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Do you remember that simpler time in America? Do you remember how that felt? Do you remember this commercial?


Yes, there was a time when tow-headed young boys could give Cokes to famous defensive linemen. And the linemen would give the children sweaty souvenirs! When was the last time you saw that in Obama's America? What has happened to our nation? Or how about this, do you remember this?


We were all Peppers back then! No one saw color! It didn't matter if you were a boatin' Pepper, a totin' Pepper, a cookin' Pepper, or a good lookin' Pepper! It didn't even matter if you were Popeye! We all danced on the deck of a Staten Island Ferry boat! Only when I look at ads like this do I realize how much we've lost! Still not convinced? How about this, do you remember this?

Welcome back to the show. Listen, I think I need to clarify some remarks I made. For some reason, some people get all bent out of shape when you mention Adolf Hitler.

Look: I'm not saying that Barack Obama is exactly like Adolf Hitler. That would be insane! I just think he does certain things that resemble things Hitler also did. They both eat. Are you aware of that? You won't hear the liberal media talk about that, but it's true!

And how about the logo for Obama's health care plan? It looks almost swastika-esque, in my opinion.

Not overtly, of course. No one would come right out and make a logo that looks like a swastika--not even the O-bum-a administration. No, they're too subtle and sneaky for that. You have to stare at this thing for a while before it becomes apparent. Really stare at it. For like, five hours. Then smack yourself upside the head and pop three Vicodin. And throw some salt in your eyes.

It's amazing, isn't it? The Obamas make me jump through all these hoops so I can see their Nazi imagery. I have to sit around and do all this work, just to it will resemble something evil. Is there anything they won't stoop to?

Know what else I've been noticing? Nancy Pelosi looks an awful lot like Joseph Goebbels. Again, this is not something you would notice at first glance. Or second. Or third, or tenth, or seven hundred and twenty-fifth. It takes a truly keen intellect like mine, with the mental stamina to squint at the same thing for several hours without blinking. And to do so after ingesting a fistful of Percocet.

Not to mention, this golden microphone that I use, it looks a lot like the torch wielded by the runner in Leni Riefenstahl's Olympia. Maybe this is the same torch hoisted in that film. Yes! I am sure of it!

And the receiver of this phone, it looks just like the talons of a fierce Nazi creature called the Jar-Lock! Half-man, half-animal, and 100 percent killing machine! Hitler bred it especially to spread the foul stench of socialized medicine! It haunts my dreams! Sometimes Jar-Lock tries to attack me in broad daylight, emerging from the shadows and returning there just as quickly! You may not have heard of this beast, because it might only exist in my head!

And when I stare in the mirror for a really long time, I can convince myself that my greasy, slicked-back hair actually looks presentable, instead of making me look like a 400-pound Gordon Gekko.

And when I see the fine layer of gelatinous sweat that limns my forehead, it looks to me like something women might find attractive, rather than the sign of a morbidly obese land monster who gets winded while chewing.

Coming up on the program, I'll slam a few OxyContin, choke back the self loathing churning in my stomach, and find several new ways to shoehorn the phrase "anal poisoning" into my rant!

Last Friday, my brother and I were chatting about Chris "Mad Dog" Russo, the former radio partner of Mike Francesa on WFAN. The two of them pretty much invented modern sports talk radio (for good or ill). Then, last year, he left WFAN to start his own channel on Sirius XM and fell off the face of the earth. Except when he busted on his former partner with fellow satellite radio prisoner Howard Stern during the Super Bowl, Russo has not been heard from in the mainstream sports media world since he jumped ship.

We both laughed at his hubris and short-sightedness. Because if people didn't buy satellite radios to follow Stern, why were they gonna do it to follow Mad Dog?

Then, this weekend, Deadspin alerted the public at large to an epic on-air meltdown Mad Dog had on his show last Thursday (which, like everything else Mad Dog's done in the last year, would have otherwise gone unnoticed). Deadspin pretty much covered the whole thing, and there's no real need for me to rehash the incident, other than to just pile on. So let's pile on, shall we?

