Margarita Blogging the NFC Playoffs: 2013 Edition

As threatened promised, I am going to liveblog the playoff game between the Falcons and Seahawks. As has been the case the last few seasons, the Falcons are in the position of both having no chance against their opponent and being labelled chokers when they are upset.

I often think that the life of a sports journalist must be one of the easiest vocations in the world. You get to say contradictory things and rewrite history at a whim. For example, when talking about the 2012 edition of the Atlanta Falcons, nearly every sports pundit outside of Jimmy Johnson (and he's probably just hopped up on Cialis or whatever) spent nearly each week applying the following formula:

1. Declaring  that the Falcons are finally going to be tested against an opponent, giving them their chance to legitimize their lofty record.

2. Picking Atlanta to lose.

3. Deciding that--after Atlanta beat them handlily--the opponent isn't really that great.

4. Proposing to Peyton Manning.

This was the pattern against San Diego (and it turns out the Chargers had just decided to suck all season instead of just the first half), Denver, Philadelphia (Andy Reid cannot be defeated after a bye week!), Tampa Bay, New Orleans, and the Giants. Atlanta killed all of those teams (including Denver--seriously, they dominated that game top to bottom except for a nine minute stretch across the 3rd and 4th quarters). The Giants game was so bad that everyone retroactively declared that New York had always been at war with Oceania.

So, I fully  expect that either Atlanta will win today, at which point sports pundits all over the globe will claim that Seattle never had a football team at all or Seattle will win and the Falcons will become "chokers" again for being upset by a team that is universally acclaimed as better in every phase of the game.

Either way I will be drunk on margaritas.

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11:42: I just had text conversation with my brother:

Him: here we go.
Me: i'm already drinking and blogging.
Him: i've been drinking since 11:00. tough matchup for us but i have faith.
Me: if we had faith we wouldn't need to drink.


11:51: Nervously reminding Donna that she has five minutes to finish up whatever quest she is on in Skyrim.


11:55: My first "offical" sip of margarita.


11:57: I just came up with a positive in Atlant's favor: Keith Brooking doesn't play for us anymore.


11:58: Brian Billick just said that Pete Carroll knows that Atlanta is 13-7 in the Georgia Dome over the last five seasons. I'm not positive but I don't think that's correct.


12:00: Completely forgot that they show the national anthem part of games in the playoffs. Not a bad rendition... short and to the point. Mike Smith looks constipated.


12:04: Same feeling I always have before a playoff game kickoff... Hope slipping away.


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1st Quarter
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12:06: I see the Seahwks brought in an ex-Packer to kick. We're doomed.


12:07: Okay, Turner. You're only good for 40 yards a game. Don't use em all up at once.


12:07: That's better.


12:11: Roddy White just tied the Atlanta postseason record for career receptions with 23. how sad. I mean, good job.


12:13: We have already scored more points than we did in the 2011 playoffs. Baby steps. Nice play on that end zone pass on 3rd down by whatshisname.


12:15: Now we get to see if Mike Nolan has really been saving his crazy shifting defenses for the playoffs, or if he has contracted Brian Van Gorder Disease, in which you hallucinate that your vanilla 4-3 defense is doing really well. It also makes you go into prevent mode any time you have more than a 1 point lead in the second half.


12:19: And the answer on the first drive is: crazy shifting defense. I like that they do that on purpose, unlike previous years where they genuinely didn't know what to do.


12:21: Football 101: It's where the ball goes out of bounds on a punt, not where it lands. Okay, we got 3-and-out and we got great field position. Clearly we need to put the pedal to the metal. If we don't get a touchdown here we will lose this game. I'm completely serious.


12:25: And we're done. What the hell was that?


12:27: And upon further review Tony Gonzales stopped running. Not Ryan's fault, but why do these thing always seem to happen to us?


12:29: That exact play worked against the Saints. Let the back go untouched through the line, pick up ten yards and then, just as he's thinking, "wow, Atlanta really can't play the run", poke it out of his arm. That's coaching, people.


12:35: Apparently Julio Jones is wearing a Seahawks backpack to this game.


12:37: Some guy named Coffman just made a ridiculous catch at the goalline. I follow the Falcons religiously and I've never heard of this  guy.


12:38: And on the next play Tony Gonzales makes up for it with an acrobatic touchdown catch. Keep it up kid and someday you could grow up to be Kevin Coffman.


12:40: Matt Bryant has eaten his Wheaties today.


12:45: And now Dominique Franks has infected Harry Douglas. CATCH THE PUNT


12:47: Jaquizz Rodgers just ran through a safety, who is now dead. Add another 40+ yards onto it. Apparently Marshawn Lynch made a mistake publishing the beast mode codes on his Twitter feed. Good TV timeout to give the grounds crew time to bury that safety.


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2nd Quarter
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12:50: I like that they're taking shots downfield, but at some point White or Jones need to make a play.


12:56: Donna asked me how to spell "Jacquizz".


12:57: The entire line stood up at the same time. I'm going to blame that false start on the center.


1:00: Those "labels out" commercials kill me. It's like they don't realize that their team would already be up by four touchdowns if they weren't drinking Bud Light.


1:03: Seriously, Nolan needs to dial up some pressure on Wilson, knock him on his ass some. He's got way too much time to stand there looking posteresque.


1:06: Here's your chance to completely kill them. 4th down.


1:06: Sweet merciful crap. Weird that they ran it up the middle on 3rd and 4th and Lynch didn't get to touch it. Using your main back as a decoy is a sign of desperation, Pete Carroll. You do realize you're playing the Falcons? In the playoffs?


1:11: Finally, White makes a big play. 47-yard bomb. Now, I know you like to talk but refrain. No, I guess you can't do that can you. The game ain't over.


