DRAFT STATUS

Posted on March 9, 2007

Name: Barry M. Hanson
Age: 21
Education: Eastern Middle Appalachian State Technical College
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 164 lbs.
Hands: 8 1/2”
IQ: 118
Words Per Minute: 80
Filing Challenge (100 documents): 20 min.
40-yard Sack Race: 8.26 sec.
Bend n’ Sniff (per minute): 28

Analysis: Scouts have questioned Hanson’s natural abilities and instincts for the game, as evidenced by a barely above-average I.Q. and a mediocre showing in the Filing Challenge (a scout for Citigroup noted Hanson’s problematic need to repeat, under his breath, the “alphabet song,” particularly for files in the R to W range). But a good showing in the typing test really increased his stock, and that impressive Bend n’ Sniff marks him as an employee sure to be a boss’s favorite.

Draft Projection: Early 2nd round — “Yes man” to corporate C.E.O.; personal assistant to Nicole Ritchie.
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What it Feels Like To Hug a Cloud

Posted on March 9, 2007

I saw my Dad for the first time in four years today. I stood in the supermarket in front of the frozen meats and he was at the end of the snack aisle, penned in behind a fleshy, red-faced woman and her cart full of sugar water and canned death. I waved to him, but he looked straight through me, as if he were trying to read the expiration date on the pork chops behind me. I rushed toward him to give him a hug and tell him I’m sorry I never hugged him enough before, and he’d better come back right away and see my new house with the dogs, and the little cave where I do my work, and the quarter-sized hole in the middle of the living room floor, and the big TV in the big living room where we can watch football together.

And if he didn’t come I would be so mad; last time he disappeared on us I wasn’t ready for it and I’m still not ready for it, no matter how many times I act like it doesn’t bother me. You promised us you were done scaring us, I said, and still he stared past me. You promised you would come home.
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This is The Redskins’ Year…

Posted on March 5, 2007

By: Ronald Otis

I just got off the phone with Steve. He’s pretty psyched about the Skins’ off-season so far, although he said he kinda hoped we would have done more. Maybe Adalius Thomas or Stallworth. I told him it’s only been a week, and he says we had Randle El, Archuleta, and Saunders by this point last year, so why should we get hyped about Smoot coming home?

Good point, I said. Maybe we’ll pull off a trade for Lance Briggs. We don’t have a ton of draft picks this year, but we can always send some from next year. That’s the thing other people don’t understand when they rag on us for giving up all these draft picks—we get new ones every year. For free. Why not trade them? It’s like finding oil in your backyard and then not selling it. If we hadn’t traded our picks last year, we never could have signed TJ Duckett, then, you know, who would have run when Portis went down?

Anyway, we’re off to a good start, I think. The Eagles are cheaping out as usual; they’re such a joke. The only time they ever did anything was ’04 when they spent a bunch of money, and still they don’t get it. We get it, though. We know.
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Thank God for AJ Feeley

Posted on March 4, 2007

Gus pushed through the door to The Lucky Shamrock, and was surprised to see that his old stool was free. In the adjacent stool, a tired woman sat, nursing her drink and wasting the seconds before she had to go home. He’d never seen a lonelier woman in his life, but there was aggressiveness about her loneliness that told him she wouldn’t bother him. It was too dark to tell if she was pretty, but she looking worn-out, and he already could smell her—she smelled like cigarettes and lemons.

As he sat down, he felt a strange warmth envelop him, the kind he’d felt as a child being tucked into bed. Sean stood behind the bar, just like he always had; it was like Gus had never left. The only difference was that Sean was bald now, and his nose looked like it had been dipped in bleach.

“Hey, Gus,” Sean said. “I thought you’d got cleaned up?

“I did.”

“Kitchen’s closed. You want a soda or something?”

