for colts fans

pilot that didn't make it.


LEAST ESSENTIAL GAME OF THE WEEK -- PILOT from jeff johnson on Vimeo.

It's instructive to picture what this guy would actually look like IRL, some clown with a real emotional haircut, Crocs hanging off his feet, Urban Outfitters leather jacket hung over his IKEA futon, remnants of that Taco Bell burrito with the Fritos in it congregating at the corners of his mouth as he binges on Skyrim, blasts "Pumped Up Kicks" on infinite repeat, and gargles dozens of shots of, like, Goldschläger.

Live From Broncos Patriots

Instead, I continued towards the locker room and could not get near "Gronk" due to the 412 reporters around his locker. So I turned and waddled towards Deion Branch's locker with a half-baked question about his TD. No one other than his neighbor, Chad Ochocinco, was around. Deion was applying lotion and is only five inches taller than Alanis Morrissette. I introduced myself to he and Ochocinco, and in the process really tried to sell the fact that I was a nice, fun guy. Ochocinco looked at me, not skeptically, but also a bit like I had just told him: "I love orange Jell-O and Roger '007' Moore. Do you like orange Jell-O and Roger '007' Moore? I also make sculptures out of candy corn."

Jeff: Then Tom Brady walked by us, shook Ochocinco's hand in kind of an elderly Episcopalian "peace of the Lord be with you" fashion, called him "CJ" and said, "Sorry. I fucked up. That was six." And mocked catching a pass. "My fault," he continued. "Talk to you soon." Did Ochocinco even play? I had no idea what the hell he was referencing, and I didn't ask. Then someone asked about his suit and Brady said something very deadpan about it being from Jos. A Bank, and he kept moving.

Sofia Coppola ... Andy Reid... Rachel McAdams = Box Office Magic

David: It's tough to imagine Andy Reid not coaching the Eagles. Or coaching anywhere. I assume he'll spend some more time with dairy products, and also probably his family, if relieved of his duties.

Jeff: I would like to see Sofia Coppola make a movie about him. Or loosely based on him. With Andy Reid playing Andy Reid. Almost a documentary but more tastefully lit. Just a 90-minute montage of him on those moving walk ways in airports. International airports all over the world. All by himself. Andy just floating, drifting by.

David: He falls in love with Rachel McAdams, kind of, but it can't last.

Jeff: There's like 9 lines of dialogue.

David: It's set in like Brussels. Or Camden, NJ.

Jeff: He's scouting. "I was a coach." That is the only line you hear in the first half hour.

David: It's all very lyrical. At the end, he cries behind the menu of a Chili's Too in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport.

Jeff: Andy sees Rachel McAdams in Hong Kong and smiles. That's his first smile. 45 minutes into the film. Then again in San Fran.

David: She says hi. "So are you scouting players?" She asks. "Nope... Just scouting, I guess. Just seeing what I can see."

Jeff: Then in Sydney, Australia. She's a publicist for Apple. Or someone who has made a new must-have hardware device. She is rolling it out around the world. It is coveted by billionaires and lepers. But she is empty inside. "So who are you?" she asks him at a rooftop Howard Johnson's bar in Saudi Arabia. "The question is who was I," Andy says.

David: "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Jeff: "Now I'm just Andy."

David: The last shot is him taking a whistle off his neck and dropping it into a garbage can before boarding a flight.

Jeff: "And I guess, I have to get comfy being Andy... and also awkwardly and nervously tremble as I rub an ice cube down your naked back in the Vienna Four Seasons."
...there's more


DeSean Jackson Philadelphia Eagles Andy Reid Cleveland Browns Saudi Arabia Demi Moore Kevin Harlan Ian Eagle Mary Poppins Donovan McNabb

GRAND OPENING!

Joe Theismann Owes Redskins One More Year?

"Uncle Dan, who's Joe Theismann?" Bryce asked Snyder later. Snyder told Bryce, as he had dozens of times before, that he was not to be called "Uncle Dan" or "Uncle Daniel" or anything, but "Mr. Snyder." The owner sighed; there were fees to extract, and he was here talking to the snot-nosed tyke in the size kids' medium Chris Cooley jersey. Finally he told him: Theismann was a legendary Redskins quarterback. Played at Notre Dame. Terrible communicator, amateur chiropractor, surprisingly decent singer of old-style, crooner-y vocals. "I found this," Bryce said proudly, holding up the contract. "It has his name on it."

And the old contract was indeed Joe Theismann's, dated 1985 and fully authentic, right down to the contract clause that required John Riggins not to dry any of "his pelts" within 100 feet of Theismann's locker. (There had been some unpleasantness.) Daniel's brother-in-law and Bryce's father Gary, who had just returned from shooting clay pigeons—Snyder paid Rex Grossman $400 per pigeon to heave skeet for VIPs, on the caveat that he "throw the shit out of them, not lollygag it"—begged Snyder for a copy of it to hang on the wall of his garage workshop.

Gary had grown up not being much of a football fan, but it had long been his dream to "own" another human being; he'd been bugging Snyder to "give him" John Beck for weeks. This paperwork was the closest he figured he'd get. As they went to the color copier, the two looked over some of the fine print of the contract. Snyder stopped and whistled to himself. "Well, holy shit," the owner said. Gary hoped that whatever Snyder was so fired up about wouldn't impact the John Beck thing; he had some plans. "Gary," Snyder said, "says here that Joe Theismann, even though he's retired because of a near-crippling injury, actually owes the Redskins another year."

NFL FANTASY LEAGUE FOR THANKSGIVING DAY

Here's the story: You are going to be shut in with at least six "football fans" on Thursday. Barring the possibility of some sort of bus breakdown, most of these people are probably going to be your relatives. One of them will undoubtedly be a sad, bird-of-prey faced brother-in-law looking to pick a fight about "All this Occupy crap," and who has also admitted, during the course of an otherwise unrelated story, to pepper-spraying a woman-of-the-evening. Another is an uncle who can only make mixed drinks with cinnamon in them. A third is a woman who, let's face it, you are not sure how you are related, but she is smoking Misty 100s in the middle of dinner while wearing a pine green turtleneck underneath a customized Aaron Rodgers jersey whose nameplate reads "Mrs. Rodgers." (She is likely your wife or mother, come to think of it.) (Also, if you are in New Jersey, it goes without saying that she is wearing a Wayne Chrebet jersey with plaid sleeves and has been d-r-u-n-k since Labor Day weekend.) READ MORE...

UC DAVIS -- Who is this fucking piece of shit?