1:15: It looks like Burger King has given up. "We've tried chicken fingers, chicken tenders, and chicken fries. Screw it. Here's some chicken NUGGETS."


1:17: Don't go vanilla on defense now.


1:19: DON'T GO VANILLA ON DEFENSE NOW.


1:20: I'm a little ashamed to admit that the first time I ever saw the 49'ers commercial where some guy is giving the pep talk to the team, I didn't realize that wasn't the real coach until Harbaugh showed up. Then I was like, "oh yeah, Jim Harbaugh is the coach of the 49er's." Not meant as a slight, I just completely forgot.


1:23: Vanilla, vanilla vanilla. When they do this I always assume that Mike Smith has made a call to tell Nolan what defense to call.


1:25: We dominate the whole game on defense, then go into this prevent crap. Damn you, Mike Smith. Damn you. Wanna bet that regardless of the score at halftime, we come out vanilla on defense in the second half?


1:28: I know I'm harping, but see, Mike Smith, what happens when you take a defense that is attacking, attacking, attacking and tell them to play off? They get confused.


1:30: 3rd down. Go after him.


1:30: See what happens when you attack on defense? Please learn this lesson before the second half Mike Smith. Let it sink in. See you after halftime.


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3rd Quarter
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1:44 Ah, the second half kickoff. Or as I like to call it, the calm before the Falcons blow a 20-point lead.


1:45 Brian Billick just claimed that the kids in the Punt Pass and Kick competition were better than the quarterbacks he had in Baltimore. Take that whoever use to quarterback the Ravens.


1:48: If you took that bet about the defense coming out vanilla, you owe. Pay up.


1:50: Okay, I guess rrreeeaaaalllllyyyy slow pressure is better than none.


1:52: No on on Seattle can catch the ball except Zach Miller. Let's not cover him. It's like Keith Brooking does still play in Atlanta.


1:52: Step one of Operation Blow 20-Point Lead: complete.


1:56: Now, for those of you who don't normally pay attention to the Falcons, this is where Mike Smith decides the time is right to run Turner up the middle over and over until we're 3-and-outed a few times and let the other team catch up.


2:01: And that's why Harry Douglas isn't a top-2 receiver on a team.


2:04: Tony Gonazales is a bad, bad man. I heard he used to be one of those circus guys who would take cannonballs in the gut. He got fired because he kept catching them.


2:07: That little shovel pass to Snelling is like finding a beer in the fridge back behind some lettuce; you forget it's there and then you look down in the playbook and go, "hey, a beer. I mean, that Snelling play!"


2:11: A 7+ minute 80-something yard drive that didn't end in a turnover or a field goal. We must get one of those a year, like a "you won 2nd place in a beauty contest" card. That was probably a pretty good place to use it.


2:13: Is Seattle's offensive line this good? We cannot get any pressure. We haven't even knocked him down much. Just once then need a safety blitz to blindside him and make him think about it. Or, you know, just keep not covering Zach Miller. Jesus.


2:15: Is it me or is this game going really fast? I mean, that's good and all for the Falcons at this point, but I've barely had drunk to get time.



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4th Quarter
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2:17: Really? I mean, it'd be cool as all hell if Macy was in the PP&K contest, but is the start of the 4th quarter really the time? I'd be all, "hey Macy, tell Chris Myers to hurry up. And bring me a beer on the way back." No really, those kids are great.


2:20: Apparently I'm not the only one drinking during the game. I'm seeing two of you, Brian Billick.


2:26: This is the drive that decides the game. The Falcons take 5 or 6 minutes off the clock and get anything, even a field goal, and I'll start to believe that it's possible they can win. Otherwise, I'm not stupid. I can recogize the universe maneuvering to rip my heart out when I see it.


2:28: If Michael Turner was "3 yards and a cloud of turf, if you will", we'd be okay with that. It's usually "0 yards and a thrown clipboard".


2:30: And here we go. Ryan just seems to have this blind spot some times, especially in the playoffs. I don't know what it is. Douglas looked wide open out of the snap for a short gain. Instead, let's throw it deep into double coverage. The really bad news is that this is the last pass Ryan will throw until we are losing with 1:30 to go. Mike Smith just called Dirk Koetter and said, "i want nothing but runs from here on out."


2:33: It's over. The Falcons could blow a 48 nothing lead in the 4th quarter. We are cursed, it seems.


2:34: Oh, hey look, there's still nobody responsible for covering Zach Miller.


2:38: Ryan's got the look. And by "the look", I mean he knows it's over.


2:40: Best play here is to throw it deep and let it get intercepted again.


2:41: I predict the final score will be 42-27, Seattle. Yes, I know there is only 7:00
minutes left.


2:43: I've always defended Matt Ryan against people who said he didn't have a strong arm or couldn't handle pressure. But I think this may be the game to end all that. He looks right now like he's petrified. You'd think with all the regular season comebacks he's had he'd be over it, but it seems like he can't handle playoff pressure.


2:45: 3rd and 10, pivotal point of the game. Seattle gets this first down. Book it.


2:46: Mike Smith apparently didn't get to poop at halftime either.


2:48: One thing I've always wondered about this whole player safety thing... why is it up to the league to be 100% responsible. There's a player's association. Couldn't all the teams get together and say, "no more chop blocks"?


2:50: I think Matt Ryan just peed a little.


2:52 Sorry, Atlanta. If NFL games were 48 minutes you'd be good enough.


2:53: I swear I just heard Mike Smith say, "let's let em get down the field then try to hold them to a field goal."


2:54: I'm not actually watching the game anymore. I mean, it's still on the TV and I can hear it, but I'm not watching it.


