Wish List
by Vince Darcangelo
This being the final PickSix before Xmas, our first thought was to do a Front Seven listing all the cool things the P-6 would like to see under our tree on Christmas morn. A high-def flat-screen TV, for example. Or a 12-episode commitment from ABC to air my coming-of-age TV drama focusing on the lives of six attractive, affluent high school kids living in California.
Oh wait, they might have already run that a time or two.
Instead, the P-6 is filled with the spirit of giving, so rather than scribbling out our own wish list, we are bestowing gifts on those in the NFL — both naughty and nice.
Front Seven
1. Rod Marinelli: Nice. Rod, you’ve inspired the P-6 with your positive attitude and stand-up approach to coaching and to life. It’s a shame you’re involved with one of the worst franchises in pro sports. We’re cheering for you and hope you come up with a big win this week.
Present: A new team, or, if this whole coaching the Lions thing doesn’t work out, a three-book deal with Scribner to write motivational books. And a Wii.
2. Bill Beli-Cheat: Naughty. What do you get for the coach who has everything (including part of the other team’s playbook)?
Present: We’ve collected all of your illegally procured videos and photos and uploaded them into a lovely digital photo frame from Radio Shack. Cheater.
3. Ben Roethlisberger: Nice. Is it just us, or does Ben—like Rocky—play better after you’ve broken both his arms, sliced off a foot and severed his spinal cord?
Present: An offensive line. Dear Santa, an offensive line. And a DVD of Iron Eagle.
4. Dana Jacobson of ESPN: Naughty and/or Nice (depending on your opinion of Notre Dame and Christianity). You took the words right out of the P-6’s mouth.
Present: Another season of Charlie Weis running the Notre Dame program into the ground. And another bottle of whatever it was you were drinking.
5. Joey Porter: Nice. Never mind the logo on the side of your helmet, you’ll always be a Steeler to the P-6. For the on-field ferocity, for telling it like it is to the likes of Beli-Cheat and for getting flagged for a touchdown celebration at a freakin’ college game(!), we’re cheering you all the way.
Present: A weekly supply of fresh Huckleberries all the way to the postseason. And one of those crazy phones that plays video games, downloads porn and allows you to communicate with space aliens.
6. Matt Birk: Nice. Way to step up to the plate for a good cause.
Present: That new George Foreman Grill with all those cool accessories.
7. Braylon Edwards: Naughty. At first your problem was dropping the ball. Now you seem to have fumbled your grasp of reality. Those boos you hear in Cleveland have nothing to do with your alma mater.
Present: A big tub of Stick-Em. And a box of tissues.
Six Pack
Last week’s 4-2 showing improved our season record to 44-28, and guarantees us a winning record in the regular season. For this week’s picks, we continue with our gift theme.
Baltimore vs. Dallas
For football fanatics like the P-6, this A-list showdown is a gift as welcome as a new puppy on Christmas. What a match-up. Our gut says the Ravens D will prove to be too much for Romo’s ailing back, but how do you pick against the Cowboys in the last game at Texas Stadium?
P-6 picks: Dallas
Cincinnati vs. Cleveland
Talk about your lumps of coal. Who in the NFL’s scheduling department thought this would be a compelling late-season match-up? I guess with both teams being from Ohio, fans from both sides will be hating on Edwards.
P-6 picks: Cincinnati
New Orleans vs. Detroit
Lions, Merry Christmas. So long as you don’t shoot your eye out, this will be your week.
P-6 picks: Detroit
Houston vs. Oakland
Even though they’re the road team, I think the NFL should decree that the Texans must wear their Santa suit unis every game before Christmas.
P-6 picks: Houston
N.Y. Jets vs. Seattle
What would the holidays be without more Brett Favre will-he-or-won’t-he drama leading up to another teary-eyed showdown between him and Mike Holmgren?
P-6 picks: N.Y. Jets
Green Bay vs. Chicago
Someone at Monday Night Football must have been naughty this year (we’re looking at you, Kornheiser) to receive this lump of coal for the final Monday night game. Wow, the P-6 just wept a little, writing that. The final Monday night game of the season. Already. Damn.
P-6 picks: Chicago
Friday, December 19, 2008
Pigskin Zen 12.18.08
Dear Santa
by Gary Zeidner
Hey Santa, how’s it hangin’? High and tight I’d guess given the average temperature at your address. I know it’s getting on crunch time for you, so I hope this Xmas plea finds you as jolly as ever despite the unique pressure you find yourself under this time of year.
Before I get to the “Gimmee, gimee!” part, let me first give you a super-sized “Thank you!” for the Phillies’ World Series win this year. I’ve been asking for one of the Philly teams to break that damned curse for years now, and if it couldn’t be the Eagles then the Phillies will do just fine.
Speaking of the Eagles, all I want for Xmas this year is for the Birds to win the Super Bowl. Of course, first they have to make it into the postseason, but I consider that a lesser included Xmas wish subsumed in whole into the larger Super Bowl victory request.
I know the Birds haven’t been 100 percent nice this year. Andy’s play calling has, at times, resembled something dreamed up by that idiot abominable snowman. Donnie has put more balls in the dirt than the bulls at the National Nude Rodeo. The team as a whole has failed to evince the football equivalent of Xmas cheer on numerous occasions, not the least of which being that lamer-than-Tiny-Tim tie with the Bungles.
To be fair, though, you have to admit that no Eagle has shot himself in the leg, beat up the bouncer at a strip club or pitted dogs against each other in blood sport for profit this year, so I’d say on balance the Birds qualify as Nice rather than Naughty. After all, Andy is the winningest (that’s for you, Sergei) coach in Eagles history and B-Dawk now has the longest tenure in Eagles history measured by games played. Green Akers even made a 50-plus-yard field goal the other day!
