WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE NFL'S ANIMAL TEAMS?

If you come play the Rams, it is a whole other Dante-like world where you might get a scalding hoof to the genitals. The only concessions they should offer are hot broth and Salted Nut Rolls, and some just sloppy St. Louis-style BBQ served in a mini Crock Pot that plugs into your own stadium chair. For $45, it is bottomless for three and a half quarters. It's your responsibility not to throw it at anyone. And a 90,000 decibel siren goes off when the Rams score touchdowns. Anyone under 9 years old immediately voids their bowels when this is played, that's how hardcore it is. They just can not help it. Old people lose dental fillings. The Rams need more Jackie Slater types. People who have to be talked out of bringing a real, sharpened shovel onto the field.

Dolphins

Jeff: In real life, Dolphins have cleaner versions of those little Willem Dafoe in Natural Born Killers teeth, but other than that they are just flesh. Just a meaty target for a rusty metal spear or a shark's mouth. They look like they're always in existential pain. I'm positive a teacher once told me: "Dolphins are sad because you're not good at math." And yes, they have the power to think, but it's just limited to "complaints." The complaining area of a dolphin's brain is profoundly highly developed. So acute, in fact, that they know what people on shore are complaining about. So they can just be swimming around and their brain gets flooded with: "Christ, ham salad? Oh, this is bullshit. Who serves ham salad at a baptism? How oldis that mayo? Did you see the rip in the driver's seat of Laverne's Cutlass? Where some of the foam is missing? It's for his balls! I am not kidding! The man has fashioned his own ball rest in his car, because they are HUGE and he refuses to go to the doctor about it. He says his wife microwaved too much Tupperware and that caused it.

keith. not that keith.

this is great:

Keith Hernandez, former Mets first-baseman
Arrived: 1983
New York was the last place I wanted to be, down there with Cleveland, Oakland, and Detroit. I was a guy from San Francisco, and I had already made something of myself, winning the World Series with the Cardinals, so it’s not like I was some kid getting off at the bus station in midtown all full of wonder. And nobody wants to be traded mid-season.

But I joined the Mets in June 1983. At first I was put up in a hotel at La Guardia, which was a terrible existence. I eventually moved to Greenwich until I got divorced. Then Rusty Staub, a New York fixture, told me, “Look, man, if you’re going to be single, don’t live in Connecticut. It’s all in the city.”

So I rented a place for a year until Fred Wilpon, the Mets owner who was also a real-estate guy, offered to sell me a condo at 49th and Second. It had been decorated by some interior decorator in Chicago, and they put all my clothes and luggage in a pile ten feet high—no lie—in the middle of the living room. Ed Lynch, a starting pitcher, was crashing with me while his condo was being finished. I went out one day, and when I came back he had unpacked all my stuff. I got his dinners for a month after that.

We’d go downtown. Soho was this pocket of the city where you could just get out of a cab, wander around, and have a great night no matter what. And I really got into the restaurants. You know, you could do a ball game and then still have dinner after. At eleven! That doesn’t happen in the Midwest. Fanelli’s, Palladium, Chin Chin, Smith & Wollensky, Lutèce … And you’d be a fool to live here and not take advantage of the cultural stuff. So I would go to Broadway plays and even some operas. I met Plácido Domingo backstage once. The guy is a huge baseball fan, and he said “Sorry, I have a cold, I sang like a .230 hitter. Next time, I promise I’ll be a .300 singer for you.”

Back then, of course, the Mets were terrible, so I would be incognito. As we got better, I would go out and it would be all or nothing. Nobody would recognize me or they all would. And, man, for about six weeks after we won the ’86 World Series, I couldn’t pay for dinner anywhere in the city. People would, I kid you not, send over bottles and bottles of free Cristal. Ridiculous. It’s one thing to become a New Yorker; it’s so much weirder to become a New Yorker that all the other New Yorkers know.

FOOTBALL

I am imagining Carson Palmer looking at a football during Raiders practice and whispering into the QB coach's ear, "Was it always this shape?" And being slightly foggy about the general concepts of the sport.

Harbaugh vs, Schwartz

Jim Schwartz, Head Coach, Lions: I tweet about Krokus! I have used #swagger as a hashtag!

Jim Harbaugh, Head Coach, 49ers: I am hard-pressed to give a shit about Krokus! Pete Carroll is "good" at social networking. Look where it's gotten him.

Jim Schwartz, Head Coach, Lions: You have had 47 years to learn how to shake hands and you are shitty at it!

Jim Harbaugh, Head Coach, 49ers: I am defiantly unapologetic about my handshaking skills!

RICK PERRY RELEASES SOLO ALBUM

IS THERE ROOM IN YOUR WOMB FOR JESUS?

NFL WEEK 90

Hank Williams Jr. Meal Replacement System

Jeff: It won't be a pregame show until Slash emerges from a giant helmet
playing his sunburst Les Paul.

David: A giant helmet full of seven-layer dip. Beans and guac all on his hat. His cigarette is somehow still lit.

Jeff: With Fergie hugging one of his legs, getting her eyebrow piercing caught in his leather chaps.