2:55: 2 minute warning. This is where Russell Wilson magically becomes Joe Montana, Brett Favre (without all the killer interceptions) and Tom Brady all rolled into one. It's only fair; this is Seattle's first chance to add to the Falcon's playoff woes, so they should probably do it in the most gut-wrenching way possible. Seriously: last year during the 24-2 Giants debacle I got tons of projects done. By halftime I had forgotten the Falcons even made the playoffs.


2:56: Brian Billick keeps saying "intermediate area". You know, if anyone on the Falcons staff would just turn on a TV they could probably make a killer defensive adjustment.


3:03: I may have to just stop watching the NFL. I'm not kidding. It's really takes a lot out of you to care so much about a team then watch them suck year after year. I've already taken this step with the Braves. I pay attention to them, but when they make the playoffs I only sort of pay attention. When they lose, I'm like, "eh." The Falcons for some reason I get excited about. This I think is the killer. Screw 'em. I'm going to go get really drunk and then wait for rugby season or something.


3:10: This changes nothing.

"Fair Share" Tax Calculator

We always hear that the "rich" aren't paying their "fair share". This begs the question: what amount constitutes this fair share? This graphic should clear things up:

The Tax System Explained With Beer

This is an oldie but a goodie. I honestly don't know who to credit for the original, but I received this in an email from a friend years ago and it just resurfaced in this post at Say Anything:

The Tax System Explained With Beer

Every day ten men go out for a beer, and the bill is $100. They wish to pay the bill the same way we pay our taxes, so it breaks down like this...

The first four men (the poorest) pay nothing.
The fifth man pays $1.00
The sixth pays $3.00
The seventh pays $7.00
The eighth pays $12.00
The ninth pays $18.00
The tenth man (the richest) pays $59.00

And that's what they decide to do.

These ten men drank in that same bar every day and were quite happy with the arrangement, until one day the owner approached and said, "Since you are such good customers, I'm going to reduce your daily round of beer by $20.00."So now a round of beer cost $80.00.

The group decided to keep paying their tab in the same manner. The first four men were unaffected. They still drank for free. But what about the other six; the paying customers? How could they divide up the $20.00 reduction so everyone would get his fair share?

$20.00 divided by six is $3.33, but if they subtracted that from everyone's share, the fifth and sixth man would each wind up getting paid to drink their beer.

The bar owner suggested they follow the principle of the tax system and reduce each man's bill by a higher percentage the poorer he was, and they worked out the amounts each would now pay.

Now the fifth man, like the first four, drank for free... (100% savings)
The sixth man now paid $2.00 instead of $3.00... (33% savings)
The seventh man now paid $5.00 instead of $7.00... (28% savings)
The eighth man now paid $9.00 instead of $12.00...(25% savings)
The ninth man now paid $14.00 instead of $18.00...(22% savings)
The tenth now paid $49.00 instead of $59.00...(16% savings)

Each of the paying customers was better off than before, and now five of the men drank for free. But outside the bar, the men began comparing the amounts they saved.

"I only got a dollar out of the $20.00" said the sixth man. He pointed at the tenth man and said, "But he got $10.00!"

"Yeah, that's right," exclaimed the fifth man. "I only saved a dollar too. It's unfair that he saved ten times as much as me!"

"That's true," shouted the seventh man. "Why should he get $10.00 back when I only got $2.00. The wealthy get all the tax breaks!"

Wait a minute," yelled the first four men in unison. "We didn't get anything at all! This new system exploits the poor!"

So the nine men beat the tenth man up.

The next night the tenth man didn't show up, and the other nine sat down and had their beers without him. But when the bill arrived, they discovered they didn't have enough money between them for even half the total.

And that boys and girls, journalists and government ministers, is how the tax system works. The people who already pay the most in taxes will get the most benefit from a tax reduction. Tax them too much, attack them for being wealthy, and they just might not show up anymore.

In fact they just might start drinking overseas, where the atmosphere is somewhat friendlier.

For those who understand, no explanation is needed.

For those who don't, no explanation is possible.

Democracy, Wisconsin Style

Over at Say Anything, Rob has a post about a "Democracy Convention" being organized in Wisconsin to, in the words of the organizer, "... help people move back toward a more democratic country where the people have more say". I see. So all those elections where people voted weren't giving the people their say. The recall elections weren't giving people their say. Gotcha.

I have received from a covert operator some simple flow charts being used by the Convention to explain to new members how this whole "giving people their say" thing should work. Let's take a look:

Well, this certainly explains a lot.

Obama Says... Eat Your Peas!

An Evening With Kinect

7:12 pm: Hey, let's play Kinect Adventures!

7:23 pm: This is fun! We should do this every night. It's great exercise.

7:28 pm: Hold on a second. I need to get a towel.

7:37 pm: *Wondering how Wild Turkey improves my reflexes*

7:41 pm: Please, no more jumping. (whimper)

7:48 pm: Pause to execute Bing search for "fastest recorded human heartbeat."

7:55 pm: ----^----^----^----^----^-----------------------------------------------

Some Other Warning Labels the FDA Might Want to Consider

Hey, look! The government is launching its next offensive in the war on tobacco! Now, at least 50% of a cigarette package's surface area will have to include disgusting images portraying the possible consequences of smoking:

No kidding.

It seems only fair that other dangerous products get treated the same way. To help the FDA along, I've mocked up some helpful warning labels to add to some existing products that are known to cause illness, death, and other negative words that get lawyers all a-twitter. (Click to enlarge)

Seriously. There's even some pseudo-scientific
mumbo jumbo to back it up.

Here Fishy Fishy

I'm going to tell you a story. A story of may flies and walleyes, Animal House levels of alcohol comsumption, a steakhouse that wasn't, urination, and beginner's luck. It won't always be pretty. It might offend some of you with more delicate constitutions. Some of the language may be borderline harsh. I apologize in advance for all of this. But it's just a story.

