I don't want to overlook the Chiefs, but after all it's the preseason. With that said, is there anyone else exasperated by the amount of time the media spends on the Jets? I'm tired of seeing Fireman whatever-his-name-is lead J-E-T-S chants-I'm sick on Reevis' island and all the contract disputes- (He should be getting advice from someone other than his uncle, Sean Gilbert.) I'm sick of Hard Knocks- and most of all I'm sick of the D being compared to Buddy Ryan's famed 46 defense. 

Should we remind ourselves they were 9-7 last year and still play in one of the toughest divisions in the league? Sure, they added some talent in the form of headaches. Holmes has been arrested numerous times and L.T. is another over 30 back with something to prove. Not to mention, but I guess I'm mentioning it, they will turn to a second year pro to engineer it all. All said, I'm hoping for a catastrophic meltdown. That, and the Birds second team takes it to them. 

With the start of the season drawing near I still remain cautiously optimistic. There was a time I wanted to see Reid and Earwig gone, and that was when there were veterans on the offensive side of the ball. The team is obviously very young, and I don't think Kolb will survive the season in a throw-happy offense. 

<!--StartFragment-->

Some get drunk and become your best friend. Others constantly want to touch you, a few want to fight; and some get extremely emotional. Unfortunately, the few people I encountered at Texas Stadium with my dad and brother became raging assholes. My own issues with religion started long ago with my mother’s Catholicism and my father’s Methodist background. Even as a child church felt like a strange place to me. My brother and I were forced in uncomfortable clothes and asked to sit on an uncomfortable bench for hours without talking. Then, to top it all off, we were asked to give money so that we could return the following Sunday and do it all over again. Yet, I hold a place in my heart for the Bible and its stories even if no one can prove God’s existence.

Therefore God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and plenty of corn and wine. - GENESIS 027:028
King James

And he will love thee, and bless thee, and multiply thee: he will also bless the fruit of thy womb, and the fruit of thy land, thy corn, and thy wine, and thine oil, the increase of thy kine, and the flocks of thy sheep, in the land which he sware unto thy fathers to give thee. - DEUTERONOMY 007:013
King James

Gluttony

Have you ever been drunk enough to eat whatever was put in front of you? The raging assholes next to us in the parking lot at Texas Stadium during our 2005 trip answered that question. There were six of them. They weren’t much older than twenty, and were actually pretty cool and considerate of the people around them…at first. The more Bud Lite they pounded, the more they went into their Ford Explorer and hit a metal bowl, which meant more shit talking. The two main sponsors of Texas Stadium seemed to be Ford and Bud Lite. Now what’s more American than that?

One of the guys in the group was sloppy drunk and probably the most raging asshole. Let me explain. First, back to my drunk, eat anything comment. The group had one of those portable/disposable grills you can purchase at Wal-Mart/Target. This guy attempted to cook hamburgers, hotdogs, and brats on the 10x10 grill all at once. According to him the hotdogs were done within a few minutes. Keep in mind that once the food was passed out, the others ate it, despite the charcoal being lit only minutes earlier. This guy didn’t even wait for the lighter fluid to burn off, as the directions suggest. So, his friends were now eating hotdogs doused in lighter fluid that had been cooked maybe 3 minutes, leaving the hamburgers and brats to soak up the rest of the fumes.

The hamburgers came off next, which were quickly devoured. As this kid attempted to turn the brats, now for the first time since they had been cooking, each one stuck to the grill. With a little force, using his hand I might add, he tried to poke the brats away from the grill’s grates, sending them onto the parking lot ground. He seemed unfazed by this, despite the close proximity of cigarette butts, bowl ash, and spit. When he was finished cooking, he began to prepare his own plate. The over-cooked on one-side brats, filled his plate. He went to give each roll a squirt of ketchup and when the lid came loose, his brat became a ketchup mess. None of this deterred him, as each ketchup roll was choked down, leaving ketchup to be wiped on his jeans. He used his buddy’s shirt to wipe his mouth. This led to an amusing, stumbling chase around the parking lot. Each move this guy made caused my brother and I to nudge each other, just to make sure the other was seeing what the nudged was seeing. My dad kept laughing, and protecting our parking pass, which seemed to be a hot commodity. A few guys on bicycles approached us and wanted to purchase the pass.

After the group of six was done eating, it was back to drinking. They now had the after dinner drinks out, minus the after dinner drinks. Shots of Jager and Whiskey ensued. The crappy cook of the group began to make eye contact with people around the lot, especially the three Eagle fans next to him. That meant us.

“I wonder who I’m gonna’ fight today,” Stumbles yelled.

After the third time he repeated the threat it became more humorous. All 6 of them were staggering, intoxicated messes. I don’t think two of them made the game. As we witnessed the situation deteriorating, we decided to head into the stadium. Two members of the group were barely conscious sitting upright in their lawn chairs.

