Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday at Defector during the NFL season. Got something you wanna contribute? Email the Roo. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, through here.
Here is something that I’ve long known but never had the courage to admit: The worst sports fans I know are also the happiest. You know the kind of fan I’m talking about. They are biologically devoid of shame. They flaunt every win like it’s a new tattoo. They blame every loss on the refs and/or the secret society that runs the world. They call into sports talk radio with trade proposals that have ZERO chance of being executed. And they fervently believe that their team is the sun around which not only their world revolves, but everyone else’s. The kind of fan you’d like to shove down an escalator.
Up until now, I have bent over backward to make sure that I do not come across as that type of fan. I try to be a “good” fan. I try my best not to inject everything I write with mentions of my Vikings homerism, and then I tack on an “I won’t make a habit of this” disclaimer whenever I do. I try to be realistic about Minnesota’s chances, and I take pains to be a big boy when they lose, especially to a team I don’t care for (all of them). I strive to be a grown-up ... while wearing a purple jersey and screaming at my television as if the people inside of it can hear me. Meanwhile, Randy from Wausau walks around with a cheesehead on his dome, yelling at his coach to do shit he’s already doing and cockily making predictions that will never come to pass. I never want to be that fan.
But why? I’m not any happier adhering to some unwritten code of fan ethics that I keep in the front of my mind. I’m almost certainly less happy than the average idiot fan. Because those people are committed to the bit. They don’t give a shit if they’re wrong, and they’ll never give the other team credit even when it’s due. And they LOVE it. They love being idiots, because why wouldn’t they? You’ve met the United States. What smart person in this country is happy right now? The NYPD is probably putting them all in zip-ties as we speak.
And the gag here is that, deep down (you may beg to differ about how far down), I’m just as annoying as the rest of them. As far as I’m concerned, the Vikings can do no wrong. The league really DOES have it out for them, because they play in the same division as Jordan Bust. The national media never gives them the recognition they deserve. And Kevin Williams is being blacklisted from the Hall of Fame because the selection committee has an inherent anti-Viking bias. I don’t like that the Vikes are treated so unfairly at every turn, and I’m jealous—yes, jealous!—that lesser franchises get all of the special treatment and acclaim that is rightfully ours.
It’s true. All of it. This hater routine is less of act than I let on. New England, I do hate you ‘cause I ain’t you, especially now that you have the draft pick I openly covet. I am jealous of Bill Simmons. Who wouldn’t be? He’s worth a quarter bil and had friends when he was in college. I would’ve liked all of that, and I deserve it more than he does. Green Bay, you have enjoyed a run of Hall of Fame–caliber QB play since I was in high school, and you are incapable of appreciating it the way that I would. Kansas City, dinging you for retail racism is about the only defense I have against you racking up Super Bowls at an obnoxious pace. And Philly! Eagles fans, you are the fucking scum of humanity. And yet I’d gladly pay $10,000—this is not an exaggeration—to have had your success.
Most of all, I’d like the chance to flaunt it. I’d like to be the kind of fan who uses a single Super Bowl victory as excuse to purge myself of all inner shame.
So, in a moment of limited sobriety, I’ve decided to do just that.
I’m done living like a chump. This is the biggest draft in Vikings history, and that’s not an exaggeration. As such, I refuse to make like all of the Eeyores in Minnesota who go out of their way to foresee doom at every turn. All of them are wrong and so are all you haters. WE’RE DOING THIS SHIT. We’re drafting Drake Maye and he’s gonna be the fucking truth. I’ll celebrate the moment tonight with my best buds MC, Daddy Boy, and Howdog. And if Maye turns out to be a bust, I won’t break stride. On this, you have my word. If we go 6-11 next season, as the Barnwells of the world will surely predict—after they engage in the intricate, data-driven process of looking at last season’s net point differentials and projecting 2024 records that align with them—I won’t be chastened in the slightest. In fact, I’ll tell you that we had 2025 in mind for our turnaround anyway (this is actually true).
And if 2025 goes sour, then I’ll punch you in the fucking face and call your wife ugly. Then I’ll go home and sleep like a baby.
Because a good fan is a contradiction in terms, and trying to be one doesn’t even bring me true joy. You know what does bring me joy? Donning a Justin Jefferson jersey and telling all of you to go fuck yourselves. I’m through acting like a loser. I’m getting a new QB today, and he’s gonna run the world alongside me. #LFG. This is the NFL draft, and this is your NFL draft Jamboroo. Maestro, the chime please:
SKOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. I’m gonna be so fucking rude from now on. You’re gonna hate my ass.