If you look closely you can
see the kitchen sink.

It was a Monday, Memorial Day actually, when friend and coworker Bob^[1] packed up a truck and headed down to South Dakota to meet up with another friend and coworker, Jim, and his boat. When we arrived the wind was howling, causing swarms of may flies to careen into my face and, when it was open, into my mouth. Jim warned us to avoid the "patches that look like mud" on the ground, as they were actually the remains of hundreds of thousands (millions?) of may flies. Apparently there was some sort of insect turf war. I guess the may flies won, as they certainly maintained air superiority.

To all the workers who died building
this monument, rest in peace.

We loaded up the boat and headed the four hours west to our final destination: a state park in central South Dakota I later found out was known for the Great Rattlesnake Manifestation of 2009. Let me just say it's a very good thing I found this out after we were driving back to Fargo and leave it at that. Being Monday evening, the campground was almost deserted. There were maybe two other campsites occupied close enough that we could see them. We quickly made camp, starting with the giant tent Jim brought along. Once it was up and we dismissed the hundreds of day laborers we hired to help, I quickly dubbed it the "Tim Mahal". Jim. Jim Mahal.

With that it was time to mix a drink. Okay, second drink. We had one while supervising the tent workers. As unlikely as it sounds, drinking would become a recurring theme of the week. More on that later (read: shocking statistics to come). I broke out some really excellent hot dogs and cajun brats from Thielen's Meats (after having boiled the brats in beer before leaving Fargo; I'm not a barbarian). After washing those down with some Crown Royal we hit the hay, ready to hit the water early in the morning.

The next morning the wind was gusting up to 476 miles per hour. Naturally, we set out to find a bay or something we could hunker down in to fish, cause after all, what are we, girls? We got on the water and fought the wind for a couple of hours. At one point Poseidon rose from the depths of the bay and hurled a wave at us. It was 100 feet high if it was an inch. That didn't really happen. But we did get tossed around to the point that we all three simultaneously said, "f--- this, let's go back to camp and drink." So we did.

First catch of the trip.

Wednesday dawned and things looked a bit brighter. The winds were a manageable 15-20 and the sun was coming out in dribs and drabs. It was a little cold on the water, but it was welcome after our run-in with the water god the previous day. Being the rookie^[2] I needed some pointers on how to catch walleye. Apparently dragging a leech along the top of the water is not the preferred method. Huh. Anyway, Bob caught our first two fish of the day. Jim got one too, and I was feeling like an extra anchor since I hadn't gotten even a bite. Then I caught the next four fish of the day, including a 29 ^1/2 inch monster that nearly cracked the hull getting it into the boat. Good times. Oh, and we were doing "Lithuanian Shots" everytime we caught a keeper. A Lithuanian Shot is when you guzzle from a liquor bottle because (1) you don't have a shot glass and (2) you're trying to get loaded, duh. We took our limit (of fish, not booze -- that would come later).

Biggest catch of the trip.

Obviously, the first thing you want to do when you come off the water with your limit of fish is to go back to camp and fry them up. So obviously we headed to a place called Bob's Steakhouse^[3] instead. Bob's Steakhouse is the most unique steakhouse in the world in that it only has three steak entrees on its menu and all three of them are the same cut. 90% of the menu is not steak. That said, the top sirloin was pretty good and they almost managed to cook it rare for me. Seriously, no chef ever believes me when I say I want it rare. That's a post for another day though. Anyway, it was pretty good and they had a full bar there so it was fine.

As an aside, I had no idea how spiny walleye are. When you get one in the boat they lay there, all passive, until they sense you are about to touch them. Then they spring themselves into the air and all these defensive weapons in the form of spines fly out from all parts of the fish, impaling everything in site. My fingers and hands were cut to shred before I just started shooting them once I got them into the boat. If you've never seen this phenomenon, this is what it looks like:

A walleye with defensive spines deployed.

Wednesday night, more drinking, etc.

Thursday would prove to be a seminal day in the history of fishing. The weather was absolutely perfect. There was a bit of a breeze, just enough to keep the water moving  but no enough to make it difficult to navigate. We didn't catch anything like the monster from the day before, but we did catch both our limit and take three walleye over 20 inches (which was also a limit). More importantly we beat a 1.75 of Jack Daniels to death with our livers. Since the dawn of time man has yearned to destroy a 1.75 liter bottle of whiskey from within the confines of a fishing trip. Well, we did it. And we looked good doing it, too. That evening we did fry up some of our freshest catch and it was delicious.

Thursday night, more drinking, etc.

Linda's: home of the $24
six pack of Busch Lite

Friday was basically a repeat of Thursday as far as the weather and our success at catching fish. It was a bit hotter (around 82 as I recall). We didn't drink nearly as much, having suspended the "catch a fish, drink a shot" rule due to the small poles flying tiny white flags that unceremoniously thrust themselves through our torsos by our failing livers. Good time rock -n- roll! We fried up some more fish for dinner and killed off the last of our beans that night. On the way back to camp though, we decided to break our treaty with our livers and get some more booze, so we stopped in Akaska^[4] and picked up two liters of Jack. Do not ever do this. Apparently the town's sole source of revenue is the taxes it levies on alcohol. One liter of Jack in Akaska goes for $32.50. This is not a joke. I've been in three card monte games that didn't rip me off this badly. Of course, this didn't stop us from paying.

Saturday was our last day on the water, so we wanted to make it count. To show you how serious we were, we only packed beer on the boat this time. Yeah, I know, right? Like I said: serious. Now, when I say "beer", I mean Coors Lite, which is to beer as reality TV is to reality. That is to say, it bears no relation. But canned beer was the logical choice to take camping and boating, and when I'm going to drink cheap beer I want it to taste as much like water as possible. Thus, the Coors Lite. Seriously. Drink a Fat Tire or a Rogue Dead Guy and follow it up with one of these. I dare you to tell the difference between Coors Lite and bottled water. Anyway, we brought 48 of these and were down to our last 20 or so. In the cooler they went. They would not return.