“Michelob,” he said, slapping a twenty on the bar. “And a Jameson.”
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Transcript of a Phone Call From Ron Rivera to Jesse Jackson

Posted on February 20, 2007

Jackson: Yello?
Rivera: Good morning, Reverend Jackson, this is Ron Rivera…
Jackson: Who? I don’t know no Ron Rivera.
Rivera: I used to play for the Bears back in the ‘80s, and I most recently worked as their defensive coordinator…
Jackson: Who? What Bears we talking about? Is this some kind of hunting thing? I don’t hunt, you know. Not that I have any objection to it; my fingers are just too delicate.
Rivera: Oh. Well, this isn’t exactly about hunting. See—
Jackson: Good, that’s good. I’m anti-gun, you know. Too many young black men and women getting gunned down in the streets every day. It’s a travesty, an embarrassment, a terrible plague. Someone ought to do something about it.
Rivera: Um…
Jackson: So don’t be calling me about no guns. I don’t do guns. You got that?
Rivera: Sure. No guns.
Jackson: Good. So are we done then?
Rivera: Um, no, I don’t think so, Reverend. I was calling about something else…
Jackson: I’m a busy man, Mr. Rivers. I don’t have time to waste chit-chatting on the phone all day. Not when there’s souls to save. So if you got nothing important to say, then—
Rivera: Wait! It’s about racism in the NFL.
Jackson: Why the hell didn’t you say so? Who they holding back now? More penalties for the dances? You know that’s anti-black legislation, don’t you? Everyone knows only black men really dance, and I have the data here to prove that celebration penalties are called very disproportionately— Read more

The International Government Football League: Emails from Donald Rumsfeld to George W. Bush

Posted on February 2, 2007

July 4th, 2003
Subject: International Governmental Football League
From: Donald Rumsfeld [mightybombjack@whitehouse.gov]
To: George W. Bush [JesusSon@whitehouse.gov]

Mr. President,

The UN has approved our proposal of establishing the International Governmental Football League (IGFL) as an alternate means of settling diplomatic disputes. The rules are as follows:

1. Kofi Annan will act as Commissioner, unless we can persuade David Stern to leave the NBA.
2. All nations must field a team comprised of, and coached by, government employees. Even some rogue factions—Iraq and Al Qaeda, for example—have agreed to join the league.
3. We will play a 10 game season, followed by a 10-team playoff. Teams will not enter the playoffs based on won-loss records, but rather playoff seeding will be determined by a complex computer ranking system that takes into account fifty-eight carefully chosen factors, including: quality of victory, team colors, attractiveness of cheerleaders, strength of schedule, average yards per punt, number of Hail Mary passes completed, number of flea-flickers run, and an international text message poll.
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The Passion of Matt Millen

Posted on February 2, 2007

Sunday afternoon in December, and Ford Field was empty. Matt stood at midfield, scanning the seats for signs of life. Usually there were at least a few people in the stands, some wearing brown bags on their heads and others wearing blue t-shirts lettered in silver with “Fire Millen!” Others would sit glumly, slumped forward so drastically and so sadly that you could only see the tops of their heads and the backs of their XXL Sanders jerseys. And most weeks, there were opposing fans too. Those idiots in the cheeseheads were always there. And those bratwurst sucking fatties from Chicago—Matt hated them more than anyone (more, even, than that backstabbing Johnnie Morton) with their copycat mustaches and their Butkus jerseys and their jowly cheering for a team that never even had a good wide receiver, despite being around since at least 1961. Probably even longer than that, Matt thought. Like, 60 years longer. Matt shook his head and limped toward the sideline; this was no time to get caught up in details—there was a game to be played, and no one was in the stadium.

Cringing, Matt took a seat on the visitor’s bench. It hurt to sit, but it hurt even more to stand. His knees were so bad that he’d had an elevator installed in his house. Sure, it was a rancher, but it was nice to have an elevator anyway, just in case they ever added a second floor. Then no one would be laughing, and he’d never let anyone get on his elevator with him. Until then, the elevator was only good for lining up at the opposite end of the hallway, having someone press the Close Door button, and racing to get in before the door shut on him. He always won.
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