Textlexia

February 9, 2010 – 1:25 pm

We’re introducing a new segment today, loyal readers…  one that’s sure to bind you to your spells and put the “en” in your “gross”. Textlexia… a supremely clever name for what amounts to a text exchange between myself and an insignificant other. Today, that’s Mad Adam. You could consider it a subheading to Civil Discussion, but only if you removed the “civil” and stretched “discussion” to its’ connotational limits.

There is some background to the story here (as there is with most mesmerizing tales), but I’ve decided to leave it to the whims of your imagination. Conjure up the most ridiculous thing you can think of, fricassee on low heat for 33 minutes, multiply it by 976,406 then divide by one, massage it with your poorest liniments, salt to taste. I’m not sure what you’d have… some approximation of something awful, I’d guess… which is where our story begins…

(some names and other facts have been altered or omitted to protect the marginally innocent)

Ed Honcho: Your favorite soccer team is putrid and just lost to a horrible team.

Mad Adam: Whtevr. 1 pt aganst (name omitted) is nuthin 2 write home abot.

Ed Honcho: At (name omitted’s home stadium)? Please, I’ll take it. Same as they got at our place, and we’ve got a game in hand.

Mad Adam: Enjoy ur goaless & lefles draw.

Ed Honcho: You wouldn’t take one now, against that listless, horrible team?

Mad Adam: Sure. But woldn’t be braggin abot it.

Ed Honcho: Was I bragging? No, only responding to petty insults.

Mad Adam: U wre baitin me and braggin in respons to my retort. (My putrid team) will finsish hiher than ur favrite team in table.

Ed Honcho: German dinner on it?

Mad Adam: Only if u axknowldge german dnner u owe me frm 2 yrs ago.

Ed Honcho: Not this again. It’s you who owes me dinner, but whatever, I’ll forfeit it to get you to shut up about it.

Mad Adam: U R so vry wrong. I won strait up bet & was nver paid bc u left for home early rather than steigh. So I dont want a forfit. I want accnollegemint of dnner owed. In other wrds, if (Ed Honcho’s favorite team) is hgher in table, u oh nuthin. If (Mad Adam’s favorite team) comes out on top, u owe me 2 dnners.

Ed Honcho: Let’s just agree to table the first one, since clearly, we’re getting nowhere. If (Mad Adam’s favorite team) finishes higher, I buy you dinner, or vice versa for (my favorite team). If we somehow then resolve our earlier issue, either I buy you another one, or you buy me another one. And this, we’ll have in writing.

Mad Adam: Nope, this my last best chnce 2 get u 2 stop wrigglin owt of a dett. It’s ben “tabled” long enuf. No new bets til u come corrct.

Ed Honcho: But you remember it one way and I remember it the right one. How to resolve?

Mad Adam: U aknnawlidge ur misteak.

Ed Honcho: This smacks of convenience as it pertains to vaging out of future wagers. How opportune for you.

Mad Adam: Opprtune? I hve weighted for what is due 2 me for ovr 2 yrs.

Ed Honcho: I’m just saying, faced with a bet with a high probability of losing (Mad Adam’s favorite team over Ed Honcho’s favorite team), you’re all of a sudden stricken with this bout of pseudo-ethics and claiming you won’t bet anymore? Suspicious.

Mad Adam: Nice try. Capitulate or we stalemte. U oh me.

Ed Honcho: Then impasse it is, as I’m surely not about to admit something I don’t believe to be true. This is not a cross-examination. But rest assured, calls of “pussy” will ring in your ears as I throw them your way.

Mad Adam: Rite bhack at u… pissy. Pusies dont own up 2 bets owd. Well knwn fact. It science.

Ed Honcho: Pussies are afraid of things, like bets, for example. More than fact, it’s the word’s very definition.

Mad Adam: Impass it is, thn. 2 bad 2. A lng hstory of sportss beting btween us ends ovr a cowarrdly welcher move. Sad rlly. Sad little pissy.

Ed Honcho: Except that I’m willing to make this bet.

Mad Adam: And Im willing to stand up fr honorr.

Ed Honcho: Since when?

Mad Adam: Alwys. Men of onnor know thees thngs. U R witout honnor, hence ur connphusion on topic.

Ed Honcho: And yet, from my remembering, it’s you who is confused. So, not only are you without honor, but you’re also still a pussy.

Mad Adam: U either hve a porr memorie, are a low moron, ar wo onnorr, or r a pussie. Take ur pik.

Ed Honcho: I choose none of the above. I’m a statesman.

Mad Adam: A disshonnorrable stateman.

Ed Honcho: By the way, I think I’m going to put this in a post.

Mad Adam: Wt? That u hve no onnor? That will be goode read. btw, (Mad Adam’s favorite college basketball team) up on (Mad Adam’s favorite basketball team’s hated rival) by 15.

Ed Honcho: That you accuse me of such, yes. We’ll let the readers decide. And as for your favorite team, it won’t last. Wanna bet?

Mad Adam: Ha! Nevr. Unles u du what is rite.

Ed Honcho: I could just lie, of course. It’s far from beneath me.

(end transmission)

So what say you, readers? Mad Adam a pussy? Should he continue to bet? He clearly mis-remembers our original bet, as I never forget anything. That’s just the way it is. But he’s the type to stick to his guns, even if they’re filled with water.

Oh, and if he would have made the bet, the last one, he would have won. Fiscally irresponsible as well?

By edhoncho | Posted in Textlexia | Tagged , | Comments (1)

The Honcho Awards, Feb. 8, 2010

February 8, 2010 – 2:47 pm

I find myself conflicted this morning, dear readers. On the one hand, we’ve come to the end of another highly successful NFL season… one that saw the renewal of my fantasy football dynasty (more UCLA basketball circa 1964-1975 than 1980’s Niners, at least as I plan it), the re-invigoration of the gulf coast region, the ascension of Aaron Rodgers, the descent of LaDainian Tomlinson, the promising starts of Mark Sanchez and Percy Harvin, the dignified finishes of Kurt Warner and Jamal Lewis, and, most importantly, some extremely salient predictions by yours truly. I’m sad to see it end. On the other hand, we’ve come to the beginning of the NFL’s other season… one where they don’t actually play any games… draft season. And, as a fan of an efficiently downtrodden team, this particular season has always been much more pertinent to my situation. So instead of despondence, let’s take a different tact, and anoint it a celebration… a celebration of the start of draft season. Seems more palatable that way, wouldn’t you agree?

But before we get into the nuts and bolts of draft season, let’s take a moment to reflect, and give Honcho awards to:

- Sean Payton (center of photo, following his onside kick call), for his Epcot-sized balls. If the Saints had played an all-too-typically conservative game against the Colts, they would have lost. Luckily for the Saints, Saints fans, and pretty much the rest of the free world (sans the area immediately surrounding Indianapolis), Payton is not your typical coach. He’s a risk-taker. Never was this more evident than when he called for the onside kick to start the second half. A stroke of genius, but one that 99% of coaches would never have attempted (which explains, of course, why it’s never been done before). For showing the balls to win a championship, Payton wins himself an emphatic Honcho Award (it’s neat… you’d love it… it actually has an accent mark over it).

- Dale Steyn, for his seven wicket haul for South Africa against India on their notoriously difficult playing surfaces. Running through Indian batsmen on an Indian flat pitch is not only impressive, it’s nigh on impossible. Young Dale’s come a long way since he used to chase rheboks through the valley of the Olifants and hoodwink the merchants of Phalaborwa. But it’s like they say, if you can make it in Limpopo, you can win Honcho Awards.

- LeBron James, for dropping 47 points, 8 rebounds and 8 assists in Cleveland’s 113-106 victory over the New York Knicks. Again. If Kevin Durant weren’t making just as strong a case, LeBron might find his name engraved in some sort of honorary fashion on these here awards. I suppose I could call them the LeBron James and Kevin Durant Ed Honcho Awards, but that just looks and sounds stupid. Plus, if you must know, I’m really not the type to share the spotlight. Nothing against these guys, I’m sure they’re nice enough fellows, it’s just… well, I’m selfish, what can I say? All the greats are selfish. So this Ed Honcho Award is gonna have to do LeBron, and stop stepping on my toes.

