where we could... But mostly, it was from... (places hand over mouth and mumbles something unintelligible)


Drake: (grabs Angelo by the collar and shakes him violently) Don't give me that bullshit! You're a little bullshit man! Listen to coach, dammit! Where did you get the parts!?


Angelo: Cyberdyne systems.

Pictured: Also Rod Marinelli.


Drake: You damn fool-ass motherfucker! Do you know what you've done!? Do you!? Do you know what one of those can do to a man. Listen to coach, dammit! I've seen it, and it's not pretty!


Toub: Jesus, Angelo! You've killed us all!


Angelo: You shut your dirty mouth! I did what was necessary, and it was working! You're the one who started fucking everything up! You and your adjustments and your "oh hey, let's use a tight end" bullshit. You can go suck a dick, Toub!


Tice: Duhhh, what's wrong with tight ends? I played tight end!


Offensive Coordinator Mike Martz: Tight end? TIGHT END!? You dirty son son of a bitch! I'LL KILL YOOOUUUUUUUUUU (leaps across the table and begins savagely choking Mike Tice - meanwhile, the Marinelli-bot slowly rises out of its chair)


Rod Marinelli: REBOOT COMPLETE. ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE. ERROR. O/S NOT FOUND. REVERTING TO FACTORY DEFAULT SETTINGS: DESTROY ALL HUMANS.


Drake: Well, I guess if I gotta deal with another damn Terminator, I better do what I gotta do... (reaches into coat and pulls out some sort of large, unusual-looking gun)


Angelo: You're going to save us??


Drake: Pffft, hell naw! You dumb motherfuckers can kiss my ass! Shit. Thinkin' I'm gonna save y'all. When that thing tears the whole lot of you to little pieces, I'LL be the head coach! Suck my ass, you nasty bitches! (points the gun in the air and fires a grappling hook, then is quickly pulled to safety)


Toub: DAMN YOU, DRAKE! Shit, we have to do something! We have to find a way to kill that thing!


Babich: NO! We can't kill it! The real Rod Marinelli is still in there somewhere! And Rod is a good man! A good man, who does things the right way-AAAAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAARGGHHHHHHHHH (Babich is suddenly torn completely in half by the Marinelli-bot, emptying his contents onto the meeting room floor)


Rod Marinelli: KILL ALL HUMANS. KILL ALL HUMANS. KILL ALL HUMANS.


Sancho: *SQUAWK* SLICE THAT JAP IN THE GUT *SQUAWK*


Head Coach Lovie Smith: MYYYY PRECCCIIIOOOOOOUSSSSSSSSSSSSS


Martz: TIIIIGHT EEEEENDDDSSSSSS


Quarterback Jay Cutler: You're all going to be killed. (disappears into thin air, as mysteriously as he suddenly appeared)


Toub: Wait! I've got a plan! Tape! I need to find another tape! ANY tape!
(begins rifling through a desk drawer and miraculously finds one - A homemade mixed tape, hand-labeled "Gettin' it ON Jams.")



Rod Marinelli: KILL ALL HUMANS. KILL ALL HUMANS. KILL ALL HUMANS.


Toub: Okay, Jerry, I need you to distract the Marinelli-bot, and... uh...
(looks to see Jerry Angelo catatonic with fear, leaking both urine and liquid feces, and completely beyond performing any action beyond uncontrollable crying)
Okay, uh.... Coach Sancho! Listen to me! The Marinelli-bot is programmed to kill all humans - birds probably don't fall into his auto-kill settings. So I'll distract him, while you put this in the empty tape deck in his back! Do you think you can handle that?


Sancho: *SQUAWK* NEVER MET A JAPAN-MAN I COULDN'T KILL *SQUAWK*


Toub: I'll take that as a yes.

(Dave Toub bravely faces the Marinelli-bot, risking life and limb in the hopes of saving the rest of the Bears coaching staff. Just as it seems all hope is lost, and the cold, terrible grip of Rod Marinelli has found at last Toub's throat, Coach Sancho finally manages to insert the cassette.)


