Super Quick Super Bowl Super Thoughts

Take a minute and think about how lucky Denver is to even be in this game. For real. No, this isn’t just a typical New Englander being critical of Peyton Manning and the Broncos. I got legit points to make. But yeah, Tom Brady’s still better.

Start with the head coaching situation. Before the start of the season, Denver fired head coach John Fox, a staunch believer in good defense and running the football, and hired Gary Kubiak, a guy supposedly known for being an offensive mastermind and a quarterback guru. How’d that work out in Houston? See Schaub, Matt. And it worked out about the same in Denver. Kubiak installed his own offense. Peyton floundered in it for a few games, which led to a reversion to the shotgun scheme they’d run under Fox the last few years. Denver’s biggest strengths this year? Their defense and their running game. They aren’t where they are because of Kubiak; they’re there in spite of him.

Toward the middle of the season, Peyton got hurt. Enter Brock Osweiler. Most NFL backup quarterbacks are punchlines at best. Osweiler kept the Broncos in the race and started a legitimate discussion about which quarterback Denver should roll with for the rest of the year.

And then we go to the AFC Championship game, which the Broncos won by two points thanks in part due to a missed PAT by the usually automatic Stephen Gostkowski. Talk about lucky.

That’s enough about the Broncos. Fuck them. The Panthers, in contrast, are the real deal. A juggernaut. A miracle of modern coaching. Their cap situation’s been a mess, see, but Ron Rivera’s coached up an interesting collection of free agents—especially on the defensive side—and turned them into one hell of a unit. It’s downright Belichickian.

My head says the Panthers. My heart says the shady ass NFL and their Nick Patrick-esque officiating crew will do everything in their power to get Peyton another trophy. The official pick: Denver 20, Carolina 17. And then Peyton Manning retires. Good fucking riddance.

New Year’s gym membership: don’t do it

I post something similar to this on Facebook every year. I can’t remember if I’ve ever blogged about it. I’m too lazy to check and I’ve got dumb jokes I want to make, so if it turns out I’m repeating myself…whatever. This is my blog and I’ll do what I want.

January 1 is coming up quickly. Chances are you’re either making New Year’s resolutions or shitting on people who do. If you’re in the latter group, kudos, let’s be bros. If you’re setting goals for next year, and those goals involve exercising more and getting in shape, I would advise against rushing out to immediately join a gym–and not just because scaring you off will make my own gym experience that much more pleasant, you filthy noob.

Here’s the rub: the gym in January and February is one of the most hellish places on earth. It’s basically the MBTA’s 66 bus writ large. It smells. No one knows where to stand. There’s a weirdo in the corner leering at all the women. Someone’s probably going to vomit. Everything’s slick with a viscous film you can easily imagine causing a zombie apocalypse. And no one’s getting anywhere fast. It sucks.

Luckily, there’s March 1, when all the people who thought they were going to get in shape finally start quitting like all their friends knew they would. This is when you should sign up for that snazzy new gym membership. You’ll have a much more pleasant experience, which should make you more likely to stick with it. Trust me. You don’t want to be just another New Year’s statistic, do you? No, you don’t. You want to be a swole motherfucker making mad gainz. You want to fill your Tinder with shots accentuating your newly flat stomach. You can do all that–and more!–in March. The most exercise you’ll get in January and February is leaping over people in the locker room. Standing around waiting for a treadmill while sighing in annoyance won’t exactly turn that keg into a six pack.

And don’t forget: you’ll also be one less person pissing me off. That’s worth its weight in gold.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens review

Spoilers ahead.

Star Wars has always been important to me. I’m a big fan of the original trilogy. Sometimes I’ll watch the prequels and pretend the stupid parts aren’t actually happening. I’ll simultaneously defend the ideas behind Revenge of the Sith while shitting on the movie’s execution until my dying breath. I started reading the Expanded Universe novels as soon as I was old enough to handle thicker books and I didn’t stop until the last one was published a couple years ago. I tell people I’m a Jedi whenever the subject of religion comes up.  There’s a Rebellion insignia on my keychain. Boba Fett’s on my wall.

But don’t worry; I don’t dress up. I’m not some nerd.

