Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Sunday Night, Football

  • All field goal kickers are into Jesus in a specifically white, suburban way.
  • This brand-savvy individualism has got to stop: during the little tape piece they run in the corner of the screen to introduce the players, there is now a free-for-all going on.
  • You used to say your name, and then your college.
  • No exceptions.
  • Now you can mention your nickname, or your elementary school, or your pet goldfish’s name.
  • “Big ups to Stinkyfin back home!”
  • This started, as most terrible football-related things do, with Michael Irvin.
  • And the rest of the University of Miami guys: we got “The U.”
  • Then, of course, the college powerhouse that is “THE–
  • –Ohio State University” got involved and now anyone can do whatever the hell they want.
  • Just be simple with it.
  • “Richard Ramirez, UCLA.”
  • “Charles Starkweather, Nebraska.”
  • “Ryan Fitzpatrick, Harvard.”
  • In fact, every player should just announce himself as Ryan Fitzpatrick from Harvard.
  • Unless the player has a great Ridiculous Football Name.
  • D’Brickashaw Ferguson and Ha-Ha Clinton Dix may keep their names.
  • Dom Capers may also keep his name.
  • Put some Julius Peppers on your Dom Capers and you got dinner, baby.
  • Football is the only hurdle to a clean cut of the cable.
  • Old scripted shows are on Netflix or Hulu or YouTube if you now how to search.
  • New shows can be torrented within an hour of airing.
  • Live non-football stuff can be viewed in highlight form the next morning on Buzzfeed.
  • There’s only going to be six entertaining minutes in tonight’s Emmy Awards: I’ll watch it in both video and GIF format tomorrow.
  • Plus, my phone keeps notifying me as to who won because for some reason my phone thinks the Emmy Awards are news.
  • Football, though, needs to be watched live, and on the biggest screen in the house.
  • Illegal means must be resorted to, therefore.
  • You have to go to some shady-ass sites, and they are all so very European.
  • I guess the EU doesn’t recognize the NFL’s authority or something.
  • You can’t get anywhere near these streams without AdBlock; or, preferably, AdBlock’s meth-addicted cousin with two strikes and a machete.
  • You cannot go to these websites on your iPhone because before you are halfway through entering the address fourteen new pages open, the App Store starts up, and your camera turns on; I distinctly heard an Estonian man tell me I looked pretty.
  • You have to take what you can get: whichever feed is the smoothest is the one you leave on, and if that means the British cable channel with soccer promos where Papa John’s commercials should be, then so be it.
  • Good job, Europe: you’ve made me miss Papa John’s.
  • I’ve never met Peyton Manning, but I know in my heart that before those commercials, he sits there with the script, the check, and a calculator and figures out exactly how much he makes every time he’s forced to call a strange, tiny man “Papa”.
  • Things I would enjoy watching Pete Carroll get hit in the face with: baseball bat, vampire bat, big stick, piece of rebar, Toyota Tacoma, sword, unwashed dildo (in slow-motion.)
  • No one involved with football enjoys football.
  • They might love it, or be obsessed with it, but no one looks like they’re having any fun.
  • It’s just angry assholes chewing gum at each other.
  • Seriously: everybody’s chomping away; an NFL team’s gum budget must be astronomical.
  • Aaron Rodgers’ commercials are far more enjoyable than those featuring Russell Wilson, because Russell Wilson is creepy and Aaron Rodgers’ strategy for commercials is to stand there while fat guys yell at him.
  • One day, Russell Wilson will live in the Problem Attic, you mark my words.
  • I’m not saying he goes to those children’s hospitals for the erections.
  • I am not saying that.
  • My favorite announcing trope is when they talk about the visits they had with the players.
  • “I went and visited with Coach McCarty…”
  • “When I had a chance to visit with Peyton….”
  • Not a meeting.
  • Nor a conversation.
  • Visit.
  • Like it’s the 1840’s and the only way to talk to people was wandering to their house and knocking on the door.
  • Does the announcer leave his calling card at the end of the visit?
  • Is the player obligated to provide lemonade, or perhaps a shandy?
  • Has an impromptu hootenanny ever broken out?
  • These are the questions you ask yourself when you mute Al and Chris and listen to the 9/18/74 from the new box set.
  • (This is not from the box set, but it sounds okay.)


  1. Best thing about the super bowl last year was an asshole coach was going to lose. The fact that it happened so epically was fabulous. Of course now we have cheaters as champs but that is very America

  2. Listening to that 74 show.

    Wondering why when Black Throated Wind returned in 1990, it was so unfulfilling. The Black Throat Wind in 1974 was still really wonderful.

    Could Mickey be to blame?

    Or was the band just too jumpy in 1990 to have anything besides a Jerry Ballad have so much empty space in it.

    Sometimes we wish for a song to come back, and in the end it is best that it remains a memory.

  3. Ahh, there’s a nice first set!

  4. The new lyrics to B.T.Wind also left something to be desired. I think they were gone by the fall tour.

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