All posts by Matthew Callan

Football, Media Morons

Stop the Presses – With Horror!

“Hey chief, this just came over the wire: Bill Cowher has no interest in Jets job.“

“This is definitely going on tomorrow’s back cover. Now, we just need to find an appropriate photo, something that will convey the contempt and disgust we have for a man we desperately wanted to come to NY just yesterday.”

“I got one here, chief. This was snapped right after he bit into a meatball sub and got it all over his shirt.”

“No, we’re not going for embarrassing! We’re going for nauseating! This is the first picture millions of people are gonna see this morning when they’re having their breakfast, drinking their coffee, riding the subway. We want them throw up in their mouths when they see this thing!”

“I think I got one, chief. Check it out–he looks like a cross between Hitler and an orc.”

gal_back_12_31.jpg“I can barely contain the vomit churning in my stomach. And you can totally see up his nose, too! This is gonna sicken millions–I love it! Take it down to the art guys and see if they can widen his nostrils in Photoshop, add some more hair up there.”

“Do you want them to add some stink lines, too?”

“No, we got in trouble the last time we did that. The Dalai Lama was not happy. But I like the way you think, kid!”

Pointless Nostalgia

My Brain Hates Me, Part 8,143

I don’t get tunes stuck in my head. They burrow into my brain like ticks, and it takes some serious countermeasures to lodge them loose, like extreme zen-like concentration, or dynamite.

But even worse is when I get a tune stuck in my head that I associate with a particular visual memory. 99 percent of the time, that visual memory is an old TV show or commercial. It’s a bizarre sensory memory, almost Proustian–in that it makes me want to lock myself in a cork-lined room and never come out again.

Since I seem to be the only idiot who remembers the bygone TV fare of yesteryear, there’s usually no point in explaining the whole Madison Avenue spectacle going on in my head. All it does is make me appear more insane than usual, like I’m starring in my own private version of Gaslight. Except I’m not being tortured by a sadistic husband, but my own steel-trap memory (if steel traps only clamped down on pointless garbage).

Why, for instance, can’t I simply get “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang stuck in my head? No, it has to be accompanied by an endless loop of Kool and the Gang dancing with Wendy’s Chicken Nuggets.

Regardless, I want to give you a glimpse of the hell that has been my brain for the last few days. Over the holidays, I heard “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” more than once. So it got stuck in my head, right? Oh, if only t’were so simple!

Continue reading My Brain Hates Me, Part 8,143 →

Football, The Funny

A Word From Bill Belichick to His Prodigal Sons

belichick.jpgAll the little fledglings who left my nest, see how their wings have been clipped. First Romeo, then Eric. Charlie is surely not long for Notre Dame. It shan’t be long before they come begging for refuge. And I shall refuse them. Not because I am cruel, but because they must learn for themselves the pain we must all endure in this vale of tears.

And also because I am cruel. Quite a bit, actually.

I shall, however, pass along these words of advice on what to do once the axe has dropped.

When you clean out your office, everything goes in the shredder. Playbooks. Game film. Third string tight ends. Shred it all to ribbons. Then shred the ribbons. Then burn the shredded ribbons. Then eat the ashes of the burned shredded ribbons. The next time you take a dump, you do it in a 12-foot-deep hole, which you then fill with cement. And before the cement hardens, throw some pit bulls in it. That will keep neighboring children away.

You now have a choice to make. In the wake of this incident, you can choose to be humble and take your lumps. You can choose to discover within yourself a kindness and charity you never thought possible.

These would be the wrong choices. What you must do is recognize this humiliation for what it truly is: a forge in which you shall rehsape your soul. You shall hone it to a sharp point, and you shall use that soul-blade to smite your enemies!

This is also an excellent opportunity to update your Enemies List. I prefer to do this on a daily basis, but I realize that simple weekly checkups may suffice for most coaches.

Some head coach somewhere shall offer you a coordinator’s job. He shall count on your desperation to ensure your fealty and a cheap price tag. Accept the position and the pittance it pays, but do not forfeit your allegiance. For no one deserves it but Gorlaqk.

Yes, Gorlaqk is responsible for my coaching prowess. You didn’t believe it
was due to intense study of game film and inspiring leadership in my players, did you? No, all my achievement flows from the fount of Gorlaqk, as deep and rich as blood from a freshly sliced throat.

All hail Gorlaqk the Dread! Tremble before his mighty talons! Lay before him your first-fruits, and he shall reward you with riches and success, and many, many hooded sweatshirts!