I had a fucking miserable week last week. Every time I finished an assignment at work, every time I had finally been able to move one goddamn thing off the ginormous pile of shit that had been dumped on me, it would come roaring right back at me with new and hideous revisions. “Hey Drew, I have just a few slight tweaks for you. Could you make this into something completely different and unrecognizable? And could you give me seven different versions of it? And could you make it be more about torque wrenches?” GAHHHHHH GET IT AWAY FROM ME!
I suppose it’s unfair of me to take out all this hostile aggression on Peter King. Sometimes, I think my anger is really MY problem, a fundamental flaw in my character that I should confront and address, rather than displace onto to other people, who I do not know. And then I read something like this…
f. My one and only piece of wisdom for the week: Go to the Grand Ole Opry before you die.
And I realize, no. My anger is justified. I am not flawed. I am perfect, like a fresh spring flower. AND PETER KING IS A GODDAMN SHITHEAD.
Eli Manning had just been intercepted again by the Eagles with three minutes left in New Jersey late Sunday afternoon, and Philadelphia’s 23-11 upset of the Giants was sealed. Right about then, Ken Whisenhunt’s cell phone rang in his living room in Arizona.
“You are not only playing in the NFC Championship game next Sunday,” I said. “You are hosting the NFC Championship game next Sunday.”
To which Whisenhunt replied, “WE ARE?! HOLY SHIT! I HAD NO IDEA! THANK YOU, PETER KING. YOU ARE GARLOX, THE BESTOWER OF FATES.”
I swear to you, this man could easily work the red carpet at the Golden Globes one day. No questions for people. Just mindlessly regurgitating obvious circumstances to them. “Mickey Rourke, you were once unemployed, and a wife strangler. Now, YOU’RE A GLOBE WINNER.” “Kate Winslet! Not only were you nominated. YOU WON.” “Mr. Puck! You have made sole for dinner.”
Think of the headlines from the weekend.
I’ll try. How about, “JESUS LIVING FUCK COULDN’T THERE HAVE BEEN ONE DECENT GAME BESIDES TITANS-RAVENS TO SAVE ME FROM MY FUCKING HORRIBLE EXISTENCE?!”
McNabb, yanked in November, leads Eagles to fifth title game this decade.
Not as punchy as mine. May I suggest WON-ovan?
Flacco, no Fluke-o, the rookie QB wins his first two playoff games.
I see what you did there. But Tony Sacca still suck-a.
Will third Steelers-Ravens meeting of year be another Texas Steel Cage Match?
That’s Texas DEATH Match there, fella. You get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, King. While the rest of us troll for fucking discarded chicken wings in the gutter. KNOW YOUR GODDAMN WRESTLING NOMENCLATURE. It’s all I ask.
13. Minnesota (10-7). I see where Brad Childress has opened up the quarterback competition for next year. Good idea.
You think? See, because I was secretly praying he’d prematurely give the job to a guy who needs to take a timeout to ask if he can spike the ball.
But don’t bury Tarvaris Jackson yet.
Why not? BURY HIM, DAMMIT. Bury him deep, and bury him good. Pile on everything you can to make sure he doesn’t get out: bricks, mortar, molten lead, Romeo Crennel… AS LONG AS HE STAYS IN THE COLD HARD EARTH.
14. San Francisco (7-9). Happy trails to you, Aaron Salkin. You have been a heck of a PR man for the Niners, and you will be very good somewhere else.
Couldn’t this have been a simple email? Do WE need to hear this message? I fully expect King to use MMQB as a convenient dumping ground for all personal communication henceforth, especially thank you notes.
“Cheers to you, Fran Johnson. We loved the pie!”
“What a lovely wedding you throw, Bob Dawson.”
“Lady Heather, why so stingy with the jumper cables? HAS LITTLE PETER PIGGY OFFENDED YOU, MASTER?”
Enjoyable/Aggravating Travel Note of the Week
Back on the road again. What a great weekend. Not just because of the football, but because I discovered Nashville. I never knew what a gem of a city it was.
They have ribs!
