So sue me, Preacherman, if that's how petty you want to be. Just ask yourself this question: What would Jesus do? And to clarify, I mean if Jesus had a post with 10 points about the Steelers game, and he had some clever name for it like Jesus' Keen Insights into Sunday's Game, and some chucklehead came along and posted Jesus! Keen Insights into Sunday's Game, would Jesus get all miffy about it, and possibly turn the poster into a newt? And I think it's worth asking whether, as a preacher, you have any super powers, like turning people into newts, or just some curse like giving them the runs for a week or something?
10. The other week, there was this weird shit in the urinal of the men's room closest to me. This is kind of like the bobo crapper, since the divider between the two urinals fell off the wall, and the crapper seat looks like it has a permanent shit stain, so this is just the place I go when I gotta take a leak but bad. So I run in with a bladder screamingly full and go to the tall guy's pisser, because sometimes when you piss in those midget urinals the angle of the porcelain gives too much sprayback. I can't explain why, I'm not a fucking urinal engineer.
So I have half a salami out when I notice that the tall guys' pisser is full of something that looks like waxy curds. It wasn't a deodorizing device, because the pisser already had one of those pink pisscakes. It just looked like someone was walking around with a cup of waxy curds and had no idea where to dispose of them, and then the idea just leaped into their mind to dump it in the urinal. "Repeated flushing will gradually wear my waxy curds down to mere nubbins that will then wash away harmlessly." I mean, what sick demented bastard actually thinks like this when they have a cup of waxy curds to dispose of?
Then the other thought came to me. Perhaps the waxy curds -- and there was enough to fill a coffee cup -- perhaps they actually came out of some guy's weiner while he was relieving himself. That was distressing to me. What kind of infection do you have to have to spew a cupful of waxy curds from your Johnson? So there was no way I was getting my own Johnson anywhere near those strange, waxy curds, but I had to piss really bad a few more times that afternoon, and each time, the waxy curds were still there, and each time I found them as creepy as the first time I saw them.
Anyway, losing to the Chiefs is kind of like pissing out a cup of infected, waxy curds. Losing to the Ravens in Baltimore, without your starting QB and your best player on defense, and the erstwhile third string QB starting? More like you didn't quite shake it well enough and have to walk out of the bathroom with an unsightly dribble stain. No one wants that, but it could have been worse.
9. If Mike Tomlin has the power to unleash hell in December, why didn't he unleash hell a few weeks ago when we were playing Cincinnati again? Or why not just open up that ol' Can O' Hell right from game one? Does the effect of canned hell wear off after a few weeks, and Tomlin was simply being judicious and parsimonious? Or did he somehow forget he had canned hell in his possession? "Man oh man, a three game losing streak, my longest as a head coach... If only I had something I could open up to really make us an unstoppable force of nature... Let me check my case of canned products. Cheez-Whiz? Nah. Redi-Whip? Unnn-unh. Silly string? Oh wait, I forgot all about this! Can O' Hell, that's perfect!"
8. Remember the Seinfeld ep where Jerry's car gets stunk up by some smelly valet, and it's so bad that the stink ("beyond B.O.") just won't come out? It gets onto Jerry, and Elaine... in fact, it's still on Elaine now in that new series, The Old Adventures of New Christine or whatever the fuck. You can't de-smellify BBO. It just doesn't wash out.
Well, every week there's some new wrinkle to Bruce Arians and his fucking stenchified fuckup of a gameplan. Oh sure, some weeks there's a drive, or a few drives, or even a complete half of football where the offense isn't, well, offensive. We've even had BA call entire games of non-fuck-uppery. But then it comes back, that haunting, horrifying stench. And every week we dissect it, complain about it, pray fervently that Arians will be fired, or perhaps killed in a hunting accident while he drives to work.
I just can't muster the strength any more to bitch about Arians. The stench remains, and it's just something we have to live with. You can't de-smellify Arians. BA is so fucking offensive, he's beyond BA. BA is BBA.