Besides, who among us isn’t at least a little naughty each year? Thanks to the wonder that is the Internet, even I heard about that nasty little paternity suit the uber-hot redheaded elf in the Mail Room hit you with back in June.
So do me a solid and help my beloved, oft-beleaguered Birds get into the post-season and win their first Super Bowl this year. It’s the gift that keeps on giving, it doesn’t require wrapping paper and it won’t add an ounce of weight to your sleigh. There could even be some special cookies and a nice tall glass of bourbon in it for you when you come down my chimney this year.
Thanks (the other) Big Red. E-A-G-L-E-S . . . EAGLES!!!
P.S.: If you can’t come through on the Birds Super Bowl win, could you at least get me Megan Fox’s cell phone number? She’s like Angelina Jolie minus the extra years, the Colors of Benetton kids, the annoying humanitarian causes and the husband, and like Angelina, she seems like she would gleefully fulfill every one of my darkest, dirtiest, most unwholesome fantasies. Sweet.
Ding!
Because it just ain’t the holidays until the fries are done, I give you all the best clip of a retarded kid singing a fast food-related song to a classic holiday tune . . . ever!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFQyib5ZQZY
Happy Holidays, duhrrr!
DVDelicious
I used to watch The X-Files pretty regularly when it was on TV. It wasn’t until Mulder was getting ready to leave the show that I gave it up. I checked out the first X-Files movie, so I felt somewhat compelled to give The X-Files: I Want to Believe a spin.
Well, the truth is out there, and the truth is that this movie was utterly eXtraneous. It not only adds nothing to the X-Files mythos, it gallivants around with zero regard for anything that came before it. I kid you not. There’s actually a scene between Mulder and Scully that is so bizarre, so completely out of sync with not only the X-Files universe but with this particular movie, that I had to rewind and check the counter to make sure my DVD hadn’t skipped. Then, once I’d determined that the scene was, in fact, where the director had intended it to be, I sat there waiting for some sort of explanation. Was it a dream sequence? Was it a flashback or flashforward? Was Mulder or Scully — or both — under alien control or a clone or a ghost or . . . something? How else could I explain the fact that all of a sudden with no preamble or explanation of any kind, Mulder and Scully are in bed together and fucking like they’ve been doing it for years? And they didn’t even give us any of Gillian Anderson naked. Boooooo!
On the other end of the spectrum from The Dreck Files, we have The Dark Knight. I enjoyed this latest incarnation of the Caped Crusader when I saw it in the theatre, but my expectations were so high that I wasn’t blown away. I re-watched it last week, and while I think the story would have benefitted from some reengineering, I was absolutely floored by Heath Ledger’s Joker.
When I first learned that Ledger had been cast as the Joker, I was less than thrilled. After A Knight’s Tale, The Order and The Brothers Grimm, I would have laid long odds against Ledger doing anything but crashing and burning in the role. Oh, how wrong I was and how glad of it, too. Ledger’s performance as the Joker will be remembered for many a year as one of the best in the Oughts . . . if not longer, and it is reason enough to see this flick even if you could care less about Batman or action movies in general.
Friday, December 12, 2008
PickSix 12.11.08
Ode to America's Trainwreck
by Vince Darcangelo
Dear Cowboys,
Hope you are enjoying your annual holiday tradition of imploding when the season is on the line. It was a real treat watching the T.O. show on the sidelines, berating no less than coach Ray Sherman -- perhaps the worst offensive coordinator in Steelers' history. I guess that's what you'd call a two-fer. The ensuing late-week turmoil -- earning America's Team the new nickname, America's Trainwreck -- is just the star on top of the tree -- no pun intended.
The only thing more enjoyable than viewing this annual meltdown is knowing that our Steelers sent you into this tailspin. James Harrison, Troy Polamalu and Deshea Townsend enjoyed that very much.
Oh, and T.O., Ike Taylor held you to three catches on Sunday. Considering two balls thrown your way were picked off means that you had a 3:2 reception-to-interception ratio last weekend. Ike wanted us to pass on a one-word message to you: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The last time the Cowboys beat Pittsburgh it was 1997. Clinton was in the first half of a second term. Deion Sanders was still on your team and still relevant. The Houston Texans didn't exist. Neither did the Browns, for that matter, except on paper. The Titans were still called the Oilers. And nobody would have guessed then that you wouldn't win another playoff game for at least another 12 seasons. At least!
Alas, as fun as it was, barring some miraculous late-season surge, or sudden rise beyond mediocrity in the next three years, your only chance at getting another shot at Pittsburgh won't be until 2012. T.O. will likely be destroying the Raiders (if it's even possible to make things worse there). Pacman will likely be doing 10-20. And Romo will be a trivia question on VH1's "I Love the '00s."
So, good luck with the Giants on Sunday. You're going to need it.
Sincerely,
The P-6
Alright, with our letter-writing out of the way, the P-6 is going to jump ahead to this week's Six Pack. After going 5-1 last week (stupid Detroit!), our season record has improved to 40-26, and that's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, we like it. This week, coming down the home stretch, we're looking at games with postseason implications.
Six Pack
Buffalo vs. N.Y. Jets
Only one of these teams actually plays in New York. Here's a hint: It's not the winning team.
P-6 picks: N.Y. Jets
Tampa Bay vs. Atlanta
Don't buy into the Bucs. This team is more untrustworthy than the Broncos.
P-6 picks: Atlanta
Minnesota vs. Arizona
Congrats to the Cards.
P-6 picks: Arizona
Pittsburgh vs. Baltimore
A bloodbath? Yes. But only for the Poes, quoth the P-6.
P-6 picks: Pittsburgh
Denver vs. Carolina
The Broncos should be wary of Carolina's newest tactic, copyright infringement.
P-6 picks: Carolina
N.Y. Giants vs. Dallas
Let the circus begin!