- Alexander Ovechkin, for his hat trick in Washington’s 5-4 overtime comeback victory over the Pittsburgh Penguins. Every team should have a superstar like Ovechkin to root for. He’s weird. He’s outgoing. He’s a showman. He drops his gloves at the drop of a hat. He likes being called “that crazy Russian” (I assume). And now he’s a Honcho Award winner, a worthy adjective if there ever was one. Crazy Russian.

- Tracy Porter, for his game-winning pick six in Super Bowl 44. Clearly the most important play of the game, it’s also the most fascinating. Basically, Porter guessed right. It was an educated guess based on film study, but relying on the tendencies of Peyton Manning is a dangerous game. Porter could have gone straight to goat if Reggie Wayne and Manning had sight-adjusted the route (common practice, by the way), and Wayne had simply turned upfield. Porter took a risk (a tact instilled in him, I’m sure, by the coaching staff), and Manning bit. In essence, one of the smartest players in the game was outsmarted by a second year cornerback out of the University of Indiana. It wasn’t a bad pass, it wasn’t a bad route by Wayne… it’s just that Porter knew what was coming (or rather, he thought he knew what was coming) and jumped it, and what could have been a close finish turned into a comfortable win for the Saints. But, as mentioned earlier, without taking the risks, not only would the Saints not have won, they wouldn’t have been there in the first place. I believe the word(s) for it, is Honcho-worthy.

- Britney Griner, for her triple-double (24 points, 10 rebounds, and 11 blocks) in Baylor 76-42 pasting of Colorado. OK, maybe it’s not so fair since, at 6′8″ she has such an advantage over most women playing college basketball, but hey, you can’t fault people for their physical advantages. They still have to be able to play. Look at LeBron. He’s physically ahead of the curve (and that’s on the NBA level, so that’s some curve to be ahead of), but he brings it night in and night out. So does Griner. And for this night, she’s earned herself a Honcho Award.

- Daisuke Matsui, for scoring 2 goals with an assist in Grenoble’s shock 5-0 victory over Auxerre. Grenoble is rock-bottom of Ligue 1, barely within touching distance of the rest of the league. Think New Jersey Nets level woe. Auxerre is not only near the top, but they’ve been on a run of good form lately. So this has to be the most unexpected result of the year to date, and it was led by Matsui. Give the man a Honcho.

- Tuukka Rask, for his 36 saves in Boston’s 3-0 shutout of Montreal. The Bruins had been mired in a 10 game losing streak, and the only thing standing between 11 were the heroics of Rask. Not bad for the Finnish net-minder who until recently had been second-string. And now he’s a Honcho winner. Take that, any other Boston Bruin.

- Chris Bosh, for scoring 36 points and grabbing 11 boards in Toronto’s 115-104 victory over Sacramento. If you haven’t noticed, Bosh is blowing up this year. Pending contract? Maybe. But he’s added weight, and he’s turning into the player everyone thought he could be when he entered the league. Alas, when you’re part of a draft class that includes LeBron James, Dwyane Wade and Carmelo Anthony (not to mention Darko Milicic), you might get overlooked. Not here. Not by the Ed Honcho Awards committee. Give that man his due.

- Garrett Hartley, for absolutely nailing his three field goal attempts from over 40 yards, the first kicker in Super Bowl history to do so. Who would have thought, when Hartley was busy missing a relative chip shot field goal in New Orleans loss to Tampa Bay in the regular season that he would play such an important role in their run through the playoffs? And that he would be so damn good? He didn’t even come close to missing. It’s not often a kicker’s going to get a Honcho, but when you set Super Bowl records, you’ve got a shot.

So that does it. Another Honcho Awards ceremony come and gone. Like the NFL season, it had its’ ups and ups, and we’re all certain to miss it. But don’t think of it as the end of something wonderful… think of it as the beginning of next week’s Honcho Awards! That will get you through the malaise.

By edhoncho | Posted in The Honcho Awards | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (1)

Bowl of Super Refill

February 5, 2010 – 3:10 pm

Not much turns steely old Ed Honcho weepy. Powerful onions. United Way commercials. Puppies. Most movies starring Sandra Bullock. Hummingbirds. United Way commercials. Lost socks. A plastic bag dancing like a whisper in the breeze. Babies. The Barrow Whalers. Pretty nature. Clothes that clash. People mad at me. United Way commercials.

But I have to admit, when I read this story, I sobbed like a kid with a boo-boo. Such grief. Such sorrow. Such will to triumph. Anthony Hargrove’s come a long way from where he started.

And it got me thinking (that’s what I do, after all, along with cry a lot)… what about everyone else? Where did they come from? How far have they made it? Well, here’s a look.

Colts quarterback Peyton Manning, as you surely know, is from New Orleans, birthplace of the Praline.

Colts receiver Reggie Wayne, as you may not know, is also from New Orleans (well, technically the unincorporated bits just outside of town), birthplace of the Muffuletta.

Saints quarterback Drew Brees is from Austin, TX, famous for “keeping it weird“.

Saints receiver Marques Colston is from Harrisburg, PA, home of the Pennsylvania Farm Show (yes, those are made of butter), the largest free indoor agriculture exposition in America.

Colts secondary man Jacob Lacey is from Garland, TX, a Chen Tao stronghold, and went to Naaman Forest High School.

Colts secondary man Melvin Bullitt is from Garland, TX, birthplace of Mookie Blaylock, and went to Naaman Forest High School.

Saints kicker Garrett Hartley is from Southlake, TX, headquarters of Travelocity, and went to Carroll High School.

Saints third-string quarterback Chase Daniel is from Southlake, TX, recently named by Forbes the most affluent neighborhood in the U.S., and went to Carroll High School.

Colts receiver Hank Baskett, known in the tabloids as the man who married and impregnated this “girl next door”, is from Clovis, NM, namesake of the Clovis Culture, a people that roamed the North American continent 13,000-13,500 years ago, arguably its’ first inhabitants.

Colts offensive lineman Charlie Johnson is from Sherman, TX, where Jesse James spent his honeymoon.

Saints offensive lineman Carl Nicks is from Salinas, CA, hometown of Grapes of Wrath author John Steinbeck.

Saints head coach Sean Payton is from Naperville, IL, known for its’ Millennium Carillon, designated as a Grand Carillon with 72 bells, one of only four worldwide to hit six octaves.

Colts defensive end Dwight Freeney is from Bloomfield, CT, home of the New England Muscle Bicycle Museum.

Colts defensive lineman Raheem Brock is from Philadelphia, birthplace of the Hoagie.

Saints tight end David Thomas is from Wolfforth, TX, known as the hometown of Saints tight end David Thomas.

Saints linebacker Scott Shanle played 8 man football in St. Edward, NE, known as the hometown of Saints linebacker Scott Shanle.

Colts receiver Pierre Garcon is from Greenacres, FL, home to democratic senator Dave Aronberg, formerly Assistant Attorney General, and head of the case against Miss Cleo.

Colts defensive lineman Daniel Muir is from Riverdale Park, MD, known for its’ abundance of Sears “Honor-bilt Modern Homes”, pre-fabricated homes from Sears that were apparently all the rage in the early-mid 20th century.

Saints secondary man Randall Gay is from Brusly, LA, home of the Cinclare Sugar Mill, one of the last remaining vestiges of southern Louisiana’s sugar history.

Saints backup quarterback and starting holder Mark Brunell is from Santa Maria, CA, very near Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch, and location of his child-sexual-abuse case.

Colts running back Joseph Addai is from Houston, named America’s fattest city five of the past nine years by Men’s Fitness Magazine.

Colts linebacker Gary Brackett is from Glassboro, NJ, renowned for having Ronald Reagan speak at the commencement ceremonies for Glassboro High School in 1986, the first sitting president ever to do so at a high school graduation.

Saints offensive lineman Jon Stinchcomb is from Lilburn, GA, home of the BAPS Swaminarayan Hindu Temple, one of the largest and most elaborately decorated in the country.

Saints defensive end Will Smith is from Utica, NY, renowned for Riggiefest, a celebration of its’ signature dish, chicken riggies (AKA Utica riggies).

Colts receiver Austin Collie is from El Dorado Hills, CA, enduring the alarmingly high levels of asbestos occurring naturally, and found by the EPA to be centered near his former high school, Oak Ridge.