Big Daddy Drew’s Draft Board
I compiled these rankings through hours and hours of casual tape study and reading a handful of mock draft capsules. Also, I only considered the Vikings' needs in making them. Here now is my board:
- Caleb Williams. He’s great. His new head coach is a fucking boob.
- Drake Maye. He’s ours. No touchy touchy.
- Marvin Harrison Jr. Played for a school that mints all-pro wideouts and has his dad’s murder gene. He can’t miss.
- Rome Odunze. An absolute god. Terrifying. I hope the Bears fuck up and draft some linebacker at 9.
- Malik Nabers. Name’s a little too close to Jim Nabers for my taste, but he played wideout at LSU so I don’t need to know much more than that.
- Jayden Daniels. I heard he takes lots of sacks, which means that his potential career in Washington will end the exact same way that RGIII’s did. Runs like a madman though, which would be a refreshing change of pace from Kirk Cousins, who couldn’t outrun a security guard.
- Michael Penix. Crazy arm holy shit. You show off a cannon like that and the penis jokes are only so effective.
- Jared Verse. Saw him play in 2.5 games last season. Terrifying. If we have to draft a defender, I’m down with this guy.
- Dallas Turner. Or this guy! Apparently he did lots of crazy shit at the combine.
- Terrion Arnold. He plays corner, and we need those.
- Quinyon Mitchell. Also plays corner. He ran, like, super fast at the combine. I like that.
- Kool-Aid McKinstry. Played at Bama and has a cool name. Welcome, sir. Somebody say Kool-Aid! KOOL-AID! Jerk it!
- Byron Murphy. Plays DT, which we need. But we also have a corner named Byron Murphy. How’s that gonna work with nameplates? Like will they have to include middle names on the back of the jersey to keep them straight?
- Chop Robinson. Will be good because his name is Chop.
- One of the O-linemen. Pretty good class, I’ve read!
- Keon Coleman. No idea why he isn’t mentioned in the same breath as Harrison/Nabers/Odunze, because he was the FSU offense last season. All of the scouts who moved him down are wrong.
- J.J. McCarthy. Looks so much like Zach Wilson that alarm bells are going off in my head. Then again, all this young man does is WIN.
- Brock Bowers. Really good. I would never buy his jersey because then everyone would think I only root for white players.
- Ladd McConkey. Ditto.
- Laiatu Latu. Insane pass rusher who already once retired due to neck problems. You understand my concerns here.
- Mike Sainristil. Like Coleman, I have no idea why he doesn’t merit a first-round grade. The man is just a FOOTBALL PLAYER.
- Bo Nix. The QB you settle for. No chance I want him. If we DO take him, forget I just said that. We’re winning the Super Bowl.
That’s my board. Don’t care about all the other players.
The Draft
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Thursday: I haven’t had alcohol in over five years, and I hadn’t (emphasis on the tense) had gin in even longer. Everyone’s got a drink they have an uneasy relationship with, and gin was mine. I drank an unknown but large amount of it one night in Mexico my senior year in high school and good things did NOT happen afterward. I never touched gin again until I played college football. Every season, when training camp ended, the seniors on the team would celebrate by throwing a G&T party. No beer. Just cheap-ass Gordon’s and tonics, mixed to country club strength. More incidents. I stayed far away from it after graduation, save for one time when I tried a Negroni and didn’t like it.
Then I fucked off to London a month ago and saw Tanqueray 0.0 on a restaurant menu. I had tried more than a few fake liquors, all of which had their own, new-age brand names: Faluvia, Grainhilt, Labaggia, whatever. I’d never seen a legacy spirit brand with its own non-alcoholic variety, so I said fuck it and ordered a fake G&T. One taste and I was filthy collegiate scum all over again. Felt incredible, perhaps because I was high as balls at the time. So I came home, found out that Tanq 0.0 isn’t sold in the US, and promptly ordered four bottles of it off of Amazon UK. I’m already on the second bottle, and I may chug the rest of it when we draft Maye five hours from now.
Four Throwgasms
Friday: This is when I stop watching the Draft uninterrupted and just check in a few times an hour just to hear Mel Kiper talking over highlights with that music playing in the background. You know the music I’m talking about. Dun-DUH Dun-nuh-nuh-NUH! Dun-DUH Dun-nuh-nuh-NUH! Dun-DUH Dun-nuh-nuh-NUH! Doodoodoo doodoodoo dooDOOdooDOODOODOO! I honest-to-god love it, even if Mel knows absolutely nothing.