7. I have the coolest dog in the world, literally beloved and renowned in the neighborhood. He has his own fan club, and I'm not even messing with you. What I need to do is to figure out how money can be made from this unseemly outpouring of adoration for my canine. But things were not always smooth sailing. The Mrs. and I were new to raising a dog, way back when we first got him, and it seemed like we were spending all this time taking him to training classes, and still it wasn't like adopting a cat. With a cat, you basically bring them in, show them the litter box and food bowls, and they're good to go. They climb the curtains and do crazy cat shit for a couple of years, but they're pretty much a part of the ecosystem right out of the box. They've read the instructions, they know what to do.
But with the dog, there were times when the Mrs. was literally in tears because she didn't know how to handle him. He was so high-energy, and it just took so much time dealing with the dog every day that there was no time for us to just hang, like the old days with those lazy bastard cats. So it's the NFC Championship game between the Panthers and the Eagles, back in 2004, and we had some folks over to watch the game. One chick was a Panthers fan, and frankly as much as I would like to be able to be magnanimous and root for the other Pennsylvania team, Eagles fans irritate the shit out of me.
I was making some of my world-famous nachos, which are layered with good quality cheese, not the orangey cheese "product" crap they ladle on at most sports venues and sports bars. That crap is just the coagulation they scrape out of dead people's arteries and dye orange. No, I use real aged cheddar, and lots of other good shit like fresh scallions and black olives and whatnot. I make a killer salsa and guacamole, and it just rocks. So I have all this stuff in the kitchen, during this NFCC game, waiting for halftime to throw the plate of cheese on the tortillas and add all the goodies. Everyone is watching the game, oblivious to the absence of the dog, who is by now not quite one year old. Suddenly, and simultaneously, the Mrs. and I look up at each other and say "Where's the... dog...?", who comes walking out of the kitchen smacking his lips, a full pound or more of freshly grated cheddar in his ravenous gullet.
Mrs. F. later said she had never seen me so angry.
Later, as I considered the turn of events that had deprived me of my famous nachos, and my feeling of sharing a house with a dog that still had no concept of what he was supposed to do, I thought: Gee, maybe I ought to just chill the fuck out a little. I'd been really pushing the training, the discipline, and corrections, but maybe I'd gone too far. I decided to just let shit kind of roll off my back, and I think the dog realized that he had gone to far as well. It was this magical nexus, where the light kind of came on for both of us. Almost six years later, and he's been the best damned dog ever since. Seriously, everything just clicked. He goes on his walks with me off leash, never any problems, has infinite patience with kids, never eats my cheese off the counter, never does anything bad. Has these funny games, like trying to steal the baseball hat off my head.
I get the sense that Rashard Mendenhall and Mike Tomlin had some sort of cheddar cheese incident of their own. I have the feeling we're going to be very happy with this kid for a long, long time. He just gouged the Ravens rush defense like they were playing for Notre Dame or something. Mendenhall still comes off as not totally relaxed, but he's a young kid, and he's coming along tremendously.
6. You know what commercials I hate? Those ones where the wife truly understands the depth of her husband's love because he bought her a fuckin' LEXUS and put a bow on it, or went to Kay's and spent several thousand bucks on some bling, and happy little notions of that sort. Because if you don't dive headlong into debt and crass commercialism to show your wife you love her, do you really love her? I don't think so, chump. There's a word for you, and it's looooooooo-oooooooo-ser!
"So, Mrs. F., what do you love about Mr. F.?"
"He buys me shit we really can't afford, so I can rub our friends' and neighbors' noses in it! Nothing gives me greater satisfaction!"