Colts punter Pat McAfee is from Plum, PA, home of Oakmont Country Club, which has hosted more U.S. Opens than any other course.

Saints secondary man Roman Harper is from Prattville, AL, birthplace of Wilson Pickett.

Saints defensive coordinator Gregg Williams is from Excelsior Springs, MO, filming site of Adam at Six AM, Michael Douglas’ first starring role.

Colts secondary man Kelvin Hayden is from Chicago, birthplace of the Chicago Style Hot Dog.

Colts linebacker is Clint Session is from Pompano Beach, FL, home of the Goodyear Blimp Spirit of Innovation.

Saints receiver Devery Henderson is from Opelousas, LA, renowned worldwide as the hub of Zydeco music.

Saints tight end Jeremy Shockey is from Ada, OK, home of bigfoot, apparently.

That ought to tide you over until the game on Sunday. Everyone has a story, some are just more interesting.

By edhoncho | Posted in General, Yet Exceptional, Opining | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (3)

Bowl of Super

February 4, 2010 – 2:49 pm

Gamblers of the world, rejoice! Yes, your most profitable prophet is back, armed with the-way-it-is. Today’s topic: the Super Bowl. I’ve thoroughly crunched all the numbers, weighed all the injuries, picked Uncle Mo’s brain over steak dinner, meditated, vegitated, and flipped a few coins. And I’ve successfully detached the chaff from the wheat. So… here’s the wheat.

The media likes the Colts. This is understandable. Peyton Manning was designed by beings of superior intellect specifically to play this game, and the results of their work are bearing fruit… especially if you’re a Colts fan. He’s absolutely torn apart two of the better defenses in the league on his way to the Super Bowl, to the point that I’m surprised Shannon Sharpe didn’t implore the President to call in the National Guard. The Saints, meanwhile, should have lost to the Vikings, if you listen to those same pundits. This is the game on the surface, as deep as most in the national media will (can) delve.

But not me. I’ve already explained my process. And there’s more to this game.

First, let’s look at those playoff opponents. The Colts beat the Jets, a 9-7 team with a great defense but pedestrian, run-based offense. Their only chance was to stop Peyton Manning. As a terminator-style football robot, this is impossible, hence, the Jets chances of winning were virtually non-existent. This victory was highly expected, and doesn’t surprise Ed Honcho one bit, even in third person.

The Ravens are almost a carbon copy of the Jets (not surprising, since Rex Ryan came to New York from Baltimore), only slightly better on offense and slightly worse on defense. Still, their defense performed better than New York’s, something I believe we can chalk up to Colts’ rust (a month since their last competitive game). Nonetheless, their anemic offense could get nothing going, and Indianapolis had time to work out the kinks before pulling away.

The Saints, on the other hand, had to overcome the Vikings, the most difficult opponent either team played on their way to the Super Bowl. Strong on defense and prolific offensively, they gave the Saints everything they could handle and, as some would argue, should have won the game, and would have had it not been for all the turnovers. Of course, neglected here is the fact that the Saints caused those turnovers, a major part of their game plan, and one I’m sure they’ll take into the game Sunday.

And they thumped the Cardinals in Kurt Warner’s last game. Everyone’s poo-pooing (that’s right) the Cardinals as a below-average opponent, but just a week earlier, they’d knocked off the NFL’s second-hottest team, the Packers, and just last year, were in the Super Bowl. The manner of the Saints demolition should rather signify their qualities as a team, instead of the Cardinals’ weaknesses, but people will think what they want to think.

And it’s important that we examine both teams’ entire body of work. The media tends to take a short-sighted, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately approach to prognosticating, disregarding facts that don’t prove their point (like the return of injured players, for one). If the Colts and Saints were squaring off, let’s say, two months ago, when the Saints were thumping everyone in their paths (including the Dolphins and Patriots, teams the Colts struggled with), and the Colts were staging valiant fourth-quarter comebacks against inferior opponents, who would be the favorite? These are, in essence, the same teams, don’t forget.

Now, as we extrapolate these facts to the game at hand, the Saints are nothing like the two teams the Colts beat to make it to the Super Bowl. You might even call them their opposite… a bizarro Jets/Ravens, as Mad Adam would probably say. Explosive on offense and pedestrian on defense, though with the ability to create turnovers. If you had to pinpoint a strength of the Saints defense, though, you’d say the secondary, especially now that their guys are healthy (Jabari Greer, Tracy Porter, Darren Sharper… even Malcolm Jenkins). Against the Colts, this is a good thing. And when you compare the Colts to the Saints’ last opponent, Minnesota, things stack up well for the Saints too. The Vikings have an exponentially better defense than the Colts, on almost infinite orders of magnitude, especially if Dwight Freeney is restricted or can’t go. And Minnesota’s offense, ranked 5th in the league, was better than Indy’s as well (they finished 9th).

Of course, Minnesota didn’t have Peyton Manning, the crux of the Saints issue.

You can’t blitz Manning. Well, you can, if you like losing. And the Saints like to blitz. This is a conundrum that Saints defensive coordinator Gregg Williams must try to solve. I’m here to tell you it doesn’t matter. Do the best you can, cause this game’s going to be won or lost on the other side of the ball.

That’s right, it all boils down to New Orleans’ offense vs. Indianapolis’ defense. Indy’s D has improved, but not to the point it can stop the Saints. If the Saints can score in the 30’s, they’ve got a very good chance of winning this game (and seeing as they averaged scoring in the 30’s, you’ve got to like their chances).

Now, let’s look at some non-footballing issues. Most notably, the disrespect card. It’s become the most important motivating factor in sport today. More powerful than your opponent calling you out, more powerful than the greatest pre-game speech, more powerful than the substantial fact that you’re actually playing for a championship… that this is everything you’ve worked for. Nobody likes to be disrespected. And when outcome-predictions lean towards the one-sided, one of the teams is going to feel disrespected. This week, that’s the Saints. And can you blame them for using it as motivation? First, it works. Second, they were 13-0 at one point, and staring down the barrel of a perfect season. And nobody thinks they can win! Don’t be surprised, if they come out victorious, to hear “nobody believed in us!” more than a few times.

And then there’s this; while the Saints will be playing the Colts, the Colts will be playing an entire city, 336,644 strong. So don’t be surprised when you hear that Joseph Addai was tackled by Antoine Dauterieve, a chef at Lamarque’s Deli, or that Brees completed his last pass to Annabelle Pioulard, a city planner, or that Garrett Hartley’s holder is Pierre Desailly, a trumpeter. The Saints are held up on the backs of thousands of tortured fans, and they won’t let them fall. Was there any doubt that Hartley’s game-winning kick against Minnesota was guided straight through the uprights by the collective will of a city that needed it? That had to have it? I think not.

Given these virtually indisputable facts which have forced themselves to be weighed…

New Orleans 36
Indianapolis 34

And that’s the way it is.

Now, all you gamblers out there… quit emailing me, and quit tying up my phone line. I’m an important man, and I’m expecting a call from Uncle Mo any minute now. You’ve got what you came for, do with it what you will.

By edhoncho | Posted in General, Yet Exceptional, Opining | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (11)

Words of Fury, With Mad Adam

February 3, 2010 – 12:48 pm

Q: Mad Adam, what do you think of Ed Honcho and his skills as they pertain to spinning quality yarns and reporting sports from an angle very few are privy to?

A: I think he’s a bitch.

Bizarro Media Day

Yesterday the mainstream (and some decidedly non-mainstream, see Ocho Cinco News Network) press descended on not so sunny Florida for a time honored tradition.  That’s right, Media Day.

You know, that day when a bunch of overweight, pasty nerdy reporters all jostle for position while thrusting microphones in the faces of players to ask a barrage of stupid questions all in hopes of either: (A) getting a player to say something stupid that will get a rise out of the other team; or (B) hearing something from a player that is interesting on a personal level.

An example of a comment falling into category “A” took place in 1979 when Dallas Cowboy linebacker Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson denigrated the intelligence of Terry Bradshaw, quipping that Bradshaw could not spell “Cat” if he spotted him the “C” and the “T.” Classic.

An example of a comment falling into category “B” happened in 1997 when the late Reggie White took the stage and used it as his personal pulpit for some of his religious musings.  Among them was this little gem when discussing the crucifixion of Jesus Christ: “He was healing the sick, and the doctors got mad…..,” “He was raising the dead, and all the funeral home directors got mad.”  Bizarre.

