Say what you will about those Lazy Tuesday goofs, but at least they didn't work too hard at looking ridicuwockle. These guys, on the other hand, seem to gone through Herculean efforts to look achingly dopey. I hope these dancers got paid. Not in money of course, but an ice cream sandwich sounds about right.
Welcome to the second half of your Cowboy Hater Twin Cinema Matinée. You'd think between the owner, coach and quarterback someone would have realized that this commercial might come back to bite them on the ass someday.
Notice they don't have Jason Garrett pitching this swill. That's 'cause he's finalizing plans to be sipping Cristal out of Wade's hollowed out skull this time next year.
Eli Manning busted his playoff victory cherry last week in Tampa Bay and now Tony Romo's all, like, "Hey, man. I thought we made a decision to lose our postseason winning virginity together?"
Then Eli was like, "I'm sorry. It kinda, sorta just happened. You can't expect me to say no to something like that."
Then Romo cried.
Eli has been insisting it wasn't that big a deal, but Romo can notice the changes in him already. Eli's not as uneasy around playoff games, he exudes a confidence he didn't have before.
Good thing Eli is an actual sexual virgin or Romo would be really pissed.
NFC No. 1 Seed: Dallas Cowboys (13-3)
Hello? Yes, this is Terr... [disguises voice] this is Dr. Arthur Honeycake, Mr. Owens' personal physician....yes, Mr. Owens has a sprain in his ankle and it's very bad...and I'm afraid he won't be able to play Sunday...well, we're not exactly sure how the sprain got in there...yes it's....OH WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN "YOU KNEW IT WAS ME?" Y'ALL DIDN'T KNOW SHIT. Fuckin shit, man. [Hangs up and dresses for practice]
Aaaahhhh! Oooh, oh, it hurts so much! Me so tender. I'm limping! Look at me limp! Hey, y'all come get some limp footage. Get that shit while it's hot. Aw, damn, I'm in so much pain! I can't practice on this thing, man. Shit, no. Ain't no damn way I can play on Sunday.
What's that? You want me to jog some? Sure, man, I can jog for days. Ooh, ooh. Little jolt there. Now, wait, that's not so bad. Wow, this ankle's starting to feel pretty good. Couple days of this and I'm gonna be alright. Yeah, man, come Sunday, my shit's gonna be good to go.
AAAHHAAHHHHH, FUCKING SHIT! I just stepped on a goddamn turtle! TRAINER! NEED ME A TRAINER RIGHT DAMN NOW! Man, who's letting turtles into practice, man? He from the gotdamn Morning Star or what the fuck. No no no don't touch it don't touch IT AAAAAHHHHHH OH SWEET FUCKER TO ALL HELL LISA LOPEZ!! MMMmmMpphh, shiiiiiitttt! That's it, man. I'm done. Ain't no way I can go against the Giants, man. Forget it.
What you doin? What, you taping that shit up? Wow, you're using a lot of tape on me there. I think I'm getting...wait...yes, I'm definitely getting a boost of self-esteem from all this attention. Wow, I feel the need to repay this organization in some way. Guess what, baby! I'm playing on Sunday! Getcha popcorn ready!
Game Day
We were recently outbid on eBay in an attempt to acquire a hard copy of this slick golden oldie from 1985, an instructional book on hip-hop dance, with a fresh to DEF! ad starring Alfonso Ribeiro, or, as you better know him, Carlton Banks.
Classic, right? And the booklet looks incredibly informative. Step 1: stand upright. Step 2: do a head-spin. Step 3: accept phone numbers from the ladies. It's like those "Drawing Comics the Marvel Way" books I squandered all my youthly savings away on. (Step 1: draw a circle. Step 2: completed Wolverine.)
Anyway, we were wondering who could have swooped in and taken this away from us, but then reader Danny from Dallas sent us this clip. That dastard!
"In depression, this faith in deliverance, in ultimate restoration, is absent. The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come - not in a day, an hour, a month or a minute. If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow. It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul. So the decision-making of daily life involves not, as in normal affairs, shifting from one annoying situation to another less annoying - or from discomfort to relative comfort, or from boredom to activity - but moving from pain to pain. One does not abandon, even briefly, one's bed of nails, but is attracted to it wherever one goes."
- William Styron, "Darkness Visible"
In the immediate aftermath of T.O.'s suicide attempt, a collective incredulous cry went up from the football blogosphere wondering how someone so physically gifted, so exorbitantly paid, so thoroughly in a Drew Rosenhaus-imposed fugue could do ill unto himself. I'm no psycho-pharmacologist, but the wiring in Terrell Owens' brain is a tangled, jumbled skein of black licorice Twizzlers that no amount of driveway sit-ups can set right. Even Joey Porter worries for this guy. That's why he's lending him his dog's bumblebee toy as soon as Owens leaves the hospital, unless Parker Posey takes it first.
The extent of his sickness is immediately clear; famous ballplayers don't reveal deep-seated psychological issues by attempting suicide. They sloppily hit on sideline reporters or not-so-sloppily hit their significant others. Bad form, T.O., bad form.
Beyond the camera mugging and the overbearing narcissism, the warning signs ran deeper. At the time it seemed the bumptious demand of a prissy prima donna receiver, but now, we know for certain why T.O. refused to play for the Baltimore Ravens. Why would anyone, facing the demons he does, want to playwith that loser Kyle Boller and the Ravens' inept offense? under the spectre of a team named for a purveyor of the macabre whose own death is marked by mystery and opprobrium?
This is a clarion call not only to the NFL and its fans, but humanity at large, and maybe even a few species of animal. In the coming days, weeks and months, as suicide denials are issued, passes are dropped, and Cowboys losses are piled high, it is incumbent on us to give this man our rapt, breathless, unwavering attention. Wars, elections, poverty, racism and porn, you say? T. O., T.O., T.O., T.O., T.O., say we. One wandering thought, one straying eyeball could drive this man over the edge. You want that on your conscience?
