Despite protests, claiming that they will gain an unfair competitive advantage, from the other members of the Big Ten Conference, Nebraska has revealed their alternate home uniforms for the 2013 season.
After former NFL wide receiver Titus Young was arrested for the third time in two days, on May 12th 2013, local law enforcement in Orange County were put on high alert. Following a brief period of time in which he wasn’t arrested, they held a news conference to try to quell any public outrage.
“We are pleased to announce that, as a department, we have not arrested Titus Young in nearly 170 hours.” The Sheriff’s office announced in a press conference on Tuesday afternoon in a statement was met with wild applause by Titus Young’s mother and his agent who had, presumably, snuck into the back of the conference.
“We called you all here today, because we truly believe that this period of un-arrest merits a congratulatory period at our offices. Each of our officers who haven’t had to arrest Titus Young have been formally reprimanded for their oversight in this matter and we know that, while this is truly a momentous moment for our department, he’s probably out somewhere doing something illegal. As such, we are going to be waiting an additional 48-72 hours before disbanding our newly formed ‘Titus Task Force’ and before no longer requiring our officers to run two warmup laps and perform group stretches on the departmental track before starting their shifts.”
“Frankly,” the Sheriff’s office continued, “we thought Titus might be going for the record.”
“The Record” that they were referring to was once held by local miscreant, and noted convict, Tim ‘Skeezy’ Skagnetti, who was once arrested four times in two days.
While the Sheriff”s office was initially unclear on the charges that might be awaiting Young, they shed some light on that as well, during their brief time in front of the media.
“What we’re looking at charging Mr. Young with, now, would be 10-12 years for aggravated idiocy; a charge that was created by our legal team on the spot, since there was literally no precedent for such moronic behavior.”
When pressed for further details about what it may have looked like when Young attempted to steal his car back from the police impound lot the spokesperson merely stood off to one side and rolled this mysterious footage.
Former Chiefs coach and noted romantic, Romeo Crennel, has accepted the head coaching position for the Mantua Manglers of the OOIFL (Other, Other, Indoor Football League). Crennel, recently exiled to Mantua after running afoul of the Prince of Kansas City didn’t take long before he was taking a new job. He was kind enough to sit down with me for a recent interview in which we cleared the air, talked a little about his current gig, and touched on his ill-fated time as the star cross’d coach of the Chiefs.
Chris Hatch: Thanks for joining me, Romeo. Tough break, getting the Golden Axe in Kansas City. How’re you holding up?
Romeo: Ay, me. Sad hours seem long.
CH: What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
Romeo: Not having that, which, having, makes them short?
CH: In a job?
CH: A job?
Romeo: Of a job. In a place with the best barbecue ribs in the country.
CH: Damn it, now you’re making me sad. Let’s keep it together here, Romeo. What about life here in Mantua? It doesn’t seem so bad. I mean, they’ve got a Sizzler, a Carl’s Junior, a 2-Screen Movie theatre. You’ll forget about KC soon enough, right?
Romeo: O, teach me how I should forget to think?
CH: Let’s talk about some of the positives. The Manglers are stacked. They’re coming off an 8-2 season last year and they were in the OOIFL’s championship game. And what about your Quarterback? Tim Dickinson was the MVP last year. What can you say about his performance thus far?
Romeo: O, he doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems he hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear.
CH: Umm. . .that’s high praise. I think. See things don’t sound so bad here. Shoot me straight, though, Romeo. Some people are saying that you’re not cut out for a head coaching gig in the NFL. They see that you failed in KC. And you also had a pretty rough stint in Cleveland–
Romeo: They jest at scars that never felt a wound.
CH: But, you know. . .Cleveland’s always in a pretty rough spot. What if they wanted you back in some capacity?
Romeo: Tempt not a desperate man.
CH: Yeah, you’re right. That probably wasn’t cool of me. Listen, though, man. I’ve brought a peace offering. I spoke with our mutual friend Bill Belichik and he asked me to drop off a copy of his playbook from the 2000 season when you guys were working together in New England. He thought you could use the help.