Sadly, yesterday’s Media Day was replete with every cliché and coach-speak jargon ever invented.  So, there was an almost wholesale deprivation of categories “A” and “B.”  Not a classic or bizarre comment to be found.

Don’t let this get you down, though.  Why?  Because in my mind’s eye, I envisioned a Media Day where safe-talk was banned, and players and coaches were injected with truth serum and given a microphone to use as weapon of brutal honesty.  Sounds fun, huh?  Join me then, as I share with you a few questions and answers from this “Bizarro Media Day.”  Sure, it never happened, but wouldn’t it be fun if it did?

Peyton Manning

Q: Peyton, you have already won a Super Bowl and you are this year’s MVP; does a win in this year’s Super Bowl elevate you to the status of being considered one of the best, if not THE best, ever at QB?

A: You bet your sweet ass.  Elway?  A chump.  Montana?  A bothersome whitehead zit on my gorgeous derriere.  Brady?  I don’t see that “please-don’t-hit-me-in-the-knees-or-I-will-cry” pretty boy around here, do you?  Oh, that’s right, they lost in the first round after I relegated them there with a humiliating loss on Sunday Night Football.

Q: Wow, Peyton that was pretty strong!  Do you feel the same about your supremacy vis-à-vis Drew Brees?

A: That’s a joke, right?  Man, that was a good one.  Wait, you are serious?  What kind of low moron are you? My brother Eli was better than Drew when he was in 5th grade.  Dude, Drew here’s a quarter, go pay a rat to gnaw that thing off your face.

Q: Peyton, do you think your father Archie would approve of this kind of egotistical behavior?

A: He’s not the boss of me!!! I am outta here.

Reggie Bush

Q: Reggie, there has been a lot of tabloid speculation about your on again off again relationship with Kim Kardashian.  How do you handle that pressure, particularly with the big game coming up on Sunday?

A: Pressure? Whatchoo talking about pressure?  I am tapping that ass baby!  Have you seen it? It is booty-licious.  Sometimes when I get bored I just jump up and down on it like a trampoline.   That ain’t pressure.

Q: Ummmm….OK. Moving to other matters, much has been made about your time at USC and whether or not you helped to contribute to the down-fall of the team and its current woes with the NCAA.  Care to comment?

A: Look, so I got an absolutely beautiful home rent free, plus spending money and other shit just for promising this ex-con that I would make him my agent when I went pro. He got pissed when I backed out of the deal, but that’s just business right?  I mean I was straight up about it.  I told Coach Carroll what was going on all along, and he told me not to worry about it because he was leaving soon anyway, and he could give a shit if the NCAA finds out.  So, what’s the problem?  What’s that?  Lane Kiffin is on the phone for me? It’s urgent? Looks like I gotta go. Yo, peace.

Pierre Garcon

Q: First, our condolences for you and the people of your native homeland, Haiti.

A: You must be tripping!  Fool, I was born in Carmel, New York. I went to High School in Greenacres, Florida.  Man, I love all the Haitians, and I can’t deny that I am hoping the sympathy vote may go my way for MVP because I am technically Haitian, but seriously dude, you are taking this all a bit far.

Q: Ooookaaay.  Ummmm…, how does it feel following in the steps of Marvin Harrison, one of the most celebrated Colts’ wide receivers of all time?

A: Well, I haven’t shot anyone with a handgun yet. So, I guess I am doing OK so far.

Jeremy Shockey

Q: What do those words in Latin mean on the tattoo inside of your right bicep?

A: Nice, glad you asked that.  They mean, “Those Who Desire Peace Must Prepare for War.”

Q: Wow, that is deep.  Was that a reaction to the post 9/11 world we live in?  You know, kind of an ink on flesh recitation of your personal manifesto regarding our nation’s foreign policy in these troubling times?

A: Dude….did you just speak Latin too?  Seriously bro, take it easy.  I just thought it sounded really hard-core, and I was pretty sure I was going to get laid all the time with something that sounds deep AND tough.

Jim Caldwell

Q: Coach, you could follow in the foot-steps of your mentor Tony Dungy and become only the second African-American to coach a team to a win in the Super Bowl.  Has the gravity of that set in for you yet?

A: Tony Dungy is black?  No way!  You ever listen to him on Sunday Night Football?  Man, he is white-bread.  Now, if I win you can finally say a black coach won.

Q: Geez Coach, isn’t that a bit harsh considering he was your mentor?

A: Pfffttt…..

Q: Is that all you are going to say in response, just “pfffffttt?”

A:

Tom Benson

Q: You have owned this team since 1985 and can truly say you have seen the highest highs and the lowest lows during that time. Does this make New Orleans a special place for you?

A: Truth be told, I spent the greater part of the “Naughties” trying to move this team to San Antonio. Katrina damn near made my dream a reality, but then the PC police took over and nixed the deal.

Q: The “Naughties” sir?

A: You know, the “Aughts” sound OK when describing the 2000’s, but why not spruce it up some? I mean c’mon, I live in New Orleans. You ever been to Bourbon Street? Back in ‘87 I went on a bender after a bad loss and woke up in a seedy hotel room with a tranny and 3 monkeys, and I was covered in whip cream and wearing nothing but a bustier.  Man….what a night!

Yup, that would indeed be a “bizarro” Media Day.  But, it sure would be a lot more fun than what he get every year in its place.  Perchance to dream……

I will be back next week when football is done and hoops take center stage.  Until then, enjoy Super Bowl Sunday.  Colts cover, by the way.  Just in case you were wondering.

By edhoncho | Posted in Mad Adam | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (0)

Labor Pains

February 2, 2010 – 1:56 pm

On the eve of their showcase event, the NFL finds itself teetering on the brink, twirling its’ arms to keep from falling into the sporting abyss. The Chasm of The-Way-Things-Are. The Rift of the Prevailing. Clever. Witty. Appropriate.

See, if the Jerry Jones’, and Daniel Snyders, and Bob Krafts of this world are allowed to have their way, the NFL will start to look more and more like Major League Baseball and the NBA, gameplay notwithstanding. The same teams will be in the championship picture every year. The same teams will dwell in the cellar every year. Small market teams will move to larger markets. Half the league will become obsolete.

Drastic? Yes. Realistic? Also yes.

The early owners of the NFL hatched an ingenious plan to make their game relevant. Actually, it’s only ingenious with the hindsight of the ridiculous nature of things. In fact, it’s quite practical and sensible: revenue-sharing. In the shell of a nut, it meant that the money the league made was pooled and distributed equally amongst the franchises. All for “the good of the game”, a noble mantra of the league in its’ younger days.

And it was in that spirit that the league established a hard salary cap, meaning that a team’s payroll could not exceed a predetermined overall number. This meant that uber-rich owners (your Jerry Jones’, your Daniel Snyders,  your Bob Krafts) couldn’t simply overpay for the best players. They also introduced the franchise tag, preventing the best players from heading towards the highest bidder and leaving their previous team in that most dreaded of circumstances, a lurch.

And just look what these decisions have wrought. The NFL is the most popular league in the country, surpassing “America’s Game”, baseball, long ago. And not because of the game itself (though it’s certainly most bitchin’), but because a market like New Orleans can be in the Super Bowl. Because a city-owned team like Green Bay can be consistently good. Because no matter how bad your team is this year, there’s always next year (proven by the rise of the Patriots, or the Rams, or the Cardinals). In short, it gives hope to all teams. Yes, even the Lions.

But there’s-a-storm-a-brewin’. And as is typical for a bunch of rich guys making more money than 99.9% of the population, it all boils down to greed. It’s their makeup. And here’s how it breaks down, if I understand it correctly (and as you should expect, I do).

The Dallas Cowboys make a lot of money for the league. They sell a lot of merchandise. They fill a 100,000ish seat stadium. Their televised games bring oodles of advertising to the networks. The Buffalo Bills, conversely, do not make a lot of money for the league. In fact, they cost the league money. Their merchandise sales are weak. Their stadium is old and had to be retro-fitted for the immensely profitable luxury suites. Their televised games are rarely televised, and usually bring in only local advertising. And so, the money Dallas makes for the league goes to keeping the Bills afloat. Capitalism? No. Fair? Not hardly, which is exactly Jerry Jones’ point.