When I heard Disney bought the rights to the franchise, I was dubious at best. I wasn’t convinced we needed more, especially since we’d been getting more regularly for the past thirty years. It was just in book form. The decision that those books suddenly didn’t count, to put it nicely, pissed me the fuck off. I eventually settled down, because I understand how this stuff works. But I’m still a cynical bastard; I expect the worst until I have good reason to believe something isn’t going to suck. I was skeptical of JJ Abrams’s involvement. I shook my head at the casting of goofy ass Adam Driver as the main villain. And when everybody else was having a BB-8gasm because of one quick shot of the character in the first trailer, I grumbled merrily about how silly all the fanboys would feel if the little droid turned out to be the second coming of Jar-Jar. Yes, I’m an asshole. Sue me.

I wasn’t there opening night. I’m never there opening night; I’ve been burned too many times, so I wait for the reviews to start pouring in. Pour in they did, dripping with compliments and suspiciously devoid of any major criticism. I resolved to go in a week or two, once the buzz had died down. I hate packed movie theaters full of cheering people. I am, as previously mentioned, an asshole.

I went the Sunday night after Christmas. That wasn’t the best plan. I wound up sandwiched between a heavy breather and a leg shaker. Hooray. After far too many trailers and advertisements, that familiar theme hit and rattled around in my chest. Crawling yellow text filled in the major points of the thirty years since Return of the Jedi. And then a Star Destroyer eclipsed a planet. My doubts disappeared, I settled in between the two strangers with whom I would be way too close for the next several hours, and I let the joy of Star Wars make everything else disappear for a while.

I had fun. Abrams and Disney obviously understand what makes the franchise work: fast-paced action, set pieces that are simultaneously awe-inspiring but easy to parse, crisp dialogue, and spunky heroes. The cinematography is fantastic. New lead character Rey is easy to get behind and should become a legit bad ass in another movie or two. Driver worked well as a brooding, menacing villain struggling with his new persona. Han Solo’s death was a punch to the gut even though I saw it coming from a mile away. Best of all, the bland characters and over-reliance on complex CGI that sunk the prequels were deftly avoided.

The Force Awakens is a good movie, but it’s not without its flaws–the biggest of which was the new male lead. I couldn’t get into Finn, the former stormtrooper played by John Boyega. He annoyed the shit out of me, and I totally didn’t buy his hyperactive personality as that of a man who’d been raised in the military since he was stolen from his family at a young age. I was actually kind of disappointed that the lightsaber blow from Kilo Ren didn’t kill him. Again, I’m an asshole. A few of the aliens–specifically Maz Kanata and the merchant with whom Rey worked–seemed oddly incomplete in terms of design. Kilo Ren’s chat with Darth Vader’s melted helmet was a little too Hayden Christiansen for me. I also didn’t buy that Rey didn’t know she was using the Force when she influenced her guard to unlock her restraints. Why would she tell that dude to release her if she didn’t know it would do something? And why the hell would Luke Skywalker leave a map behind? A lot of the storytelling was just far too convenient for the heroes, although I guess you could always just say that it was the will of the Force and call it day. It’s still a little cheap.

But that’s all just splitting hairs. The Force Awakens is a good time. It doesn’t live up to the hype, but nothing pushed that hard that often ever does, and I’m literally counting down the seconds until the nonstop marketing blitz finally fucks off. This is easily the best Star Wars movie since the original trilogy, although I guess that’s not really a particularly high bar to clear. Most importantly, The Force Awakens does exactly what the first entry in a new trilogy should do: set up the world and the characters while building anticipation for what comes next. I’d say it’s a success.

Oh, and I’m calling these now: Supreme Leader Snoke is Darth Plagueis (Palpatine’s master, who supposedly learned to cheat death) and Rey is a Kenobi.

Scott Colby’s 2015 Slammy Awards Ballot

It’s that time of year again: Monday Night Raw’s about to transform into a cheesy awards show, complete with special guest presenters, cheesy speeches, and long periods of I don’t give a fuck. Hopefully we’ll be spared musical guests.

As a responsible voter, I unfortunately can’t just write SASHA BANKS SASHA BANKS SASHA BANKS and call it a day. Maybe next year, when she’s actually had an important match or two on the “important”shows. I’m adding an NXT pick for each award, by the way, because NXT is better.

Also, I’m annoyed by the idea of social media voting. Too cheap and lazy to build an actual ballot? Hash tags! I mean, come on.

Superstar of the Year

John Cena. No, that’s not a joke. Cena’s United States Championship Open Challenge was the highlight of Raw for several months and gave big boosts to Kevin Owens and Cesaro. He had other great matches with Seth Rollins, Rusev, and Brock Lesnar. Cena added to his moveset and really upped his game in a way I haven’t seen another established superstar bother with. Can’t wait for the guy to come back.