P-6 picks: N.Y. Giants
by Vince Darcangelo
Dear Cowboys,
Hope you are enjoying your annual holiday tradition of imploding when the season is on the line. It was a real treat watching the T.O. show on the sidelines, berating no less than coach Ray Sherman -- perhaps the worst offensive coordinator in Steelers' history. I guess that's what you'd call a two-fer. The ensuing late-week turmoil -- earning America's Team the new nickname, America's Trainwreck -- is just the star on top of the tree -- no pun intended.
The only thing more enjoyable than viewing this annual meltdown is knowing that our Steelers sent you into this tailspin. James Harrison, Troy Polamalu and Deshea Townsend enjoyed that very much.
Oh, and T.O., Ike Taylor held you to three catches on Sunday. Considering two balls thrown your way were picked off means that you had a 3:2 reception-to-interception ratio last weekend. Ike wanted us to pass on a one-word message to you: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The last time the Cowboys beat Pittsburgh it was 1997. Clinton was in the first half of a second term. Deion Sanders was still on your team and still relevant. The Houston Texans didn't exist. Neither did the Browns, for that matter, except on paper. The Titans were still called the Oilers. And nobody would have guessed then that you wouldn't win another playoff game for at least another 12 seasons. At least!
Alas, as fun as it was, barring some miraculous late-season surge, or sudden rise beyond mediocrity in the next three years, your only chance at getting another shot at Pittsburgh won't be until 2012. T.O. will likely be destroying the Raiders (if it's even possible to make things worse there). Pacman will likely be doing 10-20. And Romo will be a trivia question on VH1's "I Love the '00s."
So, good luck with the Giants on Sunday. You're going to need it.
Sincerely,
The P-6
Alright, with our letter-writing out of the way, the P-6 is going to jump ahead to this week's Six Pack. After going 5-1 last week (stupid Detroit!), our season record has improved to 40-26, and that's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, we like it. This week, coming down the home stretch, we're looking at games with postseason implications.
Six Pack
Buffalo vs. N.Y. Jets
Only one of these teams actually plays in New York. Here's a hint: It's not the winning team.
P-6 picks: N.Y. Jets
Tampa Bay vs. Atlanta
Don't buy into the Bucs. This team is more untrustworthy than the Broncos.
P-6 picks: Atlanta
Minnesota vs. Arizona
Congrats to the Cards.
P-6 picks: Arizona
Pittsburgh vs. Baltimore
A bloodbath? Yes. But only for the Poes, quoth the P-6.
P-6 picks: Pittsburgh
Denver vs. Carolina
The Broncos should be wary of Carolina's newest tactic, copyright infringement.
P-6 picks: Carolina
N.Y. Giants vs. Dallas
Let the circus begin!
P-6 picks: N.Y. Giants
Goin' Deep 12.11.08
Eagles of a Feather
by Mikey Hammerstone
I awoke the other night (alone, unfortunately) in my bed shaking, sweating, and nervous. I began to reflect on the nightmare that had brought me to such a bloodcurdling state. Not knowing where to turn or who to draw comfort from, I screamed at the top of my lungs “NOOOOOOOOOOOO.” Had I dreamt that I was being ass raped by a large African-American man named Bubba in the state penitentiary? Did I see the likes of Beelzebub in the fiery pits of hell? Was I licking whipped cream off Rosanne Barr’s bunions? Sure, each of these scenarios would certainly be justifiable cause for such a reaction; however, the true anxiety was a result of something far, far worse. After taking a shot of Jim Beam from the bottle that I have lying next to my bed and smoking a cigarette in a total of three inhalations, I began to reflect. The following is an excerpt of the events as they unfolded (I implore those of you who are squeamish to please turn away now).
There I was, standing in the middle of an unknown city with the rain pummeling me like snowballs at Santa during an Eagles game. I looked down and noticed that I was wearing my beloved Brian Dawkins jersey. At that moment I realized, “Holy Shit, it’s Sunday!” I began to feverishly sprint down the street thinking to myself, “It’s almost kickoff. I need to get to G-man’s house.” With each stride I looked around only to see Giants fans to my left, Redskins fans to my right, and Cowboys fans chasing me from behind (only for a short distance seeing as how their redneck fat asses couldn’t keep up). I knew that something was terribly wrong. Why was I here? Where were my Eagle brethren? What would I do if I had to watch the Birds game alone?
Quickly, I dove into the first sports bar that I could find. Instantly I found an overwhelming sense of peace and comfort. There were 42-inch flat screen televisions in every corner, chicks with hourglass figures (with plenty of time left of the clock) serving free wings and beer, and football fans as far as the eye could see. As I began to peruse the establishment, one defining thing stood out to me. There was no Eagles section. I ran from table to table begging every passerby to please direct me to the Philly table. To my surprise, I received no response. After exhausting all of my options, I finally decided to ask the bartender: “Where are all of the Eagles fans?” The man standing behind the bar turned to me and said, “Eagles fans? There are no Eagles fans in this city. In fact, you’re the first one that I’ve ever seen.” Tears began to flow from my eyes, sobs of pain and sorrow bellowed from my hollow stomach, and not even the free wings and beer could calm my sorrow. It was at this time that I awoke.
Since that fateful night I’ve decided that no man (or woman) should ever fall victim to such a heinous scenario. Never shall a football fan of a certain team feel alone in a foreign place (unless you’re a Cowboys fan, in which case, you can go fuck yourself). That being said, I would just like to give a shout out to my Denver/Boulder Eagles family and thank them for never leaving me stranded during the NFL season. My glass (filled to the brim with bourbon) is raised to you G-man, Jimmy, Sergei, Dan-O, Sugar and Finn!