Then you have to look at the divide between the owners and the players. As it currently stands, the players make 60% of the overall revenue, while the owners make only 40%. For their larger slice of the pie, the players have agreed to give up guaranteed contracts (meaning they can be cut at any time and the owners would owe them nothing… unique to the NFL), the franchise tag (restricting their movement and ability to make more money), and increasingly longer periods before they reach free agency.

It would seem to paint an agreeable picture for the point of view of your Jerry Jones’, your Daniel Snyders, your Bob Krafts. But, like a Georges Seurat painting, there’s more to it than what the eye sees.

And it goes back to the league’s original mantra… “for the good of the game”. Everyone agrees that the NFL doesn’t operate in a traditional capitalist sense. It’s almost communist in its’ “everyone’s equal” leanings. But it’s hard to argue with the results. Interest of the fan = money in the pockets of the owners. Take away the ability of New Orleans, or Green Bay, or Minnesota, or Oakland to be competitive, and you reduce interest in the league. Fact. Baseball suffers from this, though they won’t admit to it (the lengths to which they doctor their numbers is astounding, but research shows that they include the Yankees earnings in their revenue reports… money that the Yankees and Yankees alone get to keep).

And so now your league begins to look more like MLB and the NBA, where the same teams compete for the championship every year (unless you’re lucky enough to have a guy like LeBron James fall into your lap, and even then, it’s only a matter of months before he makes the leap to one of the league’s bellwethers). Are they popular? Sure, popular enough, but nowhere near the levels of the NFL. So ask yourself this, owners… would you rather have 50% of $500,000, or 40% of $1,000,000? Cause over time, the interest drain on the league foretells numbers similar.

But ah, the owners are happy. And isn’t that the most important thing. Wait a minute… there’d be no league without the players, they deserve their 60% cut.

No, come to think of it, without us fans, there’s no league. There’s no professional sports leagues anywhere. We’re what keeps them afloat. We’re the most important cog.

So I propose we start a fan union, and force our way to the negotiating table. Our interests should be heard and known. Here this, sports leagues, underestimate your fans at your own peril. If we stop showing up, or watching on TV, your pocketbook will notice. We have the power.

Now we just need someone to lead this cause. I would like to nominate, of course… Mad Adam. I would do it, but, uh, I’m too busy. Too many things on my plate. But Mad Adam, that guy’s a badass.

By edhoncho | Posted in General, Yet Exceptional, Opining | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (6)

The Honcho Awards, Feb. 1, 2010

February 1, 2010 – 2:25 pm

As we gently yet shrewdly roll into February with ice on our backs and snow in our pants, let’s take a moment to reflect…

Done? Good, me too. Reflecting is best kept brief. Look back too long and you’ll lose track of what’s in front of you. And while that’s some seriously poetic, deep shit, it’s also true. We’re forward-lookers and forward-thinkers here people. It’s part of our mission statement.

That being written, moving forward, as it pertains to our current endeavor here, requires us to reflect from time to time. Specifically, to deconstruct what’s happened in the past, and use it as we move forward into the bright future. Even more specifically, to reward the elite performers from the weekend past to grow the brand as we move through the weeks/months/years.

So here, here’s a Honcho…

- Andre Miller, for hanging 52 points on the Dallas Mavericks in Portland’s 114-112 victory. One half of one hundred gets the attention of Ed Honcho HQ, and two more than than gets a Honcho Award. That’s just the way it is.

- Gabriel Agbonlahor for scoring both goals in Aston Villa’s 2-0 victory at Fulham. The likes of Liverpool, Manchester United, Everton and Tottenham Hotspur had failed to leave Fulham’s home field, Craven Cottage with victories, yet Villa, led by the improving if inconsistent Agbonlahor waltzed in Saturday and dominated. And Gabby took turns abusing Fulham’s vaunted center backs, beating Chris Smalling… who had been recently sold to Manchester United… to a cross, then using his strength to turn wanted-by-everyone Brede Hangeland, then curl a shot past Fulham’s keeper Mark Schwarzer. Oh, then he stepped to the podium to graciously accept his Honcho Award. A good weekend, all in all.

- Shaun White, for winning SuperPipe Gold at the Winter X Games after this nasty practice crash:

Impressive, that. And as you should know by now, impressive=Honcho Award Worthy… so what can I do, really? My hands are tied. Give that man a Honcho.

- Dominique Jones, for dropping 37 points and 8 rebounds in South Florida’s 70-61 upset of #17 Pittsburgh (not to mention the 28 points he scored Thursday in their 76-74 win over Seton Hall). Back to back for Mr. Jones, only the second time anyone’s gone back to back (Brandon Roy being the first), and the first college player. Kudos, sir. I imagine with this news you’ll be mobbed on campus, possibly badgered for autographs and maybe, if the fates line up, invited to multiple three-ways.

- Kevin Durant, for scoring 45 points and grabbing 11 rebounds in Oklahoma City’s 112-104 victory over Golden State. Fresh off our second back-to-back Honcho winner, we come to our first three-time winner. He’s in danger of forcing me to include a subscript on these things. Something like the Kevin Durant Memorial Ed Honcho Award. I guess technically that’s not a subscript, but you catch my drift… which is certainly most foul, and for that, I apologize.

- Marian Gaborik, for his hat trick in the New York Rangers 3-0 victory over the Colorado Avalanche. The numbers here are astounding. The odds of one man scoring all three goals for one team are tremendously slim, let’s say 1 in 785. The odds of one man scoring all three goals for one team in a 3-0 shutout go up to roughly 1 in 44,802. And while I absolutely made those numbers up, you catch my drift… which is certainly most foul, and for that, I apologize.

- Gerald Wallace, for stuffing the stat sheet with 38 points, 11 rebounds, 2 assists, 2 steals and 2 blocks in Charlotte’s 103-96 victory over the Sacramento Kings. There’s a reason this guy is so highly regarded in fantasy basketball circles… the one I just said… which, coincidentally, happens to be the reason he’s so highly regarded by the Honcho Award committee. Wait a minute… that’s not a coincidence at all. They’re completely related. Well, instead of re-writing this to disguise my ignorance, I’m gonna leave it out there… partly because I’m comfortable in my own awesomeness, but mostly because I’m incredibly lazy.

- Devan Downey, for scoring 33 points in South Carolina’s 78-77 victory over Georgia, which of course comes on the heels of the 30 he dropped in their 68-62 victory over then-undefeated Kentucky. And it’s not just that he put up this many points in a two game stretch, it’s the way he did it. With dekes and feints and jukes and overall craftiness, the little man knows how to create shots for himself. And oohs and aahs from the Honcho Awards Committee, a feat that almost assures mention. That’s just how it is.

- Guti Hernandez (or more frequently, just Guti) of Real Madrid for this pass in their 3-1 victory over Deportivo de La Coruna:

Now, it’s not the most brilliant pass in the world (though it’s certainly high quality), but you have to dig some into its’ situationality to understand its’ impressiveness (and hence, Honcho Award worthiness). Real Madrid are chasing Barcelona in the standings. Barcelona had already won on the day. Guti’s starting place in the Real Madrid side has been in question. The game was still early, and Real Madrid held a tenuous 1-0 lead on a pitch where they rarely play well, having not won there in 18 years. By all rights, Guti has an easier shot himself. And yet he decided to back-heel it to his teammate who may or may not be there (does he ever look up to check? I don’t see it). Ballsy. Reckless. Brilliant. And most importantly, Honcho Award winning.

- Dwight Howard, for scoring 31 points and snagging 19 boards in Orlando’s 104-86 win over Atlanta. Finally, Superman wins a Honcho Award. I’ve wondered, even on these pages, when Mr. Howard was going to assert himself and join the pantheon of superstars he deserves to be included with. Well, it took some time, but he finally did it. We’ve been waiting for you.

So there it is. Now briefly, take it all in. Done? Good. Now it’s time to move on. Keep moving forward, keep pressing on.

Oh, OK. I can’t fault you for wanting to dwell on this stuff. It is brilliant. I’m gonna go ahead and move on. You guys can catch up when you’re ready.