Now, this little gripe of mine really has not even the most tangential relation to the Steeler-related item, but let me just note that for all the bitching and whining about Limas Sweed, it was Shaun McDonald who got the ax when Palko was promoted to the 53-man roster. Sweed has been maddening, but don't forget that sometimes it takes a while to coach a guy up. Unless he turns out to be another Willie Reid, in which case all the expectant waiting for Sweed to develop will just be so much wasted time. Kind of like if you're boinking the neighbor's wife, and your wife finds out? She'll feel like she's wasted her time with your sorry ass. Until you buy her a Lexus or a big fat diamond to make up for it. And even then, she'll secretly think you're a pile of shit.
5. Speaking of Notre Dame and their shitty run defense, nothing irks me more than seeing our run defense get shredded for 8-, 10-, 15-yard gashes with regularity. Ray Rice is a solid player, but it's been happening to some extent all year long. I suspect this is due to Aaron Smith being out, frankly, because the same damned thing happened in 2007 when he was injured. But as a matter of pride, it personally hurts me, causes me physical pain, when we cannot stop someone from running the ball. Get past us once? Ha, fine. But that should be about it. I fucking hate it when teams have success against us running the ball.
4. Speaking of Notre Dame and their shitty coach, word is that Charlie Weis has indeed been fired, and NFL teams are clamoring for him. Steelers fans want BBA out and Weis in. But let me ask you this: what the fuck exactly has Charlie Weis ever done without illegal spy tapes? I'm gonna go with "been a fat annoying fuckup." Just not convinced he's somehow the magical solution to the BBA situation. What if he comes here and sucks? And is fat and annoying? With that crewcut like he means business, and a waistline that says his business is all you can eat buffets? With that Patriots Coordinator credential that has meant so much in the careers of Eric Mangini, and Romeo Crennel? Imagine he comes here and is fat and he sucks and we remember that he's Patriot scum, and he's fucking up our team in BBA fashion? His having been a Patriot would make me hate him even more. He's always got that mouth that doesn't quite close, like he's squirrelled away a few crullers in his cheeks for when he's bored with the game and needs a snack, but doesn't want to get caught Sanchez-like chowing down a hot dog on the sideline. For fuck's sake, is Charlie Weis really the answer?
3. You know how some words just strike you funny? Like fart or duodenem or scrotum? Well the word that had me tittering this weekend was dongle. I've been thinking about getting a dongle, or what the Apple geeks call an Airport, so I could stream movies and music from my computer to the new flat screen in the living room. OK, that was our concession to consumerism this year, so the Mrs. doesn't get a Lexus, and doesn't get a blood diamond the size of a fatted tick, but I think she likes the big screen anyway.
So every day I have this randomly generated nickname for the missus, just some word that pops into my head that becomes her nickname. For instance, yesterday Mrs. Finny was lovingly referred to as Mrs. Dongle or, alternately, Mother Dongle. With clever wordplay like this, I don't need to buy expensive shit for the missus at Christmas, anniversaries, or her birthday. She knows how special she is every day when I call her Mrs. Dongle, or Mother Flea-Bit, or whatever the name du jour might be.
You know what else makes me titter with inward glee? The fact that we've completely fucked around this entire season, losing to waxy curd teams like the Chiefs and really dominating no one except the Broncos, and yet here we are, still in the mix for that final playoff spot. Now, granted, all our competition is a sorry-assed collection of losers, idiots, and dongle-sniffers, but that's not the point. The point is that the NFL is a big pile of suck, and we're right at home in it. Yeeeeeeee-HAAAAHHHHHHHH!
2. Carey Davis gets a first down (!) and there's 43 seconds left, ball at our 40. Down 14-7.
Yeaaaaaaah, let's just not worry about trying to put any points on the board. Hell, couldn't possibly go into a hurry-up, hope for a shot at the EZ, or at least get a FG. I mean, things like that never are game-changers.
My irony is so pointed I believe I have injured my dongle.
1. Now that Double D has shown he can run the offense, why are we holding a spot for Charlie Glass? I mean, Batch? Can't we IR him and scour waivers for some DB help? Special teams? Something?