Go Birds!
by Mikey Hammerstone
I awoke the other night (alone, unfortunately) in my bed shaking, sweating, and nervous. I began to reflect on the nightmare that had brought me to such a bloodcurdling state. Not knowing where to turn or who to draw comfort from, I screamed at the top of my lungs “NOOOOOOOOOOOO.” Had I dreamt that I was being ass raped by a large African-American man named Bubba in the state penitentiary? Did I see the likes of Beelzebub in the fiery pits of hell? Was I licking whipped cream off Rosanne Barr’s bunions? Sure, each of these scenarios would certainly be justifiable cause for such a reaction; however, the true anxiety was a result of something far, far worse. After taking a shot of Jim Beam from the bottle that I have lying next to my bed and smoking a cigarette in a total of three inhalations, I began to reflect. The following is an excerpt of the events as they unfolded (I implore those of you who are squeamish to please turn away now).
There I was, standing in the middle of an unknown city with the rain pummeling me like snowballs at Santa during an Eagles game. I looked down and noticed that I was wearing my beloved Brian Dawkins jersey. At that moment I realized, “Holy Shit, it’s Sunday!” I began to feverishly sprint down the street thinking to myself, “It’s almost kickoff. I need to get to G-man’s house.” With each stride I looked around only to see Giants fans to my left, Redskins fans to my right, and Cowboys fans chasing me from behind (only for a short distance seeing as how their redneck fat asses couldn’t keep up). I knew that something was terribly wrong. Why was I here? Where were my Eagle brethren? What would I do if I had to watch the Birds game alone?
Quickly, I dove into the first sports bar that I could find. Instantly I found an overwhelming sense of peace and comfort. There were 42-inch flat screen televisions in every corner, chicks with hourglass figures (with plenty of time left of the clock) serving free wings and beer, and football fans as far as the eye could see. As I began to peruse the establishment, one defining thing stood out to me. There was no Eagles section. I ran from table to table begging every passerby to please direct me to the Philly table. To my surprise, I received no response. After exhausting all of my options, I finally decided to ask the bartender: “Where are all of the Eagles fans?” The man standing behind the bar turned to me and said, “Eagles fans? There are no Eagles fans in this city. In fact, you’re the first one that I’ve ever seen.” Tears began to flow from my eyes, sobs of pain and sorrow bellowed from my hollow stomach, and not even the free wings and beer could calm my sorrow. It was at this time that I awoke.
Since that fateful night I’ve decided that no man (or woman) should ever fall victim to such a heinous scenario. Never shall a football fan of a certain team feel alone in a foreign place (unless you’re a Cowboys fan, in which case, you can go fuck yourself). That being said, I would just like to give a shout out to my Denver/Boulder Eagles family and thank them for never leaving me stranded during the NFL season. My glass (filled to the brim with bourbon) is raised to you G-man, Jimmy, Sergei, Dan-O, Sugar and Finn!
Go Birds!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
PickSix 12.04.08
Holy Rolle
by Vince Darcangelo
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Myron Rolle.
Douchebaggery abounds throughout the football universe, with Pacman Jones’ reinstatement, Vick’s guilty plea and Plaxico Burress’ poor aim (I guess that’s why he’s not a quarterback) dominating the headlines.
Buried in this mess is the story of Myron Rolle, cousin of Samari Rolle, who is the frontrunner for best football story of the year. Rolle is a safety for Florida State. He is also a Rhodes Scholar. A pre-med student, Rolle is forgoing his senior season and a likely NFL career to study medical anthropology at the University of Oxford. This summer he won a $4,000 grant to research a cure for cancer, and in his post-university life as a doctor he plans to set up medical clinics in underserved countries.
Oh yeah, he also hopes to get in a few years on the gridiron, ala Roger Staubach, after doing good deeds.
It’s safe to say that Rolle is the Patron Saint of football right now. Not only is he qualifying for every good-guy award out there, he’s doing it at Florida State — perhaps the only college football program with a worse reputation than the U. (In true Florida State style, last season his coaches criticized Rolle for spending too much time on his studies.)
As for the Plaxicos of the world? The P-6 is certainly no fan of this douchebag, and shooting oneself in the leg while being escorted to the VIP room of a nightclub definitely qualifies one as a douchebag.
That said, in a week that marked the one-year anniversary of the murder of Sean Taylor, three months following the shooting of Jaguars’ O-lineman Richard Collier and less than two years removed from the murder of Darrent Williams (not to mention other attacks targeting football players), we can’t fault Plaxico for packing a little protection.
Now, Plaxico made a lot of poor decisions along the way, including going someplace where he felt he needed to carry an illegally concealed weapon, but if given the choice between facing Bloomberg’s wrath or being defenseless against an assault, I think the P-6, like Plaxico, would rather face the former.
That said, Plaxico, are you kidding me?
But on to more important things. While Pacman, Plaxico and Vick (and let’s not forget O.J., who is making some headlines this weekend) are certainly working for the forces of evil, there is still a greater evil out there: the Dallas Cowgirls.
“America’s Team” stands for all that is wrong. This is the franchise of “Hollywood” Henderson, Leon Lett, Michael Irvin, T.O. and Pacman Jones. (In their defense they have had some good guys on their squad as well, like Staubach, Emmitt Smith and Tony Romo.) This is the golden boy franchise best known for its cheerleaders and celebrity girlfriends. They are the pro version of Notre Dame, the football version of the New York Yankees.
For crying out loud, they play in Texas!
This week, the ’Girls suit up against the P-6’s Pittsburgh Steelers. The blue-collar franchise. The champion of small-market franchises. The family run business that gave us the Rooney Rule. The Immaculate Reception. Franco Harris. Rocky Bleier. Hines Ward. The ownership that supported Barack Obama in a battleground state.
This is classic Good vs. Evil.