By edhoncho | Posted in The Honcho Awards | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (10)

The Day in Haiku

January 29, 2010 – 3:04 pm

What makes a man poetic? An ability to find the innate beauty in things? A preference for brevity (subcategory: laziness)? Genetic predisposition? Nurtured genius? Blackmail?

Well, you’re in luck. You happen to be in the inspiring digital presence of a poetic man. And, as you should expect, I have the answer (really, would I ask a question I didn’t know the answer too?). And the answer, at least as it pertains to me, is all of the above (I can’t really talk about the blackmail part, for obvious reasons).

So here you go. Have some genius.

Waxing poetic,
who gets more love from the press,
Tebow or Jesus?

One by one by one,
pairs figure skaters compete
two by two by two.

Riddle me this, yo,
what sucks ass and calls itself
the L.A. Lakers?

Angry or broken.
Which one better illustrates
today’s Vikings fan?

Brandishing my gun.
For all you know it’s loaded.
Now back the fuck off.

Mark McGwire’s stained past
earns him work in St. Louis.
Gotta love baseball.

I’ve got a headache,
can’t go today, coach, but don’t
lock me in a shed.

With his size let’s hope
Obama’s jumpshot is good,
or he’ll ride the bench.

Manchester City
avoids imminent beatdown
from Aston Villa.

Go ahead and cry.
Frankly we all expect it
from weepy Jets’ fans.

The starting throes of
the National Lacrosse League.
Did you notice it?

Show me a problem,
and I’ll show you how to make
it someone else’s.

If you’re real famous,
you should be a sex addict.
Why else be famous?

Lane Kiffin’s loyal
to his greedy advancement,
and dear old daddy.

The Europa League:
soccer’s great consolation.
Like the N.I.T.

The glitch in today’s
team intro music is that
it sucks hairy balls.

The U.S. taking
it out on Canada by
stealing hockey teams.

For gifts, New Orleans
coach Gregg Williams likes to send
“remember me hits.”

Wrecking odds for the
NCAA tournament
one loss at a time.

Who cares about you?
Nobody, that’s who… except
your friend, Ed Honcho.

By edhoncho | Posted in The Day in Haiku | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (5)

Frequently Given Answers, Jan. 28, 2010

January 28, 2010 – 4:18 pm

What’s that? You’re longing for my expert opinion? You’re craving my powers of prognostication? You don’t know whether or not to renew your subscription to FourFourTwo? Confused on the nuances of self-breema? Well, what kind of all-knowing, all-seeing leader of men would I be if I didn’t oblige my people? The usual kind, that’s what… and you know me better than that.

Q: So now that we know who’s gonna be playing in the Super Bowl, how do you see it playing out?

- Buck Chuckers, Brazil, Indiana

A: I’ll expand on this further in a column next week, and here’s a brief synopsis of the themes I’ll be touching on (in the biz, we call this a tease):

The media, as is typical, are overrating recent performance. The Colts are (and will continue to be) the consensus favorites, and it’s mostly due to their impressive victories over the Jets and Ravens. The Saints were lucky to beat the Vikings, and though they thrashed the Arizona, the Cardinals are seen as weak opponents. This is folly.

First, the Vikings were by far the best team faced by either of our Super Bowl combatants. And while the Colts were indeed impressive, both teams they vanquished were similar in style and offensively handicapped. The Saints couldn’t be more different. And, if we rewind the season to, let’s say, week 10, the Saints were crushing everyone in their path, while the Colts were being lauded for their fourth quarter comebacks, though oftentimes against inferior opponents (and don’t forget, against common opponents, the Saints were infinitely more impressive, annihilating both the Dolphins and Patriots while the Colts struggled with them). The tide has turned.

When you factor in the disrespect card (the most powerful of pre-game motivators), I see the Saints giving the Colts an extremely difficult time. How difficult? Tune in next week…

Q: Mike Leach vs. Adam/Craig James, or Gilbert Arenas vs. Javaris Crittendon?

- Dane Jackhouse, Peru, New York

A: Leach vs. the James’, easy. Arenas and Crittendon are just a couple of faux-thugs pulling empty guns on one another in an effort to be ‘hard’. Please. You want hard? Do my taxes. You can see the same thing on any urban playground any time you like. Right now even.

Leach vs. the James’ keeps us interested with unanswered questions. Is Adam James a whiny punk? Did he really have a concussion, or is he just a gaping vag? Is Leach just being stubborn? Is Craig James an overbearing father who thinks his son can do no wrong? Or is it a case of “I’m Craig muthafuckin’ James, bitches! That’s my DNA you’re denying a starting job. Who do you think you are?” Are the James’ in the right? Is Leach? So many twists, so many turns… a recipe, in the story-telling business, for a compelling story.

Q: Should I renew my subscription to FourFourTwo?

- Frenchie Fiscus, Mexico, Missouri

A: Though you find yourself locked in the middle of Missouri, and as such, have to pay handsomely to subscribe to a magazine that ships from England, I’d say yes. How else will you stay practiced in the art of Anglo-lingo? And when you’re knackered from a long day at the office, aren’t you chuffed to the bits to come home to your flat, sit on your arse with a cuppa tea and some crisps, and read about how Giggsy was gobsmacked at the drivel City’s numpty gaffer was going on about? Was he taking the piss? Bollocks!

Q: What do you think about this Tiger Woods business? A sex addict?

- Virgil Anklesworth, Italy, Texas

A: Sex addiction, as a conundrum, was clearly created by some busted dude somewhere. “Look, honey… it’s not that I want plant my seed in every girl I meet, it’s that I have a serious problem.” Seriously, what super famous male that can have any girl he wants isn’t a sex addict? And what’s wrong with being a sex addict anyway? It’s not like a drug addict where they slowly break and kill themselves. It’s sex! What I’m fairly certain we were put on this earth to do.

Now, as it pertains to Tiger, I understand why it’s an issue… the crux of his problem, actually… he’s married. Hence the PR move of going to sex-addict camp (and that’s exactly what it is… save the family, “dear sponsors, I have a problem, it’s not that I’m just a philanderer”, etc…). But that’s where he went wrong… he got married.

What he really needs is marriage counseling, and the treatment should be very aggressive… as in:

Counselor: (slaps Tiger, hard) Why did you get married?!

Tiger: I… I…

Counselor: (slaps Tiger again, even harder) Why did you get married?! What’s wrong with you?!

Tiger: I… I…

Counselor: (slaps Tiger again, as hard as he can) Why did you get married?! What’s wrong with you?! Is Clooney married? Is Anderson Cooper? What’s wrong with you?!

Tiger: (sobbing)… I… I don’t know!

Counselor: Good, now the healing can begin.

Q: Who are these people asking these questions? You’re making all this shit up!

- Sadeef Scheef, Holland, Michigan

A: I’ve heard the rumors and accusations… baseless, mind you… that the questioners herein are fictitious. Impressive figments of my spectacular imagination. Poppycock.

Just because some of you find it difficult to use the ‘contact us’ feature located up, and to the right of these very words doesn’t mean others do. And don’t forget, I’m a man about town. Questions are requested and culled from many different venues as I spread my already staggering influence across the world.

So, in an effort to squelch these ridiculous rumors, I thought I’d introduce some of our mailbag participants, and, magnanimously, give them their fifteen minutes of fame.

Hoyt Moxley of Fort Frances, Ontario (seen questioning here), is a Zamboni operator for the Fort Frances Thunderhawks and town chaplain. He enjoys knitting, crocheting, and punching people in the face unexpectedly (though his gimpy knees are making the getaway more problematic).

Fresno Jones of Bakersfield, California (seen questioning here), runs a boxing memorabilia store out of his garage. He also collects unemployment, and, in his younger days, once saw Jack Dempsey fight the Incredible Hulk. He also might be slightly demented.

Juana Cuesta of San Elizario, Texas (seen answering here, in our infamous reverse mailbag), works at the local DMV. In her spare time, she’s an international model.

Gabe Whespers of Lochbuie, Colorado (seen questioning here), is a professor of quantum physics at Front Range Community College in nearby Brighton, renowned for his class Quantum Mechanics, the Fundamental Quark, String Theory and Deconstructing Reality. His favorite show is “Jersey Shore.”

Nigel Meehan of St. Austell  in Cornwall, England (seen questioning here), is a coelacanth fisherman by day, and an exotic dancer at night (inspired by the Full Monty, of course). He’s also a diehard Plymouth Argyle fan.