Romeo: If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
CH: You’re not going to kiss that playbook are y—and you just did. I guess this is what rock bottom looks like.
Romeo: No. Here’s rock bottom. I’ll give you 10 bucks for a ride to Golden Corral. . .
CH: My poverty, but not my will, consent.
On May 15th the NBA rejected a group of investors’ bid to move the Sacramento Kings to Seattle, Washington, the home of the one-time Seattle Supersonics. The team, the league’s Board of Governors (*Author’s note: this is the part where I started imagining Marc Cuban wearing a powdered wig and shouting out “Nay, good sir! Nay!” during an antiquated voting scenario. Board of Governors? They shouldn’t be allowed have such an awesomely old school name without wearing black robes and wigs worn by the Whigs. Your move, David Stern.) ruled on Wednesday, would be staying right where they are.
This comes on the heels of the Seattle group’s latest attempts to woo the oft-times waffling Maloof brothers, the current owners of the Kings, with another fat valuation increase that saw the potential northern invaders offering up an additional 50 million in cash for the team; a kind of financial middle finger to the league for rejecting their initial proposal. A kind of, “oh, you don’t think we want the team bad enough? He’s another 50 large to calm your nerves.” Or as Chris Rock playing a the ghost of a black guy trapped inside a living white guy’s body once said, “Shut up before I crush you with my wallet.”
So why did the NBA reject the offer from the Seattle investors? It certainly wasn’t money. Maybe it was something else. Something less in the public eye. After all, the cliché mongers say, it’s the little things that count, right?
That got me thinking. What could the Seattle billionaires have done differently? What could they have used to sweeten the pot, to entice the all-powerful Board of Governors to appease their request and return a franchise to the once-great basketball city of Seattle? Here’s a few ideas that I firmly believe would have let the Board of Governors know they really meant business. Had they utilized these options, I think we’d be discussing what to call the newly purchased Seattle Kingersonics and talking about the ramifications of another team headed further north on the west coast.
1. Make every night a Detlef Schrempf bobblehead night.
Say his name. Go ahead. Try it. You’ll sound like Elmer Fudd after his fourth keg stand. That name will gloriously roll off your lisping lips and crash-land onto someone’s ears with all the grace of a Kamikaze airplane. Detlef needs to be remembered. Not for the 13.9 career scoring average, or even his delectable cocktail of ‘80s hair (*Author’s note: Two shots flat-top, one shot military buzzcut, two shots mullet. Mix in a blender and pour over goofy whiteness. Enjoy!). No, Detlef needs to be remembered as a Seattle Supersonic. A team and a place where a guy who looks like this can get his own Taco Trading card. (*Author’s note: how did I NOT know there were taco trading cards?!?!?!?!?!?!?!)
2. Get Sir Mix-a-Lot on board as a minority owner.
(*Author’s note: no, not that kind of minority. Racists.)
Seattle doesn’t have much of a hip-hop past. I checked Wikepedia and there really wasn’t much. So who should the Seattle investors have rolled out as their rap-game mogul that wanted in on the action? Look no further than Mix-a-Lot. Yeah, I understand we’re all completely sick to death of hearing morons do karaoke impressions of “Baby Got Back.” But Sir Mix-a-Lot had a ton of other hits, right? Right?!?! Well I still love this song, and besides, who can’t picture Boogie Cousins, Jimmer Fredette, and John Salmons all doing the “jump on it” dance at the start of the second half?
3. Hire Shawn Kemp as the team life coach. Then have the team do the exact opposite of everything he tells them.
The team could air these little segments called, “It’s Reigning Men”, on the team’s big screen during halftime of the games. Who could say no to that? Plus, Shawn Kemps 18 kids need the money. Here’s one guy who we know not only had a taco trading card, he probably used that taco trading card to buy a few 6 Pack and 6 Pounds meals.
4. I’ve said it once, I’ve said it twice, I’ve said it fiftyleven times. Get Phil Jackson on board with the team in some capacity.