Cheerleaders? We don’t need no stinkin’ cheerleaders. Football is ugly, dirty, sweaty. Dallas likes to play in nice, sunny weather and have its cheerleaders prance about like a bunch of waitresses at Hooters (we hear the new stadium is going to be equipped with stripper poles). They've got high-profile celebs in the luxury boxes. Pittsburgh likes it cold, snowy, muddy, ugly and toothless, and while you’re checking out the pom-poms, our linebacker corps is kicking your ass. And when you look into the crowd at Heinz Field, you'll see the Steel City version of a celebrity: Someone who busts their ass 50 hours a week to feed their family.
Good must prevail this weekend. So for this week’s Front Seven, here are the seven reasons this is a must-win game for our beloved Steelers.
Front Seven
1. AFC North. The Steelers must win it to stay at least one game ahead in the division.
2. AFC Playoffs. The Steelers can qualify for the playoffs on Sunday with a win and losses by the Dolphins and Patriots.
3. AFC Conference. The Steelers must win it to stay within striking distance of Tennessee in the conference playoff seeding.
4. Cross-state Loyalty. The Steelers must win it for the Philly faithful — especially Gary and Mikey — who hate the Cowgirls as much as we hate the Browns.
5. Old-Times Sake. Really, is there anything more satisfying than beating the Cowgirls and all they stand for?
6. For the Sake of America. Did we mention the Cowgirls play in Texas, the most embarrassing of these United States? (Kansas is a close second.)
7. For the Sake of all that is Good. The Steelers must win it so that good might prevail over evil.
Hot Reads
Douchebag of the Week: Whatever sons of bitches were behind the Mumbai terrorist attacks. We’ve got enough bombs for all of ya. Here’s hoping we use them.
Red Zone: The NFL season is in the home stretch, and so is the PickSix. Our 3-3 showing last time was mediocre, but with a season record of 35-25, we’re poised for a late-season run.
Six Pack
Oakland vs. San Diego
Not that we have a lot of faith in the Chargers, but we feel they’ve got this one under control. Perhaps a trick running play to the most out-of-shape player on the Raiders squad will be the difference maker.
P-6 picks: San Diego
Minnesota vs. Detroit
We’ve been saying it every week, but this time we mean it. With the bulk (literally) of Minnesota’s D-line in detention, this is the week Detroit goes big.
P-6 picks: Detroit
Houston vs. Green Bay
If the Texans wear those Santa suits against the Packers’ home greens in snowy Green Bay, well, that will look more like a Christmas special than a football game.
P-6 picks: Houston
Miami vs. Buffalo
Now for our international portion of the column. The big winner? Whoever can bring home some of that delicious universal health care. We need it here. Now.
P-6 picks: Miami
St. Louis vs. Arizona
Who cares?
P-6 picks: Arizona
Dallas vs. Pittsburgh
Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.
P-6 picks: Good shall prevail over Evil, er, Pittsburgh
by Vince Darcangelo
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Myron Rolle.
Douchebaggery abounds throughout the football universe, with Pacman Jones’ reinstatement, Vick’s guilty plea and Plaxico Burress’ poor aim (I guess that’s why he’s not a quarterback) dominating the headlines.
Buried in this mess is the story of Myron Rolle, cousin of Samari Rolle, who is the frontrunner for best football story of the year. Rolle is a safety for Florida State. He is also a Rhodes Scholar. A pre-med student, Rolle is forgoing his senior season and a likely NFL career to study medical anthropology at the University of Oxford. This summer he won a $4,000 grant to research a cure for cancer, and in his post-university life as a doctor he plans to set up medical clinics in underserved countries.
Oh yeah, he also hopes to get in a few years on the gridiron, ala Roger Staubach, after doing good deeds.
It’s safe to say that Rolle is the Patron Saint of football right now. Not only is he qualifying for every good-guy award out there, he’s doing it at Florida State — perhaps the only college football program with a worse reputation than the U. (In true Florida State style, last season his coaches criticized Rolle for spending too much time on his studies.)
As for the Plaxicos of the world? The P-6 is certainly no fan of this douchebag, and shooting oneself in the leg while being escorted to the VIP room of a nightclub definitely qualifies one as a douchebag.
That said, in a week that marked the one-year anniversary of the murder of Sean Taylor, three months following the shooting of Jaguars’ O-lineman Richard Collier and less than two years removed from the murder of Darrent Williams (not to mention other attacks targeting football players), we can’t fault Plaxico for packing a little protection.
Now, Plaxico made a lot of poor decisions along the way, including going someplace where he felt he needed to carry an illegally concealed weapon, but if given the choice between facing Bloomberg’s wrath or being defenseless against an assault, I think the P-6, like Plaxico, would rather face the former.
That said, Plaxico, are you kidding me?
But on to more important things. While Pacman, Plaxico and Vick (and let’s not forget O.J., who is making some headlines this weekend) are certainly working for the forces of evil, there is still a greater evil out there: the Dallas Cowgirls.
“America’s Team” stands for all that is wrong. This is the franchise of “Hollywood” Henderson, Leon Lett, Michael Irvin, T.O. and Pacman Jones. (In their defense they have had some good guys on their squad as well, like Staubach, Emmitt Smith and Tony Romo.) This is the golden boy franchise best known for its cheerleaders and celebrity girlfriends. They are the pro version of Notre Dame, the football version of the New York Yankees.
For crying out loud, they play in Texas!
This week, the ’Girls suit up against the P-6’s Pittsburgh Steelers. The blue-collar franchise. The champion of small-market franchises. The family run business that gave us the Rooney Rule. The Immaculate Reception. Franco Harris. Rocky Bleier. Hines Ward. The ownership that supported Barack Obama in a battleground state.
This is classic Good vs. Evil.