And finally, Dane Jackhouse of Peru, New York (seen questioning above) is a massage therapist, specializing in deep-tissue, rolfing, effleurage, myofascial release, and breema (the assisted kind). He has yet to give out a happy ending, but claims he would consider it, “in this economic climate”.

So there you have it. Real people. Real problems. Real real. And on that note, classier and more subdued than you’re probably used to, it’s time for me to exit. The focus should remain on the folks above. Give them their fifteen minutes people! It’s the least you could do. And… this mailbag’s over, yo.

</15 Minutes>

By edhoncho | Posted in Frequently Given Answers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments (1)

Words of Fury, With Mad Adam

January 27, 2010 – 1:36 pm

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale
A tale of a fateful game
That started from some seedy bar
And ended quite the same

The mate was a mighty angry man
Mad Adam was his name
with six passengers he sat tight that day
for a three hour game…
a three hour game.

Gang Green jumped out to an early lead
Mad Adam, he got sauced
Then Manning did what Manning does
And the New York Jets had lost…
the New York Jets had lost.

Unsatisfied with standing pat
Mad Adam launched his rage
on Rex Ryan…
Schottenheimer too…
the linebackers and their coach…
and the owner too…
the only place where shelter’s found
is here on Revis Isle

Doomsday Diary

It was bound to happen.  This time last week I was basking in the unmitigated glory that comes with across the board success by your favorite teams.  Alas, all good things must come to an end.

If you haven’t figured this out by now, I am a huge Jets fan (by “huge” I mean extremely enthusiastic, not my girth, which is a work in progress but is improving by the day thank you very little).  You probably gathered as much when reading about how the Jets ruined the myth of Santa for me, and my call to win one for “Wifey,” and finally my ill-conceived idea to toss superstitions out the window while suggesting that Peyton Manning likes to suckle testicles in his mouth.

Well, I have one last Jets post in me before saying goodbye to this magical, yet ultimately disappointing, playoff run by my J-E-T….you get the idea.

In fact, I knew that win or lose’ the game on Sunday would be good fodder for discussion.  So, I decided to keep a running diary of the day.  So, without any further ado, here is how it all unfolded for Mad Adam and his beloved Jets.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 24, 2010

5:15 a.m. – I wake up early.  Game day baby!  OK, I am not that die-hard.  I am actually listening to the drone of my alarm clock because I am going to work off some pre-game steam by going hunting with Papa Mad Adam.

5:45 a.m. – I jump into my truck and immediately dial up some national sports radio.  You gotta love early morning sports radio.  The idiots are not awake yet and therefore the callers are relatively intelligent (which is to say they refrain from “questions” like “Ummmmmm……do you like think that ummmmmm…….that like Brett Favre might play like until he is 50 and throw for 100,000 yards and like 700 TD’s.  I will take that off the air.”).

9:27 a.m.  — It is going to be a good day! I make the first kill of the day.  I am breaking in a new dog and she puts on a solid point and in a flash I have felled a quail with the thunder of my 20 gauge shotgun.  I reflect to myself that the whole thing looked a little bit like a Colts receiver trying to get away from Darrelle Revis, albeit that the Colts receiver would probably not die at the end of the play.  But still, I think it is a great analogy, and a perfect start to the day.

10:10 a.m. – I am on a roll. I now have a brace of birds in the vest after showering another bird with pellets like a Rex Ryan blitz on helpless Manning.  Man, I can’t wait!

10:30 a.m. –  Crap.  We are lost.  And to make things worse, the cheap compass I recently bought from Wal-Mart is telling me that South is North and North is South.  Fucking Wal-Mart.  I am getting a bad feeling.

11:10 a.m. – We are not exactly Lewis and Clark, but we stumble out of the wilderness and find the vehicle.  Balance has been restored.

11:30 a.m. –  Flying down the highway in a hurry to get home for a shit, shower and shave.  Still have time to send a flurry of text messages to the crew to coordinate the viewing spot for the game.  For those of you keeping score at home today’s “crew” consists of fellow Jets fan Paulie, G-Rex, the LVP (“Least Valuable Player”), Yea-$$$, the Mexican, Cheddar and the Chief,  My boy Rhino was called into action but claimed he was “battling a cold and wanted to stay on the couch.”  That warranted a single word text message response…wait for it…..”pussy.”

11.41 a.m. – Head hurts.  Trying to get everyone to settle on one drinking hole with decent TV’s is harder than I think.  Cheddar is wearing me slick.  He has literally called every place in town to track down all the drink specials and is asking everyone for input on a final destination. I cannot be more clear about this…..IT MAKES NO DIFFERENCE TO ME.

12:35 p.m. – Situation handled.  The dollar domestic draws at a local watering hole have captured our collective imagination.  I now know where the greatest day in my life as a Jets fan will take place.

1:17 p.m. – I now smell good.  I look good.  I am good.  Let’s do this.

1:18 p.m. – Damn, almost left without two very important items. Rewind to the day before.  The Missus and I decided to clean out our closet.  Sometime during this 5 hour odyssey a couple of signs appear.  First, my Jets mini-football that I have had since childhood came spilling over a ledge where it had been tucked away for years after being jostled in my feverish attempts to cover up some porn that I had forgotten about.  Second, I also unearthed an old Jets hat that I used to wear pretty much everyday in college.  It was bruised and battered, but I decided it was good luck and bound to do better things for me than the throw-back NY Titans lid I had been sporting lately.

1:29 p.m. – Mini-football tucked under arm and Jets hat sitting snugly on my man mane, I stroll up to the drinking hole.  Sign number three strolls past me.  It is a dude wearing a Chargers jersey, the team vanquished by my Jets just a week earlier.  I am giddy.  Three awesome signs in just two days?  I am getting itchy thinking about upping my bets on the Jets getting 7.5 points and taking the under at 39.5 points.

1:36 p.m. – I explain to the crew the back-story on my mini-football I am toting.  G-Rex cracks that means I found my little piece of Jets nostalgia while coming out of the closet.  Even G-Rex’s quip cannot stomp the building feeling in my gut that victory is nigh.

1:37 p.m. – I explain to LVP that some of the stitching on the football is missing because that is where I would nervously pull at when the Jets were in close games when I was a kid.  LVP notes that there are not too many frayed stitches, so the Jets must not have been in many close games. OK, this anti-Jets shit has to end soon.

1:40 p.m. – We meet our waitress.  Her name is Nicole.  Seems nice.  Then she says it.  “I am a huge Colts fan!!!”  I try to be polite and point out the folly of her choice.  She is undeterred.  This will not be the end of this conflict, I can feel it.

2:06 p.m. –  Paulie and I celebrate kick-off with not one but two high-fives.  You have to love the high five.  Who came up with this tradition?  A couple of medieval dudes one day just decided to slap hands in celebration of a particularly good ale, or a recent sack and pillaging venture in a nearby hamlet, maybe?  Mental note to check up on this later.

2:31 p.m. – Jay Feely misses a fucking field goal.  Man, the other teams in the playoffs have missed like 5 straight field goals against us and now we turn that mojo around on ourselves?  Bad feelings coming back.

2:34 p.m. – Decide to throw out New Year’s diet resolution for a day.   Start guzzling domestic beers like they are nectar from the football gods.

2:37 p.m. – I take some early solace in the fact that G-Rex, who is rooting for the Colts, just lost some cash on a wager he made that the first score would be in the first six minutes.  What are friends for, if not to point out, and also enjoy, your personal failures?

2:43 p.m. – Nicole suggests that we start mixing some shots in with our collection of dollar beer draws.  I haven’t eaten since yesterday, but it sure sounds like a good idea.  Why not?  Surprise us we say, bring back something we will like.  Note to readers, don’t ever give your server license to pick your shots. That is why shots like “Sperm Bank” and “Cement Mixer” still exist.

2:46 p.m. – We are served “Red Headed Sluts.” Tastes like cough syrup.  I need more.

2:47 p.m. – G-Rex makes his first of about 132 visits to the bathroom.  Amazing really.  Hamster bladder anyone?

2:48 p.m. – While G-Rex is off draining the main vein a commercial for urinary incontinence medicine comes on. We all laugh uproariously.

2:51 p.m. – Well, the first quarter is in the books and we are all tied up. But, the Colts are second away from a Stover chip shot.  Maybe another miss is in our future?