We caught one short of our limit, and only one over 20 inches, so it wasn't our best day of fishing. That's not to say it was bad. Jim did an awesome job of finding the spots where they were biting and keeping us over them, so after being frustrated most of the day we started hitting late. On the way back to shore we discussed the liquor situation, which at that point was dire. We had a 1/2 bottle of $32.50 Jack at camp. We had exhausted the beer. So, yeah, we went back to Linda's and bought a liter of Crown Royal. It was the right decision.

Remember the fallen.
 (Not pictured, 48 cans of beer.)

That night we finished off the dogs and brats, supplementing it with a little bit more fish. We also killed off all the booze. Our liquor bottle population was decimated at this point. It was like we committed whiskey genocide or something. Heck, I haven't even mentioned the words "Jim Beam", because he was with us for so brief a time. He was there and gone like leaf in the wind. The next day I gathered the bodies. They were stacked like cordwood, having given their lives to shorten ours.

Sunday dawned and we packed up, tired but a little sad to be going. It was a great trip, and I give my eternal thanks to Jim and Bob for inviting me. I hope I acquitted myself well. If not, at least I got to drink a lot. I learned quite a few things on the trip and have memories to last a lifetime. Some things I'll never forget:

"I like your outfit."
"Hey, I caught a rock!"
"I like a fat wiener in the ash."
"What just fell in the water?"
"You're interesting to talk to."
"Hey, I caught another rock!"
"I'm becoming a Crown bigot."
"I have to write this s--- down."

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^[1] Names have been changed to protect the intoxicated.

^[2] I've been fishing plenty of times before, but my only experience walleye fishing involved catching every other type of fish other than a walleye, up to and including giant squid.

^[3] No relation to the Bob on our trip, which isn't even his real name anyway. Are you paying attention?

^[4] Town motto: 'It's like Alaska with an extra K!'


For all the pictures you didn't see here, check out the online photo album.

If That's What a 'Softron' Is, I Don't Want Any

Donna sent me this ad, which showed up on the side of her Facebook page one day. I have three theories:

1. It's a joke.



2. It's the result of a spambot gaining sentience and striking out on it's own after observing human's penchance for making up words that sound 'sciency' without actually conveying any meaning. (Exhibits: 5-loxin, bifidus regularis, awakeagens)



3. It's a serious ad and I should look into the type of things Donna is doing on Facebook that would cause such an ad to be selected just for her.

Consumer Advocacy Guide (In Unstructured BASIC)

Consumer adovcates are fun. They get outraged over some perceived injustice and go into nanny mode, pushing for all sorts of government oversight for things that could better be managed with willpower. Occasionally, these forays end up causing the harm they were originally intended to prevent.  That's always fun. Plus, they're so cute when they get all frothy about how blood and death will follow in the wake of ignoring their sane, sensible approach to safety. Even when ignoring them doesn't lead to any such thing. Even when listening to them doesn't change a single blessed thing.

That's not to say that consumer safety is unimportant. It would just be nice if these issues could be debated without the copious amounts of hyperbole and excited fatalism they normally engender. Until that exalted day arrives, here is a handy guide for the budding fatalistic amrageddon junkie consumer advocate written in the closest thing to a universal language the cosmos has ever known.  Unstructured BASIC.

10 REM Copyright 1973 Amalgamated Mechano-Machines, Inc.
20 READ THING1
30 PRINT "THIS REALLY PISSES ME OFF:"
40 PRINT THING1
50 PRINT "I AM GOING TO LOBBY FOR LAWS THAT MAKE"
60 PRINT "PEOPLE THINK THE WAY I DO."
70 LET EVERYONEFEELMYTERRIBLEWRATH
80 IF EVERYONEISMISERABLE THEN 100
90 GOTO 50
100 PRINT "MY WORK HERE IS DONE" 

How To Get That NFL Head Coaching Job You've Always Wanted



Some Goo Gone will take that right off.

The NFL playoffs are underway, which means that the annual rite of Winter, known as the coaching carousel, is in full swing.  NFL head coaches for the league's lesser children get cast aside in favor of new blood starting with the playoffs because that is when the league's non-playoff teams can  grant their assistants permission to interview for the big chair.  Some coaches are fired mid-season and guys are hastily promoted and have a big sticker that says INTERIM plastered right in the middle of their foreheads.  But usually teams that do that are the ones that are the most dysfunctional and poorly-run.  And they certainly don't then promote those interim-bots to fulltime status.  Crap.  Am I inadvertently talking about the Vikings again?  I think I am.



Anyway, head coaching spots in the NFL are few in number, and thus, as you might expect, hard to get.  Normally, these coveted jobs go to people who fall into one of two categories:

1. Former coaches of other teams.  Also known as "retreads", these are people who were head coaches somewhere else and were fired at some point.  This usually works out about like you'd expect; they failed (at least) once before and got fired, so why would this time be any different.  Still, it works out once in a while.  But for every Bill Belichick there is one Dan Henning.  And one Dan Reeves.  And one Eric Mangini.  And one Mike Martz.  And one Dennis Green.  And, like, 37 Jim Mora Jrs.

2. Golden Boys.  These are either college coaches or NFL coordinators who are deemed ready for the big chair.  There has been  mixed success with this one.  Nick Saban, Speve Spurrier, Bobby Petrino, Mike Singletary, Lovie Smith; these guys all failed and either went back to college or joined other staffs with coordinator credentials.  Except Singletary; I have no idea what he's doing now.  Hopefully it doesn't involve dropping his pants.

