Have you ever noticed how when you’re venting about your miserable life at the proverbial water cooler, enumerating your bosses many faults in profuse detail, gingerly navigating domestic tensions as you suspect your co-workers may actually like your spouse better than they like you, bitterly considering a dystopian future following the election of Rick Perry where global climate change melts the polar ice, unlocking herds of Tyrannosaurus Rex and flocks of pteranodons, cretaceous creatures flash frozen millions of years ago when that meteor as big as Texas turned Hudson Bay into Hudson Bay. The reanimated thunder lizards move south and eat their way through Montreal, stopped over at the Boston Aquarium to eat all the exhibits, ultimately turning New York’s fashion district into one big human sushi bar and just when you’re getting to your point people will interrupt you and offer you solicitous counsel you have no need of, recommending recently read books on gluten free diets that will not change my life or do anything about my self-esteem in the board room. But the best is when they tell you how they've already set up their basement with all the supplies necessary to hunker down long enough for the dino-scourge to move on to other population centers in the south...
People give me advice all the time. You, too? Some of it makes me angry. The rest makes me blind with rage. Who are these people to tell me what to do? Will you play upon this pipe? Hey, I’m a complicated guy. Okay, not really. I’m pretty much a walking sex, food, sports pie chart. I try not to give my friends and co-workers advice when they lay their troubles at my door. I’m more of a “Really? That’s too bad!” kind of guy. Who am I to give advice? I will occasionally repeat lessons from one of the management or negotiations classes my company has provided in a vain effort to make me a better middle manager. They seem to apply much in the way “Really? That’s too bad!” does.
When it comes to football, I’m less a “Really? That’s too bad!” kind of guy and more of an “I can’t believe they think McNabb is the solution!” kind of guy. Don’t even think of offering me a gluten free cracker with an unpronounceable goat cheese garnished with a julienne of melon. Actually, I will try one of those...
· The Tennessee Titans should trade Chris Johnson.
They should look for a Herschel Walker scenario, to be sure. I get the problem the Titans have. A big money, long-term deal for a running back is not good business in today’s NFL, even if you’re talking about Chris Johnson – or especially if you’re talking about Chris Johnson. He’s on the small side and he’s lugged the rock more than 300 times each of the last two seasons. If Tennessee is going anywhere this year (they aren’t) they will need to have Johnson log another 300+ carries in 2011. The actuarial charts on NFL running backs are well-known and immutable; what if they give him a $50 million check and he gets hurt? How many years before he loses a step? More importantly, when you think “Super Bowl MVP” how often are you thinking “Running Back?” Can you build a Super Bowl offense around any running back? Having said all of that, I’m pretty sure the Titans could find a trade partner willing to talk basic frameworks. They should take the deal, start Jake Locker and use the draft picks they get for CJ2K wisely.
Momentary Lapse of Reason
The New England Patriots reportedly have $9m in cap space, multiple #1 and #2 picks in next year’s draft, and the potential to get to the Super Bowl through the end of Tom Brady’s contract. The Patriots could package BenJarvus Green-Ellis with #1 picks in 2012 and 2013, maybe a second rounder; would that get a deal done? It seems doubtful Bill Belichick would pony up the picks and the Benjamins CJ2K is looking for (let’s assume the Fitzgerald deal sets the bar at $50m guaranteed). It’s fun to think about if you’re a Patriots’ fan, though.
· The Denver Broncos should trade Tim Tebow to the Miami Dolphins.
Yes, I’ve mentioned this before but this is a deal that needs to get done for both teams, now more than ever. How much more humiliation must your servant Tim Tebow suffer, oh Lord? Beaten out by Brady Quinn for the second string job? Brady Quinn, oh Lord? This just works for everyone involved. John Fox scrubs the last hint of Josh McDaniels stink off the Denver roster. It gives Miami Dolphins’ fans a reason to live and gets Chad Henne across state lines, presumably to an NFC North team before he’s kidnapped, tied to a chair in a suburban basement with his eyes taped open, forced to watch a reel of every one of Dan Marino’s TD passes played on an endless loop for 72 hours then released, naked and gibbering, unable to identify his captors or the strong-side linebacker showing blitz.
Wait. Could he do that before?
· The Seattle Seahawks should offer fans free parking.
They should give away X-boxes, Starbucks gift cards, hold Steve Largent Bobblehead Days (just keep having Steve Largent Bobblehead Day at every home game until you run out of Steve Largent Bobbleheads), book Nirvana cover-bands and let fans try a 35-yard field goal at half-time for a free car (it feels like a Chevy Volt kind of crowd). Seriously, who wants to watch the Seattle Seahawks play football? (Should I actually enclose that in ironic quotes? As in “play football?” Yeah. I added ironic italics, too.) Mercifully, all their home games should be blacked out.
· The Indianapolis Colts should give Peyton Manning acupuncture treatments.
Given the latest news on Manning’s rehab I would think all options should be on the table. If those needles don’t heal Manning’s neck, no harm done; Colts’ fans can stick them in their Tom Brady voodoo dolls.
Hmm… Since they’re acupuncture needles, instead of hurting, would they actually help Tom Brady? If an acupuncture needle was stuck in a Tom Brady poppet’s head, might it actually fix his hair?
· Free Carson Palmer! Free Carson Palmer!
What up, Cincinnati? You do know it’s bad business to get nothing out of an investment, don’t you? Yeah, Palmer screwed you; other teams know you’ve got to unload him and they are looking to underpay. Should you reasonably expect anything more for Carson Palmer than whatever Minnesota gave up for Donovan McNabb? Palmer is a few years younger but statistically comparable to McNabb, who I have always thought of as the quintessentially average NFL quarterback. You really thought you could get a first rounder for Carson Palmer? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Look, you’ve already invested millions of dollars in Palmer, Cincinnati. At least get a couple of third day picks for him. Maybe you’ll do better than sixth rounders because Palmer has more mediocre years ahead of him than McNabb. The point is the market has already spoken. Count yourself lucky if you get anything more than those sixth rounders. Let someone else pay him $10 million dollars a year. Indianapolis needs a quarterback. (No!) Seattle needs a quarterback and Palmer played for Pete Carroll at USC – it practically writes itself! Get the deal done. Do it for the children.
Epilogue
It was not my intention to imply that Rick Perry’s election would actually cause a tipping point in global climate change, it just strikes me as the classic turn in sci-fi dystopia narratives, the global climate change denier presiding over a planet torn asunder by a straight up full out bitch-mode Mother Nature who got sick and tired of mankind leaving empty cocoanut rum bottles on the beach. In the movie, he’d die a coward. I’m not saying Rick Perry’s a coward, I’m just saying he’d die that way in “Global Climate Chomp!” (a Syfy original movie).
I am also cool with Chinese medicine (1,339,724,852 patients can’t be wrong) and voodoo (seriously cool, bro, it’s all good). I’m cool like that. I am sincerely serious about the Tom Brady hair thing, though.
I also believe that any war with a reanimated herd of Tyrannous Rex and a flock of pteranodon would end quickly and badly for the Jesus Ponies. Maybe if they’d been freed from the ice right after World War II by a nuclear test blast (the traditional method for awakening dinosaurs from an arctic coma) and all we had was a DC-3, Dane Clark and a .50 caliber machine gun they would’ve had a chance. But today? Not so much. A dogfight between Predator drones and pteranodons would be kind of epic, though.
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