NXT: Kevin Owens. Although he only worked in developmental for a few months, Owens really shook things up by destroying Sami Zayn and Adrian Neville, being a boss on the mic, and generally just killing it every week. Hell, he made Alex Riley compelling for a few weeks.

Rivalry of the Year

Reigns vs. Wyatt. Man, it’s been a really shitty year for main roster rivalries. Taker/Lesnar should’ve happened a year ago and made the Dead Man seem a bit petty. The Divas Revolution somehow managed to mostly suck in spite of the talent involved. And how are Rusev/Cena and Rollins/Orton even on the list? Reigns/Wyatt was at least kind of fun. I’m tempted to go off ballot and pick Rollins/Kane just because that was always amusing.

NXT: Sasha Banks vs. Bayley. Duh.

WWE Network Show of the Year

Breaking Ground. This sort of look into the lives of WWE’s superstars is long overdue. Super interesting stuff. Great narration from William Shatner.

Double-Cross of the Year

Damien Mizdow eliminates the Miz. Even though we all saw it coming, that moment when the Miz’s assistant finally turned on him and tossed him out of the Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royal was a ton of fun. Nobody eats comeuppance quite like the Miz.

John Stewart attacking Cena is totally going to win, but that whole thing was stupid.

NXT: Kevin Owens attacking best friend Sami Zayn following Zayn’s NXT title victory.

Surprise Return of the Year

The Dudley Boys! Bubba Ray and D-von have done yeoman’s work the last few months, giving both the New Day and the Wyatts a solid rub and being damn entertaining foils for both squads. Well done, sirs.

NXT: Samoa Joe’s debut. Does that count? That counts. Like the Dudleys, Joe’s looked great helping to build younger characters in entertaining feuds. Dude at least deserves a spot in the Rumble if not a full-time call up to the main roster.

WWE Tag Team of the Year

The New Day. There are Mondays when I just don’t want to watch Raw. Three hours is a big commitment, especially when it’s often loaded with crap writing and obnoxious commentary.  Sometimes I’d rather read or fire up the Playstation or watch paint dry. Whenever I get that urge, though, a single thought almost always pulls me back in: I wonder what the New Day’s up to tonight?

NXT: Enzo and Big Cass. I don’t know if they’ll ever find success on the main roster, but I’m totally going to enjoy their NXT run while it lasts.

Hashtag of the Year


Celebrity Moment of the Year

Kevin Owens powerbombs Machine Gun Kelly off the stage. Because that made me so happy. WWE Network should have an entire show that’s just Owens dumping C- and D-List celebrities on their heads.

NXT: None. Celebrities don’t go to NXT. And this is one of the major reasons why NXT is better.

Tell Me You Didn’t Just Say That Moment of the Year

Roman Reigns says “suffering succotash” in a promo. This one’s not officially on the list, but it needs to be. Six foot tall Samoan bad asses should not be quoting cartoon cats. Ever.

NXT: Corey Graves during Sasha Banks’s entrance at Takeover: Brooklyn. And I quote: “Her Escalade costs more than your house!” Perfect.

Best John Cena U.S. Open Challenge

Sami Zayn. Dude wrestled a hell of a match with a royally fucked shoulder. Kudos.

Diva of the Year

Nikki Bella. She totally put her working boots on and carried that division for most of the year. The NXT Divas get all the press, but Nikki’s legit.

NXT: Bayley. You were expecting someone else? Sure, Sasha’s my jam, but Bayley’s been the heart and soul of this show for a while now. After banishing the Boss to Raw, Bayley’s combination of ring acumen and personality dragged fun matches out of Alexa Bliss, Eva Marie, and Nia Jax. She deserves the top spot.

Match of the Year

Rollins vs. Cena vs. Lesnar. Tons of fun. Proved Rollins can hang with the best of the best.

NXT: Sasha Banks vs. Bayley, Takeover: Brooklyn. Match of the Year isn’t good enough; this is my favorite match ever. They should be handed an award on Raw for this one just on general principles.

The key to Roman Reigns’s success as champion

Don’t let him speak.