A stupid gripe first.
Is there any other kind?
I don’t want to say it was too hot on my Newark-to-Nashville Continental flight the other morning, but the mini-Kit Kat in my lunch snack couldn’t be opened because the chocolate was percolating inside.
GAHHH! You bastards! Peter couldn’t enjoy his Kit Kat! It was a special gift for elite flyers! Don’t you people know that chocolate is tempered? TEMPERED! ONE DEGREE CAN RUIN A KIT KAT FOREVER! He will break himself off a piece of that Kit Kat bar IN YOUR ASS!
On Friday, sandwiched around a trip to see the Ravens at their downtown hotel, I did two of the most enjoyable things in Peter King Roadtrip History. My wife made the trip with me, and we visited the Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s estate 13 miles northeast of Nashville.
Will there be slides? FETCH ME MY CAROUSEL PROJECTOR!
Incredibly educational trip, particularly in learning about slavery
There were slaves? In America? Well, whip my back raw, why don’t you?
— how slaves were housed and treated most notably.
Did the slaves also get melty Kit Kats?! CONTINENTAL, YOU ARE THE COTTON PLANTATION OF THE SKIES.
Jackson had about 150 slaves on his property. Families of six or eight lived in tiny log cabins, bunking almost wherever there was room.
Yes, but they did get to work the land.
Just as interesting was the tradition of dueling.
“Let me tell you about what I read on the museum plaque! INCREDIBLE STUFF!”
Seeing Loretta Lynn sing “Coal Miner’s Daughter” at the Ryman Auditorium in the Grand Ole Opry … well, I can only imagine it’s something like someone seeing the Cubs-Cards at Wrigley Field on a sunny July afternoon. And then doing a show-finale duet with Vince Gill … very, very cool, and that comes from someone with no love for country music.
Oh, did YOU not get to see it? I bet you’re one of those filthy peasants who avoids high culture and BLOCKS UP I-95 FOR THE IMPORTANT PEOPLE.
It’s like I can hear Loretta’s voice now from that florid description!
All in all, a great night.
Glad you had fun. This was just like talking to an in-law on the phone!
f. The 9-7 Cards or the 9-6-1 Eagles in the Super Bowl. What a country.
It’s really an amazing story, when you think about it. Why, the Eagles immigrated here from Costa Rica not but a decade ago!
Mark Clayton is a tougher receiver than I thought. Must be learning from Derrick Mason.
BUT DOES HE PATIENTLY SIGN AUTOGRAPHS?!
I have been critical of McNabb for not coming up big in some big games, but that was the definition of clutch.
If you remember last week, it was Brian Westbrook and Ed Reed who were the definition of clutch. Now, McNabb defines clutch. Next week, someone else will almost certainly define clutch. This is why, when we define words, we use OTHER WORDS to do it. People are notoriously unreliable for lexicographic purposes.
The Titans benefited from a Ravens offside on their first PAT attempt of the day Saturday, putting the ball at the Baltimore 1. Why not go for two?
Because that would have been stupid?
Saturday was not a day for the plodding LenDale White. Titans used him too much, and I say that knowing Chris Johnson got hurt.
They should have thawed the corpse of Chris Brown, dammit.
Third quarter, third-and-10, Baltimore ball at its 20. Tied, 7-7. Joe Flacco fits a bullet into a tight hole, right into Todd Heap’s gut, with two defenders around him. Huge play. And Heap drops it. Very, very big play in the game. Good thing for the Ravens it didn’t cost them later.
HUGE play. Completely changed the whole outcome of the game. Except that it didn’t. Really more of a Fluke-o play when you think about it. TWO CAN PUN AT THAT GAME, MY FRIEND.
Now we move onto Peter’s Hall of Fame musings. I’ll spare you the majority of them, in accordance with the Geneva Conventions. But there was this one:
Special-teamer Steve Tasker. No surprise he didn’t make the finals. Just sad.
We should give him a Kit Kat.
We have to realize sometime that special teams is a major part of the game (not a third, the way some people say, but a significant fifth), and Tasker was the best ever to play them.