Three Throwgasms
Saturday: Let’s agree that the draft is an ethically dubious method of parceling out employees to professional teams. Let’s also agree that the NFL Draft will never, ever go away. So here is what I propose: a five-round draft. That allows the draft telecast to still stretch over three days (with extra time allotted to each team for its pick). It also benefits the players because there’s no cap on much money NFL teams can guarantee UDFAs, which means that you can potentially make more money being undrafted than drafted late.
Finally, analytically speaking, no sixth- or seventh-rounder is ever worth a crap. Sometimes you get a Brady or a Purdy, but most of the time you get a special-teams linebacker who’s cut within two years. I was alive the first time the league shortened the draft by two rounds, back in 1994. No one has cried out for the eighth and ninth rounds to come back. Quite the contrary. Cut off two more rounds and then turn the UDFA derby into its own endless NFLN broadcast the following week. WHO SAYS NO?
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Døgeniktens Kvad,” by Kvelertak! The only reason that Kvelertak (Norwegian for “Stranglehold,” holy fuck that’s cool) isn’t the biggest metal band on Earth right now is because they don’t sing their songs in English and have no plans to. But don’t let the language barrier stop you from discovering their unprecedented style of party thrash. This song is like if you took the climax of every other metal song and made it the WHOLE song. It’s not the only Kvelertak song that has that kind of energy. This is gonna be my Kvelertak year.
Eric Adams’s Lock Of The Week: J.J. McCarthy UNDER (Pick No. 5.5)
“Now I went to U-Michigan and lemme tell you: We have a song that is called ‘Hail to the Victors.’ That’s important to remember with all these campus protests I’m seeing around the country. We should hail our victors, not assail them. The victors are the ones who make our society go, so let’s celebrate them and leave the derelict-ers to handle their own mess. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go have one of my hometown’s signature Ann Arbor birch beers.”
2023 Record: 10-10-1
Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we’ll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year’s end or sooner. And now, your potential 2024 chopping block:
Matt Eberflus
Sean McDermott
Doug Pederson
Sean Payton
Robert Saleh
Mike McCarthy***********
Brian Daboll
Dan Quinn
Dennis Allen
(*potential midseason firing)
I was 100 percent sold on Brian Daboll after the 2022 season. But Daniel Jones’s extension, plus this exposé that was surely written using numerous leaks from fired defensive coordinator Wink Martindale, have swayed me in the other direction:
But now Washington’s offense was driving, aided by a Kayvon Thibodeaux roughing the passer penalty outside the red zone. And that’s when Brian Daboll started playing the blame game on Martindale and the defensive staff: “You’re gonna lose this game just like you lost us the Jets game,” Daboll griped on the headset, according to numerous sources in the building.
True, Daboll didn’t try to fire up his charges by singing the praises of the 9/11 terrorists, the way his old boss did. But bad coaching comes in many forms, and “angry bald guy chewing out everyone else when his team fucks up” is one of the more time-honored ones.
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Sean sends in this story I call INGLOURIOUS TERDS:
This story takes place in 2001 (before September 11th) aboard the USS Boxer somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. I was a Marine Corps Private First Class on a "WESTPAC" deployment. On these deployments, you’re assigned to a daily duty-section, numbers 1-4. Duty-section basically means that after your 12-hour shift working your MOS, you then report to your duty-section muster to do shit like cleaning the officers’ berthing, mopping and cleaning the decks in various areas of the ship, scraping and painting corrosion prone areas, etc... It all takes about two hours. And because the system rotates through the four sections daily you do these tasks every four days.
You also have about 200 other Navy and Marine Corps personnel in your duty-section of ranks E1-E5, with an E6 that typically runs the show. As one would imagine, the shittiness of the task you get assigned tends to be dictated by your rank. Some clumsy as fuck second Lieutenant trips and spills an entire 20-ounce bottle of dip spit onto the floor in his room? That job’s going to a private or PFC like myself. And so we begin:
My duty section staff sergeant explains there is a problem with the head in the forward berthing. He points to me and then the other lowest ranking Marine. We snap to attention and fall out toward the petty officer.
