Weatherman says rain in Charlotte on Saturday night. 60 percent chance. Won’t make much for passin’ around a football, I spose. Says a fella with them tiny jeweler’s hands like ol Kurt Warner might just up and drop the pigskin all over. Chase it around like a greased baby kangaroo, or sumpin. Might accidentally give the gul darn thing a kick when he’s aimin to fetch it with his mitts. That’s what the weatherman says, anyway.
Sorry. I was trying to channel an extreme West Texas version of Tommy Lee Jones, because truth be told every team left in the playoffs is boring the living shit out of me.
(Except the Ravens, which we established earlier, and depending on time of possession they are pretty boring, too. Watching them on offense is like pretending that there’s actually chemistry between the couples in that erectile dysfunction commercial that’s been running a lot during the (CBS) games, lately. Not sure if it is Levitra or what, but it’s the one where that saddened guy who looks like a combination of Stephen King, Bob Seger, Taylor Hicks, and Grant Hart comes on at the end. He looks like he went without the drug for about a decade and kind of just sat there with an un-working penis. On an ottoman in his living room. Without his pants on. And did not get angry. Just kind of thought it over and lost a lot of crucial lovemaking time. And people would knock on his door and offer to take him out gambling, or drinking, or racing cars, and he just watched Boston Legal and occasionally looked down at his flaccid penis. And took to wearing sleeveless fleece.
And his wife maybe wound up about 3,400 miles away from him. Sculpting, and making really heavy sweaters from various earthy, rust-colored yarns. She got kind of a spiky hairdo. Bought herself a Honda Element. And wrote her bonerless ex letters on lightly marbled amber-colored paper with strategically burned edges. And he’d get them and be touched by the fact that she took the time to really doctor them up. And he’d eventually work up the gumption to ask her to come back and she would simply not respond.
And we, the viewer are supposed to look at this human basset hound and say, “Hey, I recognize that guy. He’s me. And I sure would like it if my wife would occasionally sit on a porch swing and take her toe and rub it along the arch of my foot, real nonchalant-like, as a cue that it was time to move it into the bedroom. Too bad it is Sunday, and I can’t see my doctor and get a prescription for this stuff. Now I have to sit here un-aroused and watch more football.”
And OK, I kind of like the Chargers. But even they upset me a little because while I want to root for them, their QB Phillip Rivers looks to me like the kind of guy who likes to make out in a state park on the hood of his car with a teenage root beer waitress, then go out and shoot his science teacher’s cocker spaniel, and laugh about how the dog’s brains were all over the guy’s “aluminum screen door,” when in truth the shot would most likely wind-up just partially paralyzing the dog, who’d freeze to death on the front lawn, because the science teacher was off blissfully volunteering at some soup kitchen somewhere. Maybe that’s just because Rivers always looks perturbed. In reality he is probably way nicer and more understanding than me. Probably a lot better person. No question.
There’s also the legacy of ex-Charger Junior Seau, who is now proprietor of this amazingly understated restaurant in beautiful San Diego. )
Now that I am way off track, here’s a wacky weatherman from Charlotte who actually got canned. Go figure. You may have seen him.
And here’s why I am underwhelmed with the NFC:
Panthers—Strong running game. Unpleasant receiver Steve Smith who fights his own teammates but is having a decent year. Choke-y QB Jake Delhomme, who routinely loses Checkers matches to shovels. No star power. No one charismatic enough to make me happy they are still around.
Cardinals—Offensive powder keg. Except when they’re not. They’ve lost every single game they have played on the East Coast this season. This is the kind of trend people in Vegas like to roll around on like a dog on a pile of dead sunfish. How in the hell can the Cardinals win in Charlotte on Saturday? Well, the Panthers could completely flatten out and turn the ball over. And that would be a surprise. Or not. Because every team not named the Detroit Lions has been both great and terrible this season. I love Cardinals Anquan Boldin, Tim Hightower, and it would be great to see Edgerrin James advance in the playoffs after his old Colts team has been bounced. OK. There’s a little bit here to like. Too bad they have no chance.
Aging Cardinals fan makes beeline for Men’s Can.
Giants—Like the Panthers, they have two great running backs. And one more. They call them Earth, Wind & Fire. Eli Manning needs to rely on them because none of his receivers can get open. And after Plaxico Burress shot himself, and Brandon Jacobs got hurt a bit, this team has been shaky.
Eagles—I have no idea what they will do against the Giants. I am okay with that. This team is too damn inconsistent.