For real. This is less a statement on Reigns’s speaking ability than it is the things WWE creative seems to want to hear coming out of his mouth. That snarky garbage that works (I guess) with John Cena just sounds hokey coming out of a six foot three Samoan killing machine. It’s a total disconnect; your eyes say this dude’s a total bad ass, but your ears tell you he’s a burly fourth grader with a shitty home life taking his early spelling bee exit out on some scrawny nerd who knows what a gerund is. Roman Reigns shouldn’t be dropping the sort of cheap invective you only hear on the playground–especially the day after he spent a good ten minutes brutally beating WWE COO Triple H with a steel chair. He’s a talented performer who deserves writers that understand how his character can work. Don’t even get me started on that whole tater tots “insult” he directed at Sheamus a few weeks ago. Not only did that fit Roman Reigns like yoga pants fit a turkey, but it didn’t make any sense. Normal testicles are roughly the size of tater tots, and anyone carrying around a pair of potatoes in his jock needs to be really concerned.

(Alright, too late, I got started. You want potato-based means of questioning the virility of another man’s jingle bells? You can do a lot better than tater tots:

1. Curly fries – The twisted shape implies a lack of load density and momentum.

2. Hash browns – That shit’s a mess and it probably sticks to your leg all the time.

3. Poutine – If you got curds and gravy in your pants then you got some fucking issues, son.

4. Twice baked – Because the first time just didn’t do the job.

5. Au gratin – Somebody forgot to wrap that shit up and now it’s gooey and it smells like cheese.

Ok. I’m done now.)

Anyway. Reigns seemed to really pick up some momentum thanks to TLC and the following Raw, during which he basically had to overcome the entire McMahon family in order to beat Sheamus and take the World Heavyweight Championship. That right there’s a serious rub, and you could see it in the way the crowd’s reaction changed as the story progressed. He said very little throughout it all and got over by being a bad enough motherfucker and a good enough wrestler that his lame jokes about Vince’s prunes didn’t matter. That’s the Roman Reigns that’ll keep people watching. Give me that guy, minus the crappy food jokes. He can do some great stuff in that ring.

Unfortunately, we all know what’s likely going to happen at the beginning of the next Raw: Reigns is going to stroll out, smile like a twelve-year-old who just put a whoopee cushion under grandma’s seat cushion, and proceed to ramble on and on and on about Stephanie’s broccoli or some other stupid shit that completely kills what they started to build. It’s inevitable, like death and taxes and distraction finishes. And it’s a shame, because it kind of feels like they’ve got something in Reigns right now.

Since his debut, WWE’s tried to christen Reigns “The Powerhouse,” “The Juggernaut,” “The Big Dog,” and probably a few other dumb things that went in one of my ears and right out the other. Maybe it’s time for them to try “The Man of Few Words.”

A change of Sox

So those Red Sox are looking a little bit better, huh? In the last few weeks, they’ve added three big time pitchers to their staff: legit ace David Price, best closer on the planet Craig Kimbrel, great when he finds the plate Carson Smith, and Chris Young, a veteran outfielder wanted for murdering left handed pitchers in thirty-eight states and six territories.

What’s really interesting here is the sequencing of these moves. When the Sox traded four prospects to San Diego for Kimbrel, most smart baseball analysts were slightly mystified; it’s commonly accepted in the sabermetrics community that closers and relievers in general are fungible and that paying for a proven ninth inning guy is a waste when you’re not a good team. The additions of Price and Smith likely make the Sox a good team, which makes the cost of acquiring Kimbrel a lot more palatable. It’s a strong reminder that personnel moves are like online dating profiles; they can’t and shouldn’t be analyzed in a vacuum even though doing so is kind of fun. At least go out a few times before you start thinking about putting a ring on it.

But with all of those moves combined into a giant baseball player Voltron…I’m willing to at least offer the Sox a solid cubic zirconium and a really tight prenup. The pitching’s going to be better. Mookie Betts, Xander Bogaerts, Blake Swihart, and Eduardo Rodriguez should continue to improve. Hanley Ramirez and Pablo Sandoval can’t possibly be as terrible as they were last year. And there’s still plenty of time left to add a few more pieces. In an American League that’s looking about as messy as last call at the local dive, the Sox are starting to smell like an early wildcard contender–which should be more than enough to get us all through the boring ass no-baseball winter.

Crap I’m thankful for

I’m thankful for Manning Faces, that particular shade of maroon Tom Coughlin turns when he’s pissed, Rex Ryan F bombs, Jay Cutler TAINTS, and that amazing deer-in-the-headlighs look on the face of whoever’s coaching the 49ers these days. Silly stuff like this is the main reason I still can’t give up the NFL despite everything I hate about the league.