How hard could it be to get Phil, his bong, and his motorcycle collection to a place that has legalized weed, a salivating (*Author’s note: or on Salvia) fan base and long stretches of isolated coastline to ride on? He’d be in faster than you could hotbox a hookah tent.
5. And speaking of legalized marijuana. . .
Pot brownie concession stands. Think of all the revenue that would generate? Sure it’s a nightmare for the league’s image. Sure Boogie Cousins would be spotted during 30-second timeouts hammering down a gigantic brownie loaded with canibus, but if you think people spend a lot of money at the concession stand now? Wait until they’ve gotten stricken with the munchies and their team is down 23 in the 4th quarter.
In short, the Seattle guys totally botched this one. Thankfully, in about 15 minutes the Pelicans, Bobcats, and any other terribly-run organization will probably be looking to pack up and ship out. Hold onto your money, boys. And next time, call me when you’re getting ready to do the negotiations.
Chip Kelly has gained notoriety in recent days by doing away with the Eagles’ now infamous “Taco Tuesdays” and “Fast Food Fridays” that were staples under head coach Andy Reid’s tenure.
However, the coach was unprepared for the media firestorm that he would face after announcing that they would be having a “Dogfight Friday” this week.
“Wow, there’s a lot of media here,” a confused Kelly said during his daily post-practice press conference with the media. ”You guys must like hot dogs, huh?”
Seated between two “fighting ‘dog” trophies Kelly went on to explain his philosophy behind the so-called “Dog Fight Fridays” and why he thought that having a team-wide hot dog eating contest would be a great bonding experience for players that were new to his coaching philosophy.
“After all,” Coach Kelly quipped, “it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the dog. . .in the bun! Am I right?!? Am I right?!?” He asked a dumbfounded crowd.
His consternation continued, as he noticed the size of the media presence before him. ”I can’t really believe this is such a national story. We’re just having a good, ‘ole fashion, dogfight. You know, Dog versus Dog to the bitter end. With a little ketchup, of course.”
At that point during the press conference an Eagles staff member rushed up to the podium and seen whispering something into Kelly’s ear.
“Oh, dear GOD!” The new coach could be heard exclaiming. ”Someone go find me Michael. Quick.”
What up, Mr. Tebow? Had a bit of a rough week, huh? Listen, I know you’re probably (*Author’s note: hopefully) busy practicing footwork and mechanics and not-throwing interceptions and stuff, but I was hoping you could give me a minute of your time.
I know that you’ve probably got people pulling your square jawline in a million different directions right now, but I think this is something that you need to hear.
Let’s be honest here, my very un-laid friend. I don’t know that you’re going to get a better offer. Sure, you might think that trying to change positions and make a roster in the NFL as an “H-back” or a tight end might be a better route. Sure, you might believe that your destiny is still to play QB in the NFL and that – if you could just find the right situation or just get that looping, slow-mo windup to pick up the pace – you just need one tryout to impress someone. Hell, (*Author’s note: sorry, Tim. I swear. A lot. Forgive me, I know not what I do.) maybe you even think that heading up to Canada to play for the Montreal Alouettes, the team that apparently owns the rights to you if you go that route.
But I’m here to tell you, Timothy Richard, that none of these will pay off as much as if you come to play for the Omaha Beef. I’ll get to that in a moment, here, but first, let’s debunk the myth that anywhere other than the friendly confines of the Big O would be the place for you.
Let’s say you want to stick it out in the NFL. Let’s say you sit down with your disciples, your PR firm, and your parents and all of you say, “You know what? Tony Gonzalez is, like, 50 and he still dominates at the tight end spot. Jason Witten had a leaky, potentially explosive spleen and he still played the position at a high level. How hard can it be?” Then you decide, to heck with it. I’m going for it.
Then reality sets in.
The draft just happened. Free agents have been plucked. There are guys who make your athleticism and size seem a little too slow and a little too small who are clamoring to play tight end in the league. You’ll pull up to training camp with a flatbed truck-full of media coverage and scrutiny and suddenly each pass you drop will be a lead story on ESPN and each time you get beat by a kamikazing defensive end to the QB a pack of rabid atheists will GIF the living hell out of it and distribute it gleefully to every website on the planet with the click of a mouse. You’ll end up getting canned in the pre-season after not getting a fair shake because of your name.