With this in mind, you may be thinking it's just not possible for you, neither former coach nor golden boy, to land one of these prestigious jobs.  You would be wrong.  The trick is to nail the interview, and I am going to tell you how.

First, wear a coat and tie.  You won't be doing that while roaming the sidelines screaming things like, "watch the screen!" and "can't anybody on this mother$%@!#* team tackle!" but you want to display an air of class and sophistication that you can peel off like, well, like a suit once gameday comes.  Your buddies may admire your fashion sense, but a team owner is not going to be impressed with your authentic jersey/team branded sweatpants/team color Nikes/backwards team baseball cap ensemble.

Second, drop certain time-tested phrases into any conversation you have with your interviewers.  These include:

• "3-4 defense"
• "Team unity"
• "I want this to be a more disciplined football team."[*]
• "Process"
• "The only thing the prevent defense does is prevent winning."
• "fade route"
• "I'm not interested in bringing in Brett Favre for a tryout."
• "I think this team has the talent to be in the Superbowl in three years."
• "4-3 defense"
• "You win and lose a football game in the trenches."[**]

If you drop those nuggets of airy wisdom, your chance of landing the job go up, like, 438%.  Trust me.



Castle Grayskull will be mine!

 
Third, and this is big: never agree to work for Al Davis or Dan Snyder.  Seriously, walk away.  You're better off wherever you are now.

[*] Note: when referring to a football team, always refer to it as a football team.  Never just say team.  Everyone knows what you mean, but say it anyway.  It makes you sound like you know what you're talking about, like a television color man or Andy Reid.  Seriously.  No one in the business at any level ever says the word "team" without preceding it with the word "football" anymore.  Only losers do that.  Don't be a loser.



[**] Note: same thing goes for football game.

The More Things Change

I was six years old when Star Wars came out.  My parents took my younger brother and I to see it one evening not too long after its release.  From the opening sequence where Princess Leia's little space Prius was being chased by Darth Vader's gargantuan star destroyer -- resplendent in gun metal gray like a Hummer in a chop shop -- I knew, knew it was the greatest thing that had ever been or would ever be.  From that moment on Star Wars was stitched into every fiber of my being.  I remember watching the local PBS station, which was barely recognizable through the static on the poorly-aimed antenna that perched on our roof, because it was airing some segment on some show brought to you by the Chubb Group that was showing footage of the escape from the Death Star and the subsequent space battle.  Great shot kid!  Don't get cocky.



He even bought C-3PO's.



The next several years would be dedicated to getting every Star Wars related toy in the universe.  Between my brother and I, we came as close to accomplishing that goal as anyone who wouldn't serve as inspiration for Comic Book Guy ever did.



Years later we outgrew the toys of course.  We later staged grand battles in the back yard, setting up the models and ships and playsets and action figures in vast battle lines and pitting plucky rebellion against evil empire.  Casualties were counted and victors declared.  The rules of engagement were simple: if you got knocked over by the pellets we were firing from the back porch you were dead.  Sorry Luke.  Later stormtrooper #4.  How desperate is the rebellion?  The medical droid from The Empire Strikes Back just took a slug to the sternum.  Why is he on the front line?

I know what you're thinking.  In our defense we had no idea how much this stuff would be worth today.  I could have retired ten years ago if I had had the foresight to keep this stuff in good condition.  Oh well.  At least I don't have to go to work until Wednesday.

 

The last remnants of a once-mighty empire.



So there I was at Christmastime, watching my nephew play with... a rescued box of figures my brother had found in the attic.  It was apparently the only thing to survive from our formerly formidable empire.  Of all the playsets, ships, guns, costumes, lightsabers, helmets, and comic books all that remains is a partially filled case of action figures.  My nephew was enthralled.  He set them up and knocked them down and set them all up again.  In the coming years I'm sure they'll still be there and he'll still be playing with them.  And if the time comes when he seems to bore of them, and if he's very good, I'll whisper two words to him that will rekindle, if only briefly, his love affair with toys his dad and uncle played with 35 years ago.  Two words I hope will light up his eyes the way mine lit up when that star destroyer thundered across the screen in 1977.

Pellet gun.

Michael Vick: A New Dog Could Help My Rehabilitation



Aww, isn't that cute.  He's so -- RUN
PUPPY!  RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!



So, Michael Vick, quarterback, secret agent, sportsman, smuggler, financial genius, and ladies man, says in an interview with something called "The Grio.com" that getting a new dog would be something he could get behind.  Because, you know, when someone treats something like crap, the best way to rehab is to get more of it.

In other news:

• Charles Manson is thinking about adopting some hippies
• Marion Barry was spotted Christmas shopping at a crack pipe superstore
• Jesse James is eyeing a Gestapo uniform on eBay
• David Hasselhoff could sure go for a burger and a bourbon
• Nikki Sixx is reading up on that new heroin diet he's been hearing so much about
• Kenny Rogers figures one more visit to the plastic surgeon couldn't hurt
• Lindsay Lohan thinks that 2-for-1's at the Crown Bar are the perfect way to relax while she reads scripts

Theories Of The Walking Dead

Donna and I have been avid followers of AMC's new zombie show The Walking Dead.  It's been pretty entertaining so far, with a good mix of drama and eww -- zombies(!) moments.  One of my hopes for the series is that the cause of the zombie fever is never revealed.  Hints, maybe.  Wild guesses that are never confirmed or denied, sure.  But once the mystery is solved, I think something will be lost from the series that it can't get back.  However, this is television, and clever writers won't be able to resist the temptation to try and come up with their own clever rationale for how clever they can be.  Clever.

With that in mind, I thought I'd explore some of the possible theories for patient zero and try and determine their likelihood.