So it’s a major part of the game, but it doesn’t even have the mathematical value that is popularly ascribed to it? “Vote for Steve Tasker! He mattered even less than you think! I SAVED ALL HIS VOICE MAILS!”
But to suggest Tebow’s some sort of maladroit (there’s your PKWOTW) and marginal prospect is demeaning and downright wrong.
Maladroit means clumsy and unskillful. Is there anyone in the universe who believes Tim Tebow is unskilled? AND DOESN’T HE DEFINE CLUTCH?
I think I need to make a few comments/clarifications about the All-Pro team I ran in the mag and online last week, and the one I filed as one of 50 voters for the Associated Press’ annual All-Pro team.
Let me just look at Peter’s All Pro team for reference and GAHHHHH HE VOTED FOR WELKER?! WHAT THE FUCK?
/tears out own eyes
Secondly: I voted for Peppers on the AP ballot at defensive end and Suggs on the SI team. This vote semi-tormented me
Did you have a semi-argument with yourself about it?
I haven’t done this forever, but I’ve changed to now voting as much as I can (except in cases like Suggs’) for right and left, free and strong. I’ll vote for a right and left tackle, right and left guard, etc. The AP suggests that, and I think it’s smart.
The AP has suggested rules for filling out your All-Pro ballot? I find that incredibly appropriate.
“When filling out your ballot:
1. Please pick football players, and not blacksmiths.
2. Please pick them according to position, and not whether or not they’ve attended the Opry.
3. Please use a pen to fill out your ballot, and not your own feces.”
But more about David Eckstein, I mean Wes Welker.
Wes Welker’s caught more balls than anyone in football over the last two years
BECAUSE RANDY MOSS IS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FUCKING FIELD.
and he’s done it playing with two quarterbacks when everyone on defense knows he’s going to be the target 10 to 12 times every game.
ZOMG! HE MIGHT GET THE BALL TEN TIMES A GAME! AND NEVER SCORE! WE HAVE TO ABANDON COVERING MOSS TO CONTAIN THIS GRITTY FELLOW!
Dallas Clark is Peyton Manning’s security blanket; his number aren’t as good as Tony Gonzalez’s, but to me his value is higher, partially because the Colts win and the Chiefs don’t.
So it’s Tony Gonzalez’ fault that his team is coached by Herm Edwards and quarterbacked by Tyler Thigpen?
Mitch Albom, you wrote a tremendous, moving, stirring story about Detroit in Sports Illustrated this week. The end, with the reaction of the theater crowd to Clint Eastwood’s “Gran Torino,” fit the story so well. Congratulations. That’s a must-read for fans of the teams of your city — and for fans of the American city. Any city.
*story originally written by Drew Sharp
Isn’t Hollywood nice. Finally letting “Gran Torino” in a theater near you. And me.
FINALLY, THE EXTORTION ENDS.
Coffeenerdness: Hard by the campus of Vanderbilt is a Starbucks on West End Avenue, and if you went in there over the weekend, you saw (presumably) Vanderbilt students come in by the dozens, looking like they just got out of bed, some in pajama pants, and I think about half the girls in Uggs boots. Starbucks has it figured out — or did, until they started building stores across the street from each other. Get kids hooked on tasty caffeine early, and it’ll last a lifetime.
And look who’s proof! LITTLE PETEY CAN’T RESIST THAT TASTY CAFFEINE.
e. These Uggs are everywhere.
My God! Where did this hot new trend come from? AND SINCE WHEN DID KIDS START TRAVELING VIA RAZOR SCOOTER?! WHAT A COUNTRY!
g. We were talking in the press box before the game Saturday about the decline of newspapers, with the news that the Rocky Mountain News and Seattle Post-Intelligencer are on their deathbeds. And one of my peers — I forget whom — said, “It’s amazing. I thought what’s happened to the business in the last year would have taken about 10 years.”
“It’s amazing. I thought they’d just let us keep losing money for another century or so.”
h. If you’re an aspiring journalist, learn to love the web.
And Kit Kats. Always love Kit Kats.