Is that what you want, Mr. Tebow?
Let’s say you decide to hold firm. You say, “You know what? I’m a quarterback. That’s what I do. I’m taking the high road here and I’ll just make sure that I work my way back to the game.” You hit the quarterback guru-ing circuit so hard that you’ll have done more quarterback drilling than the ladies of Texas A&M did this past season with Johnny Football. All that joy and fun and love of the game? That’ll get rolled up in a spreadsheet and smoked like all those blunts your teammates at Florida used to smoke. (*Author’s note: sorry, Tim. I joke about drugs. A lot.) You’ll work on your mechanics and throw until your arms are dead. And by the time you’re done? It’ll be draft season again. And that fresh crop of cheap, hungry, young quarterbacks will come rolling into the league and you’ll be right back where you started. Throwing balls to D-2 receivers and hoping a scout shows up.
Is that the future you’ve envisioned, Timmy?
Finally, you might be saying to yourself. “Hey, there’s always Canada, right?” Which is the football equivalent of a former Miss America saying, “Hey, there’s always stripping, right?” (*Author’s note: I’ll let someone else explain what that is.)
Trust me. Canada isn’t where you want to be right now. Sure they have free healthcare and team names that sound like a creature from the Harry Potter books (see: Hamilton Tiger-Cats) but if you thought that Denver was cold? Oh, man. And you’d be stuck playing for a team called the Montreal Alouettes. In English that team translates to French Sissies. Picture this: it’s gameday. You roll off your ice-sculpted bed, head down to your igloo’s garage and hop onto your dogsled. You try to calculate how many F-ing kilometers an hour your dogs are pulling you, but the metric system just makes your head hurt, so you mush those bad boys along at warp speed. You get to the game and people keep shouting French swear words down at you, only you’re not sure if they’re being offensive or asking for your autograph. Your team loses by 40 points, you get frostbite on 9 of your 10 toes and throw 3 interceptions. The end.
Sound like a plan, Timothy R. Tebow?
Which leaves us with the logical, intelligent, career-renaissance-ing move. The final piece to your DaVinci Coded riddle (*Author’s note: I don’t think you’d like that one much, though, so no need to watch it.) that you can suddenly realize in a flash of glory.
The Omaha Beef.
Even their name beckons you to join. You’re beefy. You like beef. You may have even watched the cruddy late-night movies of that same name on BET. Okay, probably not.
They’re offering your $75 bucks a game, a town full of football maniacs, and most importantly: a roster spot. As a quarterback. Sure, you might be a backup on the field but you would be the biggest thing to land in Nebraska since. . .ever?
We have churches. And a zoo for all the media members who insist on tailing you around like they’re private eyes watching an unfaithful spouse. And that place directly to the East of Omaha, called Council Bluffs? Yeah, they could really use your spiritual help, my friend. If you’re good at football in Nebraska you’re good at everything in Nebraska. For life. Unless you end up getting life. (*Author’s note: See: Thunder Collins.)
We have a pretty decent airport terminal, but if you come to our team and air it out, we’ll have a Virgin Airways all our own.
Think about it. This is the place where we embraced Jeremiah Masoli and even Maurice Freaking-Clarett on our semi-pro team, the Nighthawks. Think what you could do here?
Tim, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, but why not stick down a gigantic, tender, delicious hunk of Omaha Beef?
As you may or may not know, Russell Westbrook (*Author’s note: or as I like to call him, The Russell West-B in Apt. 23) tore his meniscus in the Thunder’s first round matchup against the Houston Rockets. As you also may or may not know, The Russell West-B in Apt. 23 also likes to dress like an insane cocktail of Lady Gaga and LMFAO. We here at Burnpoetry were able to obtain an exclusive look at his one of a kind hospital gown he was rocking during the aforementioned surgery. Enjoy.