I’m thankful for that stupid patch of fake grass outside Boston City Hall because it makes the scrawny stretch of lawn behind my apartment look a lot better in comparison.

I’m thankful for the three or four people who actually step all the way into the train. You know who you are. You’re the real heroes of the daily commute.

I’m thankful for pop-up power bombs, Bank Statements, F-5s, and RKOs-outta-nowhere. Say what you will about in-ring psychology, pacing, and selling, but a big finisher is the shit, yo.

I’m thankful for J. Pace’s Big Dig and chicken parm subs, Sebastian’s BLTTG, Yada Yada’s teriyaki chicken, and Sleeper Street Cafe’s frontega chicken sandwich. Lunch is serious business. I’m also thankful for the food trucks that suck giant crowds of people away from those spots. You really want to spend fifteen minutes waiting on the sidewalk to get food at a place that doesn’t have any tables and chairs? Alright. Have fun with that.

I’m thankful for toilet paper, because leaves are no good and bidets just seem like too much work. I mean, you’re wet after you use the bidet, right? So you have to wipe anyway? A gentle little spritz sounds like an unnecessary first step.

You haven’t experienced real sorrow until you think someone stole your meat

This is purely hypothetical. A thought experiment, if you will.

Pretend you get a monthly meat delivery. It’s one of your favorite things. It’s basically half your groceries for the month. It shows up on your back porch in a sealed cooler bag. Delivery day is the happiest day. It’s like Meatmas or Meatsgiving or, perhaps more appropriately, Meatdependence Day. It’s the best.

Imagine you skip the gym and come directly home after a long eight hours of daydreaming about your beefy bounty. The bag isn’t in its usual spot. It isn’t on the back porch at all. No big deal, you think. Your roommate obviously got home first and put it in the fridge. That’s happened before. But it’s not in the fridge. It’s not in the freezer. It isn’t forgotten on the counter or left on your bed as a silly joke. Confused, you check the front porch. It isn’t there, either.

Oh no. Now a feeling of dread has creeped into the pit of your empty stomach. It’s dark out, so you grab a flashlight and return the back porch for a closer examination. Perhaps a particularly powerful gust of wind knocked it away or some stupid varmint moved it. Nothing. As you walk up the driveway, pathetically shining your flashlight under the bushes along the side of the house, you begin rifling through potential alliterative insults for use slandering those who stole your delivery in a bitchy Facebook post. Meat marauders? Steak stealers? Pirates of pork? Victual violators? You finally settle on criminals con carne. A second exploration of the front porch is not helpful. That feeling of dread in your stomach has become a knot, a devilish sheepshank threatening to cut off circulation to your large intestine.

You check your apartment’s interior once more because you’ve spent far too significant a portion of your life looking for things that turned out to have been right in front of you the entire time. This is not one of those instances. As you head for your computer to email the delivery company, you debate what’s worse: that you’ve been robbed, or that you’re probably going to have to go to the grocery store. Fuck the grocery store.

You pull up the most recent email from the delivery company, read the subject, and somehow manage not to put your forehead through your keyboard. Your meat delivery is not to be found because today is not delivery day. St. Meatrick’s day, as it were, is tomorrow.

You’re an idiot. Hypothetically, of course. But at least you don’t have to go to the fucking grocery store.

So who steps in for Seth Rollins?

WWE World Heavyweight Champion Seth Rollins is hurt. He tore his ACL, his MCL, his meniscus, and my heart attempting to power bomb Kane through a table during WWE’s current European tour. The company announced soon after that Rollins would vacate the title and that a tournament held at the upcoming Survivor Series pay-per-view would crown a new champion.

Losing Rollins is a huge blow, but it’s also a really interesting opportunity to potentially elevate someone new. The guys who’ve carried the company through tough times in the past aren’t on the list of possible replacements. John Cena’s working on something else. Randy Orton’s hurt. Brock Lesnar and the Undertaker are working very limited schedules. The obvious answer is just to put the belt on Roman Reigns, Rollins’s scheduled Survivor Series opponent and the company-approved heir apparent to Cena’s throne. Although Reigns is definitely going to be an important part of the title picture going forward, WWE might be better served using him to create a new top heel whom he can chase for a few months. That, actually, is my prediction for the Survivor Series tournament: Reigns will make the finals, and then someone on the list below will screw him over and win the belt and set up the next few months of programming.