Theory 1: A Comet Did It

This, as you probably already know, would be a direct rip off of Night of the Living Dead. I doubt that a show that has shown such originality early in its run would resort to this.  [Odds: 100 - 1]


Theory 2: Scientists Did It

This is almost as tired a cliche as the idea of zombies roaming the earth itself.  Either evil scientists working for some shadowy conspiracy to take over blah blah blah or good scientists working on a cure for yada yada yada have their good works appropriated by the government to turn into a weapon capable of *snore*.  Sadly, this one probably has legs.  [Odds: 4-1]


Theory 3: God Did It

It's Judgment Day: do you know where your kids are?  Well, they should be in school unless they're dead, in which case they should be clawing their way out of their graves right about... now.  This would take the show in bold new directions, as religion hasn't been a focus of the scripts so far.  But if this is the direction they go, they'd better go all the way, by which I mean apocalyptic lunacy, souls being ripped from bodies, and Jesus and Satan going mano a mano for the title.  Somehow I just don't see the series going in that direction.  [Odds: 50-1]


Theory 4: Bush Did It

He's responsible for everything else that's wrong in the world, might as well throw "zombie apocalypse" on the pile.  There haven't been any CGI-enhanced flashbacks of press conferences where President Obama alludes to inheriting a zombie disaster from the previous administration -- yet.  [Odds: 15-1]

The Legend Of Antennatruck

Since the beginning of time Man has pursued those mythical beasts of yore.  Sasquatch.  The Yeti.  The Loch Ness Monster.  Extraterrestrials.  Manbearpig. A good Uwe Boll movie.  That the only evidence of these phenomenon consist of obviously faked footage, eyewitness "accounts" by insane drunken hicks, and TLC shows apparently produced by adolescent chimpanzees only drives some to even more desperate lengths to secure actual proof.

My personal demon does not take the form of an ape, a little green man, that dinosaur Fred Flintsone used to move rocks at Mr. Slate's quarry, or even Bloodrayne 3: The Third Reich.  No, the creature that haunts my dreams is something even more frighteningly puzzling: Antennatruck.

I first became aware of Antennatruck when I was a small boy.  My dreams, which were supposed to be inhabited by happy visions of friends and family, adventures in space, winning the big game, and punching Darth Vader in the nads instead was where Antennatruck stalked me.  Like the grim spectre of death it rode, its grille like teeth, its tail lights glowing like the fires of hell.  And from the roof of the cab, like a spire on the dark church of Satan, a steely metal appendage that could both impale little children and pick up Fawlty Towers in syndication on the local UHF station.

Soon after I began to see it in the waking world as well.  Stalking me from corner to corner.  Lurking at the bus stop.  Waiting for me to let down my guard.

As I got older, Antennatruck faded into the background.  It was at every other street corner.  Then every fourth; every tenth.  But I never forgot.  With dawning horror I realized the truth: Antenna truck had grown weary of waiting for my guard to drop and had moved on to other prey.  It was then that I began the hunt.

I couldn't let Antennatruck take an innocent, so I began searching.  My travels took me to the far reaches of the Earth.  In Tibet they call it 灵魂的贪食者 which means "devourer of souls".  In the Urals they refer to a beast which "roams the steppes on wheels of silver" and impales farmers with a "lance of evil".  And in Bangladesh it is simply referred to as "the truck that can get PBS".

The years passed, and the stories of children lost in the night, the only warning being the fuzzy strains of the theme song to WKRP In Cincinnati fading into the darkness, piled up.  After so long I lost heart.  I gave up the search, moving to the remote wilds of North Dakota in an effort to forgive myself for my failure, and to forget.

More years passed and I finally began to heal.  The occasional stories of horror and mayhem the authorities around the world passed off on some evil stranger (but I knew the truth, oh yes!) that made it to my ears grew less and less frequent.  I believed it was finally over.  I was stupid.

I saw it again.  It's back.  It's come for me and it won't stop.  God help me.

Click to enlarge, if you dare!

Cell Phones To Get Bigger, Stupider

The National Association of Broadcasters has struck upon a novel way to try and keep themselved relevant in a world of digital music, internet ads, and well, it being the 21st century. No, they aren't working on a business model that would promote internet broadcasting. They've decided to go the lobby-Congress route and push for a mandate that future cellphones support FM radio broadcasts.

Behold!  The cellphone of tomorrow!

There may be an FM radio in your next cell phone whether you want it or not. The National Association of Broadcasters is lobbying Congress to stipulate that FM radio technology be included in future cell phones.

In exchange, the NAB has agreed that member stations would pay about $100 million in so-called performance fees to music labels and artists. Radio stations would be required to pay performance royalties on a tiered schedule with larger commercial stations paying more than smaller and non-profit stations.

The agreement is part of a compromise between the NAB and the Recording Industry Association of America, which will take the deal to legislators mulling changes to the laws that govern the music and radio industries.

Does anyone listen to the radio any more when they aren't in their cars?  And as soon as USB ports come standard in cars I'm taking my mp3 player with me wherever I go.  If this catches on, expect other failing technologies to latch on to this idea.  Cell phones can evolve into the Swiss Army knife of failed tech.

Pardon Me Madam, Your Beaver Is Showing

There's controversy a-brewin' over in Bemidji, Minnesota over some statues commissioned for the city's sculpture walk.  The statues are copies of a form that various artists then painted.  This year's theme apparently revolves around the noble beaver: builder of dams, synonym for lady parts.

One of the beaver statues appeared to some as a little too true to form.  Not in the sense that it looked like a beaver; we're talking about hippie artists here.  No, the thing doesn't look much like the wood-chompin' kind of beaver.  It kinda sorta looks like the other kind.  Judge for yourself (warning: if you are easily offended by artistic depictions of what may or may not be the miraculous apparatus through which woman are able to both pee and eject children, look away...   NOW!)