***

The inside of Texas Stadium had the feeling of a rodeo. Not that I had ever been to a rodeo, but if I ever had been to one, Texas Stadium is how I imagined a rodeo to be. Maybe it was all the cowboy hats. (Not the team.) Honestly, I think it was the set up of the seats. The incline at Lincoln Financial Field offers a leg work-out. Texas Stadium didn’t seem to have a nose bleed section. The angles of the sections were more like a slight climb rather than a vertical trek. If you’ve ever been to a High School football game, where you sit on bleachers, you might understand the feeling I got sitting in Texas Stadium. I will say the hole in the roof was a lot bigger than I expected. Personally, I think the Cowboy organization ran out of money at the time of construction, that being the reason for the hole.

The guys in front of us were also friendly… until they got a few beers into them. Actually I think they were drinking wine coolers. That might have explained the fanny packs, because both went out in the 80’s. A fact I was clear to point out to these guys once they told us how they really felt about Yankees. We didn’t see them after half time. The Cowboys might be dubbed “America’s Team”, but I truly believe most of them are catalog fans. I swear I saw price tags of some of the Drew Bledsoe jerseys. Catalog fans know the name of their team’s quarterback and maybe 2-3 other star players. Catalog fans are trendy, just like calling the Cowboys “America’s Team.” The trend, like jean jackets and friendship bracelets, is over.

<!--EndFragment-->

<!--StartFragment-->

There’s one thing on Sunday, December 21st I hated more than the McDonald’s commercials that insult intelligence, and that was the Eagle’s offense. Between the McDonald’s R&B boy and the singing fish, my screen flashed “Happy Holidays” before the start of the game. The game was to take place in Landover, Maryland, as the Eagles had already lost to the Redskins earlier in the season at the Linc. FEDEX field was a place I had come to hate, not only because it was home to a division foe, but also because of my personal experience with Football Gatsby and Satan’s magical hangover elixir.

It’s difficult to fight with reception, fend of my pets trying to sit in my lap, and watch the game on a television of Umpa-Lumpa size. Often I can’t handle the FOX announcers, for this particular game troy Aikman and Joe Buck. Instead of listening to Joe Buck repeat himself, I will mute the television and listen to Merrel Reese call the game through the speakers of my computer. I couldn’t say it better regarding the magnitude of this game: “There is so much at stake. This is basically a play-off game for the Eagles. Win this game, beat Dallas next Sunday at the Linc, and the Eagles are in the playoffs. Lose this game, and the Eagles are all but dead.” The Eagles lack of intensity became the reason I wanted to kick my We-man television across the room when the Eagles could only muster a grand total of three points in such an important game.

The menagerie that is my house exploded with experlatives when McNabb laid two balls into the arms of De’Sean Jackson during the second half. Jackson, solid all year as a rookie, suddenly developed a case of Ben Grimm syndrome. In the end McNabb got the Birds close, but Reggie Brown continued to be a thorn in my side and forgot how to run a route with five seconds left in the game. To me, a spectator to the sport, it would make sense to run your route as a wide receiver into the actual end-zone in case time expires. That way you’re not helicopter-tackled on the one-foot-line, leaving Reese to say, “As Reggie Brown goes down there is no way the ball is across the plain of the goal line and I think the season has just ended.” Why is Reggie Brown smiling and hugging Redskin players at the end of the game? Stretch the ball over the goal line, Reggie and you’d have a reason to smile.

Do I seem bitter? It’s probably because I am. I’m all for sportsmanship like inhockey: I think the tradition of shaking hands after the game is important for the integrity of the game. Maybe it’s just me, but I hate players that laugh and joke after a loss. How could I possibly take the game more seriously than they do? Behavior like this makes me want to go serial-killer on fans and players alike that don’t take Sunday seriously.

John Wayne Gacy used to dress as “Pogo the Clown.” He was convicted and later executed for the murder and rape of thirty-three boys and young men.

The original Ronald McDonald was Pogo scary. My body went into spasms when my parents had a surprise birthday party for me at McDonald’s, complete with Ronald McDonald stand-in.   

My brother and I would visit the local McDonalds each Saturday with our dad. He’d pretend not to notice when we’d steal as many ketchup packets as would fit in our pockets, jam them under his tire, then laugh hysterically when the ketchup splattered all over the car next to ours. I swear I saw my dad smiling a few times.

Pogo buried his victims in shallow graves in his basement. Pogo was so confident the lye would cover the decomposing corpse he invited a local law enforcement over for dinner. The cop’s keen nose recognized the autopsy smell. One thing I have in common with Pogo: I’ve tried covering up smells. I worked at McDonald’s one summer, and tried everything to cover the distinct smell that had burrowed like a weevil into my pores. Ever since then, McDonald’s customers eating cooked flesh remind me of Dahmer opening his freezer for a midnight snack.