Kevin Owens – If I were writing this shit, I’d put the belt on Owens. Who cares that he’s already Intercontinental Champion? He’s the best heel in the business right now. He’s the perfect combination of mic skills and in-ring ability that could really elevate Reigns via an extended feud. A beef between Owens, an indy darling who can do it all but looks like an angry Canadian dad, and Reigns, the pretty boy corporate choice who’s still a little rough around the edges at times, writes itself.  And they’ve shown some real chemistry in the ring lately. That pop-up power bomb into a Superman punch from a few Raws ago was dope.

Alberto Del Rio – WWE loves pushing this guy. Alberto’s typically excellent on pay-per-view and bathroom break fodder on Raw. I think he’s better in his current role as a secondary champion, but I wouldn’t be too surprised to see the big belt wind up around his waist. And then I’d have an excuse to quit on Raw after the second hour or so.

Dean Ambrose – It’s been awhile since WWE’s last really big heel turn. Putting Ambrose over his best friend would build a fun feud with some legit personal animosity you just couldn’t get any other way. Ambrose unleashed as a violent heel could really create a compelling character, especially since the smirk crowd would likely stay on his side instead of pulling for Reigns. This would be my bet.

What’s that? You think I forgot someone? No I didn’t. Sheamus ain’t shit right now, even with that Money in the Bank contract. Dude needs a few months of build-up before he can even stand in the same room as the World Heavyweight Champion.

NFL Picks, Week 9

We’re halfway there. Thank Christ. Picking games this year has been particularly difficult. Approximately 75% of the league is pure dog shit. When you’re staring at a pile of shit, it can be kind of difficult to determine which shit is actually shittier than the surrounding shit. Try it sometime. You won’t enjoy it. If it were up to me, the vast majority of NFL franchises would be relegated to the CFL or maybe the Arena League based on their performances this year. If we’re doing one of those fancy tiered breakdowns sports journalists rely on when they don’t have any better ideas, it’d look something like this:

New England
Green Bay

Kind of stinky:
Maaaaaaaaaaaaaybe the Jets

The shittiest shit that’s ever been shat:
Everybody else

This analysis is not a joke. The league itself is the joke here. Meanwhile, I went 10-4 last week to bring my partial season record up to 25-17. Onto my shitty picks!

Bengals over Browns – Andy Dalton could call Geico and save 0% on car insurance, but Cleveland sucks.

Bills over Dolphins – Tell me again about how the Dolphins are back and Coach Campbell’s a miracle worker, NFL commentators! Come on! DO IT!

Packers over Panthers – I don’t think Carolina’s got the necessary depth to seriously contend all season, especially on defense. And Cam Newton’s a dink.

Vikings over Rams – There might be something cooking in St. Louis. Great running back + stout defense + ok quarterback = …oh, wait, they don’t have a quarterback even close to good. SORRY.

Patriots over Redskins – The Redskins are attempting to defend their trademark in court by providing a list of other companies and products with objectionable names. Who’s running their legal team…me?

Saints over Titans – Smell ya later, Whisenhunt. Tennessee fired their coach this week after a couple seasons and a mere three wins. Three! Sure, the talent cupboard’s been emptier than the fruit drawers in my fridge, but I’m pretty sure most head coaches could win at least four games in two years by complete accident.

Jets over Jaguars – Remember when I put the Jets in the Kind of Stinky tier? I did that before I remembered Geno Smith’s starting for Ryan Fitzpatrick this week. Top-notch football analysis at its absolute best.

Steelers over Raiders – Yawn.

Falcons over 49ers – Quarterback Colin Kaepernick has been benched in favor of Blaine Gabbert. Blaine Gabbert is never the solution unless the problem is “how do we tank the shit out of this season so we can get a real quarterback in the draft?”

Buccaneers over Giants – Just feels like one of those games where the G-Men are going to vomit all over themselves even though they should win in a walk.

Broncos over Colts – The Colts are what happens when you put too much faith in a quarterback and neglect to build a defense or a running game. Luckily for them, the AFC South is basically a port-a-potty someone tipped over and then lit on fire. Say hello to your first 6-10 division champ!

Cowboys over Eagles – Cassell > Bradford.

Chargers over Bears – Wait, why the fuck is this the Monday night game? Woof.