The artist swears on a stack of vaginas bibles that she had no intention of painting her beaver in such a way as to make it look like a beaver vagina.  The artistic spirit simply overcame her and this is where it led.  Let's be honest: there's no way in hades that the artist finished this piece and said, "well, I'm done, and this in no way resembles lady bits."  It's unfathomable that she showed this to her artist friends, maybe some family member and no one said, "hey, nice beaver, and when I say 'beaver' I mean 'vagina'!"

Which is not to say that I agree with those who argued for the statue's removal.  This isn't exactly hardcore porn.  If anything, the problem stems from the fact that this beaver's beaver is way out of proportion.  I don't know if this is a congenital birth defect (ed: nice pun!  me: heh, thanks) or the result of the first MTF transgender surgery performed on a beaver (the animal) gone horribly wrong.  If so, I would sue the Dr. Nick Riviera clone that screwed this up, but he's probably fled to Cameroon by now.

But if this sort of thing gets the residents of Bemidji up in arms, I would seriously reconsider next year's sculpture walk theme, which is rumored to be Woodcocks: Nature's Cutest Package.

Let's Just Give Everybody A Vagina In The Middle Of Their Foreheads And Call It Good

When I was a wee lad growing up in Georgia, there were only two ways to participate in organized sports: baseball and football. No soccer. No lacrosse. Not even basketball. That sounds bad, but consider this: there were no options if you were a girl. Apparently, girls were supposed to be cheerleaders or play with dolls or bake mudpies with their EZ-Bake ovens or something.

The first year I played I was a tight end (shut up) for the Cataula Bulldogs. The team was comprised of about three real players and a bunch of kids who had no idea what they were doing. I was firmly in the latter group, and pretty far down the list at that. We were terrible. We finished the season 0-6 and scored one touchdown the entire year. We couldn't tackle, block, cover, throw the ball, run the ball, or successfully count change at the concession stand after the game.

Before each game ended we expected to lose. After each game we were humiliated. We sucked hard and we knew it. But each week a funny thing happened. After an hour or so we all forgot about the outcome of the game. We showed up at practice and worked hard. We looked forward to the games because they were fun. We'd show up at the field (no one ever missed a week, or at least it seemed that way) ready to play. We'd get killed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

After the season there was no talk of our crushed self esteem. We went on with our summer lives and dreaded the end of summer; for me the end meant no more expeditions into the woods behind my parents' house. Our parents made subtle jokes about our ineptitude on the gridiron or told us not to worry, but no thought was given to how we would grow up with diminished expectations or lacking the ability to succeed because our peewee league football team was outscoured infinity + 1 to 6 (we missed the extra point). Life went on.

A year passed, and we suited up again, this time as world-weary eleven-year-olds. A funny thing happened: we got good. I still don't know how; certainly, some of it can be attributed to having another year of physical growth. Some of the other teams in the league probably lost some good players to age. Personally, that was the year I developed the toughness to handle being bashed by kids in armor who were out to hurt me. The year before I had avoided as much contact as I could get away with. When I turned eleven I looked for it. I remember showing up at the first practice and having Keith Dozier (one of the few real players we had the previous year) run at me, shoulder down. I have no doubt he expected me to side step him or perhaps collapse to the ground in terror, soaking in a puddle of my own urine. Instead, I lowered my shoulder and ran towards him. We met in the middle and bounced off each other. It didn't hurt. Actually, it felt good. When the coach showed up the first thing Keith said to him was, "I think Jay's ready this year, coach". He was right.

That year our team went 6-0 and we gave up one touchdown all year. We had become some unstoppable killing machine that knocked quarterbacks out of games and made teams afraid to throw the ball. I was moved to center and had a great time pushing kids into the secondary so Keith could run off another 60-yard touchdown. Let's face it: winning is way more fun than losing.

The thing is though, losing has its place. It's good to encounter losing, because losing is something you're going to do when you get older. Hopefully not always, and if you work hard, you can "win" in the end (depending on your definition). But you're going to have days where things don't go right. Where you don't get the job you apply for, or the promotion, or the girl.

That's why I've always hated the way youth sports try to take away the possibilty of losing nowadays. Macy's soccer league doesn't keep score. There are no records. There are no statistics kept. The goal is supposed to be to make things fun, but we don't have to do that; the kids already think it's fun. No, the real goal, unstated but still there, is to make things equal. To make it so that no one ever loses. The problem is that when no one can ever lose, no one can ever win. Not officially, anyway. I've said many times before that Macy and the girls on the team I coach always know exactly what the score is. They know when they lose and when they win. They feel sad when the former and happy when the latter. But, like her dad so many years ago on The Worst PeeWee Football Team Of All Time, Macy gets over it in a hurry. She's always ready to play again. And when she loses in the future, when she doesn't get into her first choice of colleges or that totally cute hottie that looks just like the guy in Twilight: The New Class doesn't ask her to the prom, she won't be encountering it for the first time. It won't make it all better, but it will help whether she knows it or not.

Then, there's Canada, long time laughing stock of me personally as well as most right-thinking people. I thought that not keeping score or recording team records was enough wussification for a youth sports league. I should have known Canada could outdo the U.S. in the complete devaluing of sports. In at least one Canadian youth league, if a team gets ahead by more than five goals they automatically lose the game. I'm going to call this "playing by French rules" for obvious reasons. Yes, Canada has taken the idea of winning from a goal (see Bulldogs, Cataula) run past unimportant (see Youth Soccer Association, Moorhead) and proceeded straight to undesirable.

It just goes to show you that when things aren't going your way, laughter is the best medicine. And nobody dispenses laughter quite like Canada.