Recently, I’ve thought back to these experiences and contemplated: Who’s in charge of the current McDonald’s ad campaign? It’s sure as hell not Pogo. Some version of the psycho clown and the cop enjoying a Big Mac together would be better than roller skating basketball players, or a wall-mounted depressed fish singing: What if it were you hanging up on this wall/If it were you in that sandwich you wouldn’t be laughing at all. A bonding experience, like the one my brother and I had with my dad in the Vet parking lot, would be better than a love affair with a ten piece McNugget as the estranged lover sings, Girl you got a ten piece/ please don’t be stingy.

What happened to Larry Bird and Michael Jordan competing in the longest game of horse for the right to a Big Mac? Can anybody actually think of a McDonalds add that made you want to buy their product? Please don’t say that 80’s commercial with Jason Alexander, or the 90’s commercial with the slogan, have you had your break today? In this commercial McDonalds tries to show that they can appease to the masses. A black lady enters her store. The ridiculousness begins when the viewer realizes how hard McDonalds is trying. The lady seems to own a store that sells African memorabilia. At this point the statues on the wall and counters begin to dance. They are ecstatic the woman has purchased McDonalds for lunch. McDonald’s over-reliance on outdated tropes seems more insulting. I think for McDonalds next commercial they should depict a Mexican mixing tequila, wearing a sombero. Or better yet, a Native American on a reservation taking a break from drinking to use his government funded allowance to but McDonalds.

Monkeys could have written the company’s latest montage to sell its iced latte. McDonald’s slogan, I’m Lovin’ It, has turned me into a hater. There’s no way I should be subjected to these commercials fifteen, twenty times each Sunday. Sunday, you see, is my day in front of the television watching football. I live in the dinosaur age of technology. I don’t have TiVo, or even basic cable for that matter. So my duct-tapped rabbit ears cycle the same ten commercials over and over again because I’m only picking up the local feed. When I’m not at the actual Philadelphia Eagle games I’m left fighting with reception, or going to the bar. I turn into a foaming-at-the-mouth dog when the Eagles are losing, and a PCP user when they’re winning. I tend to take out my aggression on inanimate objects, including McDonald’s commercials.

Here’s a text I received from my brother on December 28th 2008 at 6:56 pm regarding the R&B McDonalds commercials:

HAAAAA! That commercial is awesome. R they serious? Whos supposed 2 b the audience 4 that? Crappy rb singers who love meat?

Maybe I’ve lost my sense of humor, Pogo the clown lodged in my head. All those Dahmer hamburgers I cooked haunting my dreams.

Come June 2009, one of the biggest cons in American history will be complete. Oprah, like she’s warning about the dangers of Chlamydia, cautions us in her own commercial about the switch from analog to digital signals. The government and Oprah make it sound like they’re doing us a favor by offering a partial rebate for a converter box. The movie, Total Recall wasn’t far off when inhabitants of Mars were charged for air. Hopefully Schwarzenegger is still on our side—we can continue to breath while listening to the radio. Have I fallen for McDonaldization in a broader sense? I continue to invite Pogo/Ronald into my house each time I turn on my television.

            George Ritzer coined the phrase McDonaldization. Each Sunday, I feel my house become McDonaldized with commercials, phone calls, and my computer dinging with the delivery of new emails.  Ritzer’s definition of McDonaldization is: “The process by which the principles of the fast-food restaurant are coming to dominate more and more sectors of American society as well as the rest of the world.” Each Sunday during Eagle games, Pogo/Ronald bunkers down inside my living room like a butcher’s dog. McDonald’s keeps asking me to McCafé My Day and To Love It.
 If drinking a McCafé is going to cause me to pronounce cubicle, cubiclé, I might retreat to a cabin in Montana. 

            Based on McDonald’s slogans, maybe they do want me to adopt a sense of humor. The 70’s saw such tag lines as Nobody can do it like McDonalds can and You, you’re the one. Recently, We love to see you smile had a decent run. I think the brain-trust at McDonalds had humor in mind when they wrote, Oh, girl, I know your secret/You got that McNuggets lovin’/Why can’t you, share your love with me? To me, crappy R&B boy seems like a psychopath singing about dead chickens? McDonaldization wants to make us all Dahmer’s of McDonald’s.

That Bobby Brown wanna-be might want to remember Morgan Spurlock’s Super Size Me, or the french-fry advertisement fiasco when McDonalds swore they only, "peel them, slice them, fry them and that's it." Sure, McDonald’s. Finding out you were using beef in your French-fries must have brought a smile to everyone’s face. My dad liked the extra meat, but swore he would never eat McDonald’s again when he found out they used soy in their hamburgers.

What’s a hater to do? I’m a contributor to McDonaldization when I attend Eagle home games. Their stadium isn’t called Lincoln Financial Field because the owners are big Abe Lincoln fans. My solution would go something like this: Cabin in the woods. Generate electricity with home-made windmills/solar panels. Buy a thousand-dollar television with a thousand-dollar rebate. Order NFL football package.

We all have our vices.