Cheerleaders? We don’t need no stinkin’ cheerleaders. Football is ugly, dirty, sweaty. Dallas likes to play in nice, sunny weather and have its cheerleaders prance about like a bunch of waitresses at Hooters (we hear the new stadium is going to be equipped with stripper poles). They've got high-profile celebs in the luxury boxes. Pittsburgh likes it cold, snowy, muddy, ugly and toothless, and while you’re checking out the pom-poms, our linebacker corps is kicking your ass. And when you look into the crowd at Heinz Field, you'll see the Steel City version of a celebrity: Someone who busts their ass 50 hours a week to feed their family.
Good must prevail this weekend. So for this week’s Front Seven, here are the seven reasons this is a must-win game for our beloved Steelers.
Front Seven
1. AFC North. The Steelers must win it to stay at least one game ahead in the division.
2. AFC Playoffs. The Steelers can qualify for the playoffs on Sunday with a win and losses by the Dolphins and Patriots.
3. AFC Conference. The Steelers must win it to stay within striking distance of Tennessee in the conference playoff seeding.
4. Cross-state Loyalty. The Steelers must win it for the Philly faithful — especially Gary and Mikey — who hate the Cowgirls as much as we hate the Browns.
5. Old-Times Sake. Really, is there anything more satisfying than beating the Cowgirls and all they stand for?
6. For the Sake of America. Did we mention the Cowgirls play in Texas, the most embarrassing of these United States? (Kansas is a close second.)
7. For the Sake of all that is Good. The Steelers must win it so that good might prevail over evil.
Hot Reads
Douchebag of the Week: Whatever sons of bitches were behind the Mumbai terrorist attacks. We’ve got enough bombs for all of ya. Here’s hoping we use them.
Red Zone: The NFL season is in the home stretch, and so is the PickSix. Our 3-3 showing last time was mediocre, but with a season record of 35-25, we’re poised for a late-season run.
Six Pack
Oakland vs. San Diego
Not that we have a lot of faith in the Chargers, but we feel they’ve got this one under control. Perhaps a trick running play to the most out-of-shape player on the Raiders squad will be the difference maker.
P-6 picks: San Diego
Minnesota vs. Detroit
We’ve been saying it every week, but this time we mean it. With the bulk (literally) of Minnesota’s D-line in detention, this is the week Detroit goes big.
P-6 picks: Detroit
Houston vs. Green Bay
If the Texans wear those Santa suits against the Packers’ home greens in snowy Green Bay, well, that will look more like a Christmas special than a football game.
P-6 picks: Houston
Miami vs. Buffalo
Now for our international portion of the column. The big winner? Whoever can bring home some of that delicious universal health care. We need it here. Now.
P-6 picks: Miami
St. Louis vs. Arizona
Who cares?
P-6 picks: Arizona
Dallas vs. Pittsburgh
Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.
P-6 picks: Good shall prevail over Evil, er, Pittsburgh
Goin' Deep 12.04.08
East Sayid
by Mikey Hammerstone
Here we are just weeks away from a new season of LOST and I can’t help but think of how many times a West Coast NFL team has uttered the word . . . lost. We often hear so much about how there is an East Coast bias in sports. The East Coast gets to have its games in primetime, they get a level of hype on ESPN that would make Paris Hilton throw a hissy fit, and the sports writers act as if they are the best in the country.
But, do you really know why the East Coast has a bias? It’s because it’s better. Now, before you go jumping up my pooper hole faster than a doctor at a proctology exam, let me explain. First of all, I’m only talking about NFL football. Because there is a salary cap, there is no way that a team can stack or “buy” players like in baseball. Therefore, every team is on equal footing.
And it’s not that the East Coast is so freakin’ great. Trust me, I’ve been back here in New Jersey for the last three months and the people are assholes. There are way too many of them, nobody gives a shit about the environment, they have a diet that makes me wonder how the hell anyone here can live to be over 50, and for some reason, they all think that they’re Tony fucking Soprano. So, keep in mind that, although I am defending NFL East football, it doesn’t exclude the northeast from being what some might consider “God’s toe jam.”
First, let’s take this season for example. When you add up the record for the teams playing in the AFC and NFC West, you get a combined record of 31-65. The division leaders are both a mere two games over .500, the second place teams in both divisions are a staggering three games behind the division leaders, and the Arizona Cardinals, who lead the NFC west, are 2-5 against teams that call the East Coast their home. In comparison, the combined record for the NFC and AFC East is 60-35-1 (stupid Eagles tie), the East Coast divisions do not have one team that is below .500, and the NFC East has the New York Giants who are the best team in football (sorry Eagles and Titans fans . . . its true).
Second, allow me to refresh your memories with championships from recent years. Since 2000, not ONE West Coast team has won a Super Bowl (although San Diego did get to host one) and only two teams have even made it to the Super Bowl (2002 Raiders and the 2005 Seahawks). On the other hand, four teams from eastern divisions and three teams who are from the east side (Baltimore, Tampa Bay, and Pittsburgh) have won. So, since 2000 that gives the wrong coast a goose egg and the right coast seven out of eight.
Finally, there is no “real” passion for football in the west. It may have something to do with the fact that the west is still about 150 years behind the east, but I’m going to say that it’s because there are no good rivalries. Sure, I’ve heard it all before . . . “What about the Broncos vs. Chiefs?” Well, I’ve got a newsflash for ya: You can’t hate another team if it takes you more than one full day of driving to get to that city. Seriously, the closest AFC team to Denver is Kansas City (600 miles according to MapQuest). So what, you’re going to drive for 10 hours to go give your buddy shit after the Broncos beat the Chiefs? Not likely. On the flipside, the East Coast is stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey with football teams. Within a 433-mile span (Foxboro to D.C.), there are six, count ’em, SIX football teams (Patriots, Giants, Jets, Eagles, Ravens, and Redskins). I can’t walk out of the house wearing my Eagles hat without having some douchebag give me shit for it.
The bottom line is, the west coast folks need to chill out. If you don’t field a team that’s worth watching, you’re going to continue to watch the Chargers games at 10:00 am.