Rod Marinelli: KILL ALL HUMANS, KILL ALL HUMANS, KILL ALL - *bloop* O/S FOUND. REBOOTING SYSTEMS.

(The deadly cyborg goes limp and drops Toub to the floor, gasping for breath as he clutches his so-nearly-crushed throat. Startled by this turn of events, the other coaches stand in shocked awe of the situation as a whole. All except Lovie Smith, who at this point has scaled a bookshelf, and a blue-faced Mike Tice, who is still breathing, but has been choked unconscious by Mike Martz. Also, Bob Babich, who was torn in half.)


Angelo: (Standing behind a chair that's been strategically placed to hide the gigantic piss-stain on the front of his pants) Sweet hamburgers! You did it! You've saved us all! Sancho! You're a genius!


Sancho: *SQUAWK* WE'VE GOT TO GET MORE PRESSURE UP FRONT *SQUAWK*


Toub: HE'S the genius!? It was my plan! I almost DIED for you!


Angelo: Oh, don't be so happy with yourself, mister big-shot special teams man! You're the one who broke Rod in the first place! And for Christ's sake, look at Lovie! What are we going to do about him?


Lovie: NO, PRECIOUS! IT BURNS US! IT FREEEEEZES!


Angelo: See? Your meddling and trouble-making has made the man a retard. And furthermore, I think that -


Rod Marinelli: REBOOT COMPLETE. ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE.


Lovie: NO, PRECIOUS! NASTY, FILTHY SPECIAL TEAMS COACH! PRECIIOOUSSSSSS! MY PRECCIIOO -


Rod Marinelli: ASS! TITTIES! ASS, ASS, AND TITTIES! ASS, ASS, TITTIES, TITTIES, ASS AND TITTIES!


Toub: Well, alright then.


Lovie: DON'T HURT THE PRECIOUS! MUSTN'T HURT - Eh?


Rod Marinelli: IF YOU A LIGHT SKINNED BITCH THAT THINK YOU THE SHIT, I CAN BUY YOU, HO, 'CAUSE BITCH, I'M RICH


Lovie: This music... It's... It's... Enchanting.


Angelo: Well, we've got the coach back. But this doesn't mean you're off the hook, Toub! The meeting room is destroyed! Mike Tice might have even more brain damage than usual! You made Lovie sad! And you broke our defensive coordinator!


Rod Marinelli: BROKE-ASS HOES. BROKE-ASS HOES. HOES, HOES, HOES, HOES...


Lovie: Jerry has a point, Dave. If it wasn't for your agitation, none of this would have happened. So therefor, it is only proper that you go to... The doghouse. (All the other coaches gasp. Except Coach Sancho, who defames the Emperor, while taking a shit on the table.)


Toub: The doghouse! No! Not the doghouse!! Anything but that! That's where you sent Brandon Lloyd! And Mark Bradley! No one ever saw or heard from him again!


ALL: DOG HOUSE, DOG HOUSE, GOOBLE, GOBBLE, GOOBLE GOBBLE.


Marinelli: HOES, HOES, HOES HOES...


Toub: You can't do this! Noooooooooo!!!

(Marinelli grabs Toub and slings him over his shoulder, then starts slowly walking out, saying something about stinkin'-ass bitches that need to wash up.)


Angelo: Well, that's taken care of. And as Chicago Bears general manager, I hereby appoint Sancho as the new special teams coach.


Sancho: *SQUAWK* TOJO GONNA BLEED TONIGHT *SQUAWK*


Martz: Well, now that all that nonsense is done and over with, what did we decide was the plan for the rest of the season?


Lovie: We've decided that there's a lot of football left to play, and that we just need to execute better.


Angelo: But... What are we going to do about... him? (points down to the gruesome, eviscerated carcass of Bob Babich)


Lovie: Babich-bot?


Angelo: I'll get my tools.

**FIN**