Thank you for sticking with Joe Buck Live, starring me, Joe Buck, as Joe Buck, the humble middle American sportscaster who rose to the pinnacle of the sportscasting world by sheer grit and determination and being the son of a legendary broadcaster. In my next segment, we discuss the intersection of celebrity with sports. Has it gone too far? Is there any way to stop it? And what's the deal my hair? To discuss this compelling topic with me, here is the renowned social commentator Artie Lange.
/spews filth and gay jokes for ten minutes
America, I apologize. When I invited Artie to be a part of my show, there was no way I could have known he would act like this. 
What are you talking about? I always act like this.
And I share your OUTRAGE and DISGUST that someone would behave like this on national television.
C'mon, this is HBO. Is what I said any worse that seeing Phil Leotardo's head crushed by an SUV? Or any more horrifying than Sarah Jessica Parker's head?
Hopefully, my next guest will stick to the topic and elevate the level of discussion. Please welcome the Distinguished Professor of Sports Anthropology at Cornell University, Miss Typhoid Mary.
*cough*
/room fills with deadly bacteria
I apologize to my studio audience for infecting them all with a hideous disease. But honestly, how could I possibly know such a thing would happen when I invited Typhoid Mary to my show? I'm certain that my next guests will do a better job of keeping the decorum at a family-friendly and less-life-threatening level. Please welcome two bonobo chimps.
/fling feces
/engage in ritualistic homoerotic behavior
/fuck each other violently
That is just unacceptable. I apologize again, America. Nothing could have prepared me for these primates' behavior, other than decades of zoological research. I'll have to go back to my original plan: I'll place these pressurized cans of solvent next to a lit acetylene torch and a pile of oily rags. I'm sure this group can stimulate a lively adult conversation.
FOOOOM

A while back, I shared my New Year's resolution that I would no longer listen to WFAN (other than Mets games and Steve Somers). Unfortunately, as happens with most New Year's resolutions, I've chipped away at mine until it's compromised into oblivion.

For instance, when I get in the shower in the mornings, I feel compelled to turn on the radio, and tune it to WFAN while doing so. Even though WFAN's morning show--Boomer and Carton--is god awful.

Check that: Boomer Esiaison's not bad, but lord, Craig Carton sucks hard and long. The guy was spawned in the same secret frat boy lab where they genetically engineer morning zoo radio hosts. He's got the same stupid, misogynistic, homophobic, and proudly ignorant opinions about sports--and life--that you can hear on any morning show in any city.

So why do I listen to it? I don't know. I wish I could tell you what compels me to listen to something that just makes me angry and starts my day off on a bad foot. But so help me God, I don't know.

This morning was the absolute nadir, though. As was just getting ready to leave the bathroom post-shower, Carton started talking about how he was "worried" about David Wright after watching him in the WBC.

I knew exactly what Carton was going to say: That David Wright isn't "clutch". That's been the popular Angry Mets Fan Meme ever since last September. Why? Because everyone remembers Wright not driving in one run in one particular game against the Cubs down the stretch, so therefore he's not clutch.

Mind you, all this handwringing ignores the fact that Wright's stats in "clutch" situations (loosely defined though they are) are very good over the course of his career. But the kind of people who get upset over Wright's supposed un-clutch-ness are not the types to be swayed by evidence and logic.

It also didn't help that Carton's radio-mate Mike Francesa spent the entire off-season pounding the completely baseless "Wright Ain't Clutch" point over and over again, while also begging the Mets to trade him so they could "break up the core".

(And then Francesa had the nerve to be offended when Wright didn't want to talk to him during his visit to Port St. Lucie. I was gonna say Francesa's got some chrome-plated balls, but it's more likely they're fortified with Diet Coke and Funyuns.)

Again, I know exactly what Carton's going to say. So do I turn off the shower radio and go my merry way? Of course not. I go into my bedroom, turn on the clock radio, and tune it to WFAN and hear him say exactly what I know he's going to say. Even though I know it'll just make me angry.

As I listen and seethe in my bedroom, The Wife walks in, hears that I'm listening to WFAN, and scowls at me. And I feel like a drunk who got caught sneaking a belt of vodka from a secret bottle in his sock drawer.

She reminds me of my resolution, and I give the lame retort that it was okay because Carton was talking about the Mets (even though, as I said, he wasn't exactly breaking big news). And again, I feel like the drunk who attaches more and more conditions on his teetering sobriety. "Yeah, baby, I know I said I wouldn't drink no more *hic* but see, it's okay to drink on a Tuesday cuz it is! *hic*"

Can anyone out there help me with this problem? Seriously. I recognize that I am powerless against my addiction.