GO SMOKE MONSTER!
by Mikey Hammerstone
Here we are just weeks away from a new season of LOST and I can’t help but think of how many times a West Coast NFL team has uttered the word . . . lost. We often hear so much about how there is an East Coast bias in sports. The East Coast gets to have its games in primetime, they get a level of hype on ESPN that would make Paris Hilton throw a hissy fit, and the sports writers act as if they are the best in the country.
But, do you really know why the East Coast has a bias? It’s because it’s better. Now, before you go jumping up my pooper hole faster than a doctor at a proctology exam, let me explain. First of all, I’m only talking about NFL football. Because there is a salary cap, there is no way that a team can stack or “buy” players like in baseball. Therefore, every team is on equal footing.
And it’s not that the East Coast is so freakin’ great. Trust me, I’ve been back here in New Jersey for the last three months and the people are assholes. There are way too many of them, nobody gives a shit about the environment, they have a diet that makes me wonder how the hell anyone here can live to be over 50, and for some reason, they all think that they’re Tony fucking Soprano. So, keep in mind that, although I am defending NFL East football, it doesn’t exclude the northeast from being what some might consider “God’s toe jam.”
First, let’s take this season for example. When you add up the record for the teams playing in the AFC and NFC West, you get a combined record of 31-65. The division leaders are both a mere two games over .500, the second place teams in both divisions are a staggering three games behind the division leaders, and the Arizona Cardinals, who lead the NFC west, are 2-5 against teams that call the East Coast their home. In comparison, the combined record for the NFC and AFC East is 60-35-1 (stupid Eagles tie), the East Coast divisions do not have one team that is below .500, and the NFC East has the New York Giants who are the best team in football (sorry Eagles and Titans fans . . . its true).
Second, allow me to refresh your memories with championships from recent years. Since 2000, not ONE West Coast team has won a Super Bowl (although San Diego did get to host one) and only two teams have even made it to the Super Bowl (2002 Raiders and the 2005 Seahawks). On the other hand, four teams from eastern divisions and three teams who are from the east side (Baltimore, Tampa Bay, and Pittsburgh) have won. So, since 2000 that gives the wrong coast a goose egg and the right coast seven out of eight.
Finally, there is no “real” passion for football in the west. It may have something to do with the fact that the west is still about 150 years behind the east, but I’m going to say that it’s because there are no good rivalries. Sure, I’ve heard it all before . . . “What about the Broncos vs. Chiefs?” Well, I’ve got a newsflash for ya: You can’t hate another team if it takes you more than one full day of driving to get to that city. Seriously, the closest AFC team to Denver is Kansas City (600 miles according to MapQuest). So what, you’re going to drive for 10 hours to go give your buddy shit after the Broncos beat the Chiefs? Not likely. On the flipside, the East Coast is stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey with football teams. Within a 433-mile span (Foxboro to D.C.), there are six, count ’em, SIX football teams (Patriots, Giants, Jets, Eagles, Ravens, and Redskins). I can’t walk out of the house wearing my Eagles hat without having some douchebag give me shit for it.
The bottom line is, the west coast folks need to chill out. If you don’t field a team that’s worth watching, you’re going to continue to watch the Chargers games at 10:00 am.
GO SMOKE MONSTER!
Pigskin Zen 12.04.08
The Bird(s) is the Word
by Gary Zeidner
Damn you Family Guy! Sure, the title for this column makes sense because the column is about my beloved Birds, the Philadelphia Eagles, but in all honesty I haven’t been able to get that stupid “Surfin’ Bird” song out of my head since last week’s episode of Family Guy. I’ve tried getting blackout drunk, slamming my head repeatedly into a cinderblock wall and listening to my alarm clock screech at me for hours on end, but nothing has helped rid me of that awful, awful song. You win this round Seth McFarlane, you dick.
As for the Birds, well, they’ve been struggling with a mighty case of multiple personality disorder these past few weeks. After dropping a shit bomb so large against Baltimore that Big Red had to bench Donnie — for the first time in his professional career — the Birds rallied to beat the division-leading Cardinals 48-20 on Thanksgiving. This win kept their playoff hopes alive, and for that I am truly thankful.
Maybe Donnie needed the wakeup call that riding the pine for a half provided. Maybe Andy getting so pissed off at his team’s lackluster play that he — for the first time in his career — actually raised his voice and made some threats against his players’ careers did the trick. Who knows? All that may be said for certain is that the Eagles need to win out to have a shot at that big, brass Super Bowl ring.
It is the holiday season and, therefore, a time for miracles, so I say, “Go to it!”
E-A-G-L-E-S . . . EAGLES!!!
Suicide’s an alternative
A few weeks ago, some kid here in the U.S. of No Way! became the first American that I’m aware of to publicly kill themselves in real time on the Internet. That kid should get the Nobel Prize for Entertainment (would that there were such an award). With his act of public self-destruction, that kid singlehandedly laid the first paving stone on the boulevard to televised executions, Running Man-style game shows, convict versus convict death matches and the like. Way to go there, dead boy!
Before you go getting in the spirit of the season and dropping by my house to crucify me for that last paragraph, hold the fuck on for a second. For all you or I know, that kid was a heartless child rapist who killed himself out of remorse for his many heinous crimes. Ever think of that, Judgy McKneejerk?
Bourne, James Bourne
After four, and I mean a literal four not some pussified figurative four, attempts to go see Quantum of Solace at the local multiplex — which is, by the by, the worst excuse for a brand-new movie theatre I have ever seen — I finally found my ass in a seat not in the first two rows as the lights went down on this latest Bond epic.
I thought Casino Royale was an excellent reboot of this flagging franchise. It gave the world a harsher, more visceral slant on the super-spy we all know and love. It succeeded because it took Bond, the man, in a new direction while retaining many of the staples of Bond, the movie series.