The other Marine and I are lead to the berthing in question which immediately sucks because this is one of the infantry berthings. Infantry Marines are the real Marines that do real Marine Corps shit. The private and I are POG Marines who do shit that the Air Force could probably do better, and we are generally not liked by the real Marines. The petty officer leads us through the grunt berthing, past the area with all the bunks and into the head where the sinks are located. The petty officer deliberately and intentionally stops a good 10 feet short of the door to the latrines, simply points in that direction, says "in there," and walks off.
The private and I proceed through the hatch and into the latrine area and sweet fucking Christ on a pogo stick we are greeted with an absolutely VILE smell and scene. Apparently something about the heavy seas we experienced the previous night (departing Guam) caused all 10 of these toilets to overflow from the waste tanks. We are standing in a legit inch of water/piss/shit/toilet paper (and likely semen) cocktail covering the ENTIRETY of the deck. And because the boat is always rocking a bit the wads, of toilet paper and the various sized shit logs are moving back and forth with the motion in some sort of hellish fecal ballet. We stare in disbelief, trying to fully comprehend the task before us. Just then, one of the grunt Marines sticks his head in, looks me dead in the eyes, laughs out loud, and says "You guys are so fucked."
I spend the next 90 minutes using the dust pan in my right hand to chase and corral the poo logs and toilet paper chunks, corner them against a bulkhead, lift and carefully walk them to the nearest toilet to dump them in. This process gets repeated at least a hundred times in that 90 minutes. Meanwhile, the other private is mopping up the fluid portion of the mess and dumping the bucket out into the nearest toilet every time it gets full. We are both randomly dry-heaving violently, and wearing the same fucking boots we will have to wear 10 hours from now when our actual jobs need to be done. We’re also dejected from the infantry guys popping in every few minutes to laugh in our faces.
When we finished cleaning and sanitizing, we sprinkled an entire bottle of Aqua Velva aftershave on the floor. Even then, it STILL smelled like someone drew a shit mustache under our noses. The whole ordeal haunts my dreams to this day.
And now mine as well.
And Now Let’s Go Down To The Sideline To Check In With Charissa Thompson
"Drew, I just got finished speaking with Bears owner Virginia McCaskey and she told me she’s ‘ecstatic’ that Caleb Williams will be joining her team. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for,’ she said. She also told me that it was too cold in the green room, and that kids today dress like slobs. Then she accused me of stealing all the canned green beans from her pantry. When I told her this wasn’t true, she pointed at me and screamed, ‘You’re nothing but a thieving hussy!’ Bears officials expect Mrs. McCaskey to be asleep by 4 p.m. this afternoon, and that she’s never expressed a liking for green beans in all the time they’ve known her. Back to you, Drew.”
Thank you, Charissa.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Penn’s Best NA! Somehow I don’t think it’ll live up to the name. From Mike:
Malty, fizzy, and straw colored. All you could want at $2.99 a sixer and not worth a penny more.
I’ll be honest Mike, even $2.99 seems a bit rich. Although thanks to a combination of aging and volatile inflation rates, I don’t know what anything should cost anymore. Is five bucks for a quart of milk grand larceny, or am I still living in 2002? Someone, please tell me what a six-pack of horrible, horrible near beer should cost. I’m Lucille Bluth–ing myself over here.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Panthers Fans
Death Proof, which is Quentin Tarantino’s worst movie by a country mile. This movie is 87 minutes long and yet every scene lasts three hours. Lotta foot shots. Lotta aimless bullshitting. No plot to speak of. I was grateful when it was over, and I was watching it on an airplane. That’s right: Quentin Tarantino somehow made a movie that wasn’t as enticing to me as checking out the maps in the back of the in-flight magazine.
There’s the potential for a brilliant horror movie with Death Proof, especially with Kurt Russell as the villain. Tarantino can generate suspense better than just about any other director out there, and yet he’s spent the better part of this century making movies that flirt with terror only to swerve (no pun intended) into softcore revenge porn. That goes for Once Upon A Time In Hollywood, which could have been the scariest film ever made if it had been about the actual Manson murders. And it goes double for this piece of shit, which has exactly one scary sequence before turning into a not-all-that-empowering female-empowerment flick. Tarantino, who I once revered the same way that every college guy in the '90s did, is only making one more movie before he hangs up his camera. I have no faith that he’ll rein in his impulses for it. Half a star.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Sir, I've arranged for the people of Australia to join hands tonight and spell out your name with candles. There's a satellite hookup on that monitor if you'll just turn your head slightly.”
“Bah, no time. Next!”
Enjoy the draft, everyone.