As chairman of the New York Douchebag Sportswriters' Guild, I, Mike Lupica, call this meeting to order. First item of business, all praise and worship be due to Gorlaqk the Dread.
Hail Gorlaqk!
Indeed, Murray Chass. Second item of business, it looks like Eric Mangini might have a job interview with the Cleveland Browns. Do we think this is the next best move for him? The floor recognizes Phil Mushnick.
No. Not only did he lead the Jets to a disastrous end, but he didn't heed a word of our invaluable advice!
Shall we cut him any slack because that advice varied wildly among all of us from minute to minute?
Surely you jest! There is only one honorable thing for Mangini to do: take his own life.
My mustache and I agree. To go on living would do nothing but bring shame upon his ancestors. It would also make it seem as if our pointed barbs did no damage to his fragile psyche--which surely cannot be true!
I concur, Bob Raissman. So we're agreed that Eric Mangini can only truly find peace in the icy grip of the grave. The question follows: What would be the best method?

I'll get the juvenalia out of the way:

Wallace Matthews is a penis.

I'm convinced there isn't a more sour, hopeless writer in America, regardless of medium. Perhaps in the history of the world. He makes Franz Kafka look like Mr. Rogers.

If you've never had the displeasure of reading him, let me darken your doorway for a moment. Wallace Matthews is a sportswriter for Newsday, and he hates everything. There isn't an ounce of joy in the man's heart for any human endeavor. If he was in Paris during the Liberation, he would have complained there was too much confetti in the air.

This was going to be the part where I rattled off sportswriters who I think are good, but sadly, there are very few sportswriters in traditional media that I actually enjoy (this discounts various bloggers and sabermetric geeks like Baseball Prospectus). Tim Marchman of the little-read NY Sun is one baseball writer that I really like, and I'd be hard pressed to think of too many more.

After Marchman, it's simply a question of degrees of douche-osity. There are self-promoting douches like Mike Lupica and Tony Kornheiser. There are self-righteous douches like Phil Mushnick. There are cranky Luddite douches like Murray Chass and Bill Plaschke. There's the plethora of middle-of-the-road douches whose names barely register because their writing is all the same shade of pale vanilla.

Matthews is a whole different class of douche. In fact, douche doesn't even come close to capturing his loathsomeness. It was once said that Willie Mays only played in the majors because there was no higher league. Someone needs to invent a new word to describe the depths of Matthews' ugh-itude.

Two words for last week's picks: Ug-Lee. Week 9 had a lot of underdogs winning, and a lot of overdogs either choking or deciding to win their games by razor thin margins. Hey, Eli Manning--Plaxico's not on the field; try throwing a pass that's not 11 feet in the air. And see if you can beat the fucking Texans by more than four points. Asshole.

The tallies for week 9: win/loss 7-7; points, 5-9. That brings the season's grand total to:

Win/Loss: 84-43
Points: 62-63

So for the first time this year, I've fallen below .500. I would blame my guest picker, but he had a hard enough week as it is. I tried to get now-ex-Senator George Allen to contribute, but he's a tad bitter about pigskin right now; carrying a football around to every damn campaign stop did him no apparent good. So instead, I turn to ex-Monday Night Football commentator/right-wing radio yakker/acceptable drug addict Rush Limbaugh.

Buffalo at Indianapolis: I admire Peyton Manning's commitment to excellence almost as much as I do his commitment to free enterprise. He's set to break Tiki Barber's all-time season record for commercial endorsements. If you remember that DirecTV ad where he tells the viewer to turn over to another, more interesting game, I think this contest will resemble that spot. Indianapolis by 8.

San Francisco at Detroit: A bet for the 49ers on the road is a bet for Nancy Pelosi and her San Francisco values! Detroit by 6.

San Diego at Cincinnati: With the Democrats back in power, expect to see a return to the revolving-door justice system of years past. For a preview of this grim new world, just look at the incarcer-rific Bengals, who've logged more trips to the pokey than offensive yards. The Chargers will be more than a match for this band of convicts, even without Shawne Merriman, a talented young man who got a bit too zealous in his self-medication regimen. Look, we've all been there, haven't we? San Diego by 5.