Solace, which picks up immediately after Royale (but without cheese), once again gives us a coldly brutal Bond the likes of which we’ve never really seen, but it throws the rest of what makes a Bond movie a Bond movie into the passenger seat and ejects it straight out the sunroof.
This Bond is more Bourne than Bond, and while Solace doesn’t really disappoint it fails to add anything significant to the character or his myth.
DVDelicious
When Will Smith’s last box office assault, Hancock, came out this past summer, even I, a self-avowed movie junkie, couldn’t get excited enough to bother seeing it in the theatre. As sure as joy follows the arrival of a late period, Hancock is now out on DVD just in time for the holidays, so I went ahead and checked it out.
In all fairness, it’s only half bad . . . the second half. The movie opens quite promisingly with a brilliant premise. What if Superman wasn’t the cow-licked champion of all things pure and virtuous but was, instead, a drunken malcontent who felt utterly isolated by the fact that he’s the only one of his kind on the entire fucking planet?
Smith and the special effects crew pull off the setup but fumble their way through the climax. (Whoa, sounds like a few of my high school sexcapades.) Until someone shows me every version of the script from day one until opening night and proves me wrong, I will firmly believe that somewhere along the line a whole subplot was excised — and excised poorly with some sort of dull, rusty instrument — from this flick. (That subplot — SPOILER ALERT — revolves around Charlize Theron turning out to be the only other person on the planet to share Hancock’s powers.)
The saddest part is that had the makers of this movie let Hancock be only about Hancock and his arc from asshole to hero then tackled his relationship with Theron’s character in a separate, prequel-type movie, both films would have been immeasurably better than the one they ended up with.
by Gary Zeidner
Damn you Family Guy! Sure, the title for this column makes sense because the column is about my beloved Birds, the Philadelphia Eagles, but in all honesty I haven’t been able to get that stupid “Surfin’ Bird” song out of my head since last week’s episode of Family Guy. I’ve tried getting blackout drunk, slamming my head repeatedly into a cinderblock wall and listening to my alarm clock screech at me for hours on end, but nothing has helped rid me of that awful, awful song. You win this round Seth McFarlane, you dick.
As for the Birds, well, they’ve been struggling with a mighty case of multiple personality disorder these past few weeks. After dropping a shit bomb so large against Baltimore that Big Red had to bench Donnie — for the first time in his professional career — the Birds rallied to beat the division-leading Cardinals 48-20 on Thanksgiving. This win kept their playoff hopes alive, and for that I am truly thankful.
Maybe Donnie needed the wakeup call that riding the pine for a half provided. Maybe Andy getting so pissed off at his team’s lackluster play that he — for the first time in his career — actually raised his voice and made some threats against his players’ careers did the trick. Who knows? All that may be said for certain is that the Eagles need to win out to have a shot at that big, brass Super Bowl ring.
It is the holiday season and, therefore, a time for miracles, so I say, “Go to it!”
E-A-G-L-E-S . . . EAGLES!!!
Suicide’s an alternative
A few weeks ago, some kid here in the U.S. of No Way! became the first American that I’m aware of to publicly kill themselves in real time on the Internet. That kid should get the Nobel Prize for Entertainment (would that there were such an award). With his act of public self-destruction, that kid singlehandedly laid the first paving stone on the boulevard to televised executions, Running Man-style game shows, convict versus convict death matches and the like. Way to go there, dead boy!
Before you go getting in the spirit of the season and dropping by my house to crucify me for that last paragraph, hold the fuck on for a second. For all you or I know, that kid was a heartless child rapist who killed himself out of remorse for his many heinous crimes. Ever think of that, Judgy McKneejerk?
Bourne, James Bourne
After four, and I mean a literal four not some pussified figurative four, attempts to go see Quantum of Solace at the local multiplex — which is, by the by, the worst excuse for a brand-new movie theatre I have ever seen — I finally found my ass in a seat not in the first two rows as the lights went down on this latest Bond epic.
I thought Casino Royale was an excellent reboot of this flagging franchise. It gave the world a harsher, more visceral slant on the super-spy we all know and love. It succeeded because it took Bond, the man, in a new direction while retaining many of the staples of Bond, the movie series.
Solace, which picks up immediately after Royale (but without cheese), once again gives us a coldly brutal Bond the likes of which we’ve never really seen, but it throws the rest of what makes a Bond movie a Bond movie into the passenger seat and ejects it straight out the sunroof.
This Bond is more Bourne than Bond, and while Solace doesn’t really disappoint it fails to add anything significant to the character or his myth.
DVDelicious
When Will Smith’s last box office assault, Hancock, came out this past summer, even I, a self-avowed movie junkie, couldn’t get excited enough to bother seeing it in the theatre. As sure as joy follows the arrival of a late period, Hancock is now out on DVD just in time for the holidays, so I went ahead and checked it out.
In all fairness, it’s only half bad . . . the second half. The movie opens quite promisingly with a brilliant premise. What if Superman wasn’t the cow-licked champion of all things pure and virtuous but was, instead, a drunken malcontent who felt utterly isolated by the fact that he’s the only one of his kind on the entire fucking planet?
Smith and the special effects crew pull off the setup but fumble their way through the climax. (Whoa, sounds like a few of my high school sexcapades.) Until someone shows me every version of the script from day one until opening night and proves me wrong, I will firmly believe that somewhere along the line a whole subplot was excised — and excised poorly with some sort of dull, rusty instrument — from this flick. (That subplot — SPOILER ALERT — revolves around Charlize Theron turning out to be the only other person on the planet to share Hancock’s powers.)
The saddest part is that had the makers of this movie let Hancock be only about Hancock and his arc from asshole to hero then tackled his relationship with Theron’s character in a separate, prequel-type movie, both films would have been immeasurably better than the one they ended up with.
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