2:55 p.m. – Nope.  3-0 Colts.  But, on the bright side we held Manning to a field goal.  Starting to feel like a Jets game.

3:01 p.m. – HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!! First, my man Sanchez threw one downfield.  Second, and much more astonishingly, Braylon Edwards caught it and FUCKING RAN IT IN!!!  7-3 Jets.

3:02 p.m. – Red Headed Sluts for the table!!!

3:07 p.m. – I shout at Nicole the waitress, “Not too late to make the right decision for once in your life.  Root for the Jets!”  I am pretty sure she is spitting in my Red Headed Sluts.  Also, this comment will come back to haunt me.

3:10 p.m. – There is a break in the action. I decide to look up the origins of the high five. According to Wikipedia, which is never wrong, “The origins of the term are said to belong to sports, specifically US Basketball, and the uses of the phrase as a noun been part of the Oxford English Dictionary since 1980 and as a verb since 1981. The gesture takes its name from the ‘five’ fingers and the raising of the hand ‘high’  According to an article published on the Outsports web site, the first high five in baseball occurred between Dusty Baker and Glenn Burke of the Los Angeles Dodgers in late 1977. This report has been challenged by Lamont Sleets, who played basketball for Murray State University and claims to be the originator of the high five.

Wow….the high five has only been around since ‘77?  What did they do before that?

3:15 p.m. – The Missus calls and asks if she can come by and eat a salad with the crew.  I hesitate.  She senses the hesitation.  She says something that sounds like “fuck it, have fun with the boys.”  I share this exchange with the crew.  LVP, a single man, seems confused.  The Mexican, however, who is recently wedded, nods in new-found appreciation of the mysteries of marital communications.

3:16 p.m. – Stover kicks another field goal!  Again, the Jets D bends but does not break.  Paulie and I are getting sore hands from excessive high fives.

3:18 p.m. – We convince Nicole to take a shot with us if we can guess the mascot of her small town high school.  LVP pulls out the winner. “Sandites.”  Really? And how the hell did LVP pull that one out?

3:23 p.m. –  Nicole confirms with the “boss” that she can take shots with customers.  I don’t know what is funnier.  That she has to ask “permission” to imbibe with us, or that permission was actually granted.

3:24 p.m. – G-Rex has actually worn a path between our table and the pisser.

3:26 p.m. – NO FUCKING WAY!!! Sanchez tosses a TD pass to Keller mere moments before a bone-rattling tackle.  14-6 Jets.

3:33 p.m. – IT IS ON LIKE DONKEY KONG!!!  Feely makes it 17-6 Jets.

3:41 p.m. – Oh man.  That terrible feeling that comes when Manning gets to run a two minute offense is setting in.

3:42 p.m. – REX, STOP BLITZING.  IT IS NOT WORKING!

3:45 p.m. – TD to Collie.  17-14 Jets. We lead and yet I feel like I just saw a preview of what lies ahead….

3:46 p.m. – Nicole is causing a bit of a scene yelling about her Colts, yada, yada, yada

3:50 p.m. – Diet is completely blown.  I need a cheeseburger and fries or I will not make it to the second half.

3:56 p.m. –  Ahhhhh…. much better.  And as a bonus I can go pee now after winning my bet with the table that I can hold it until half-time as a counter-balance to G-Rex’s hyper-frequent visits to the John.

4:06 p.m. – Second half starting.  To steel myself for the home-stretch I begin double-fisting beers and coming up with reasons why we should order more shots.

4:13 p.m. – The Chief and Yea-$$$ keep leaving to smoke cigars.  Sexual orientation jokes all around.

4:24 p.m. – Jets are not impressing, and yet the score still shows us ahead when I can focus on the middle of the multiple TV’s that are now appearing in my vision.

4:30 p.m. – Peyton Manning is starting to look like a fucking robot out there.  Every pass is precision perfect. Always just a hair past where the defender can get it.

4:31 p.m. – Repeated shots of Shonn Greene attempting to warm up on the sideline do not look promising.

4:41 p.m. – Fuck…..Pierre Garcon and the nation of Haiti rejoice.  Colts 20-17.  Nicole is downright obnoxious now.  My crew is starting to be nice to me.  Sure sign that they know what is coming now and even the possibility of pushing me into a nuclear melt-down with taunts is not enough.  Again…Fuck.

4:45 p.m. – I say something that sounds like, “Letz rrreeally getsz hamm….hammer…..shit-fucked dudz.”

5:01 p.m. – I ask Paulie if he is sad. He tells me to believe. We are still in it.  I don’t believe.

5:14 p.m. – I hate Dallas fucking Clark.  Colts 27-17.

5:21 p.m. – The Jets are not built for comebacks.  I am, however, built for heavy drinking.

5:33 p.m. – Stover puts a nice little bow on it.  Colts 30-17.

5:41 p.m. – The dream is dead.  Red Headed Sluts don’t taste like cough syrup anymore. They are devoid of taste.  I am devoid of feeling.

5:55 p.m. – I text the Missus.  Can I stay for second game?  I am not going to be in good mood when I get home and haven’t been out with boys in awhile.  Seems logical.  The Missus fails to grasp logic of my argument.

6:02 p.m. – The crew decides on drinking game for second game. It is a box game where everyone is assigned a box on a large grid.  Depending on score of game at end of each quarter the person with the losing numbers has to drink shots.  The number grows exponentially with each quarter, ending with 5 shots for 4th quarter loser.  Sweet.

6:45 p.m. – My child calls me and asks why I won’t come home?  I answer phone in bathroom.  While avoiding urine spray of drunk idiot with bad aim, I try not to slur while explaining that Mad Adam will be home after she is asleep.   Little Mad Adamette fails to see logic in my plan.

6:51 p.m. – The Chief takes the first 2 shots.  Thank God I did not “win” round one.

7:15 p.m. – We apparently have a new server. Nicole left without so much as a goodbye.  Fuck her.  Colts fan. The new girl is rooting for Vikes.  Good for her.

7:28 p.m. – Barely coherent.  I surmise that Adrian Peterson is having good game, but he and the rest of the Vikes cannot hold onto the ball.

7:33 p.m. – LVP “wins” the second quarter.  3 shots for him.  He stopped partying last night at 3 a.m.  He just wanted a quiet afternoon.  Too bad sucker.

8:11 p.m. – Unbelievable….LVP “won” again.  I decide to help him out.  I take half his shots.

8:13 p.m. – Wait…did I black out?

8:14 p.m. – I try to engage table in a rousing discussion about “Jersey Shore.” Seriously, did anyone see “The Situation” make out with “Snookie?” I threw up in my mouth a little bit, but it was still funny to watch.  Snookie looks like an Oompa Loopa with a fake tan stuffed into slutty clothing with its hoo-ha hanging out.

8:15 p.m. – I am screaming as loud as I can that Favre is faking his injury.  What a drama queen!  Guy behind me does not seem to appreciate my commentary. I don’t appreciate his face.

8:26 p.m. – A small measure of revenge.  Favre throws a pick that ruins the Vikes’ chances for victory in regulation.  Turns out to be perhaps his last pass of the game. Déjà vu anyone?  Check this out.  His passer rating in the NFC Championship game against the Giants in 2007?  70.7.  Today’s game? 70.0.   His last pass in each game was a costly interception.  The result of each game?  Loss in OT.  I would feel bad for him, but he sucked for the Jets.  So, screw the whole lot of them.  I am now a Saints fan.  Somebody find me the bandwagon.

9:01 p.m. – Home.  Not sure how.  Fight with the Missus over being out all day and drinking too much.  That was fun.

10:03 p.m. – Check the scores.  Lakers lose by one to Raptors.  What did I do to deserve this?

MONDAY, JANUARY 25, 2010

2:30 a.m. – Wake up on couch after an earth-shattering snore disturbs my slumber.  Neck is jacked up.  Where am I?  What day is this?  Oh yeah….I remember.  I have a meeting in the morning.  I am going to be hung over.  Not cool.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it all went down.  When it comes to the Jets, as Gavin Clark puts it in “Broken” by U.N.K.L.E., “we’re miles adrift [yet] inches away.”  So close and yet so far.  You get the idea.  I need a Tylenol.  Out.

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