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.
I am the dad around this house, which means that I am the grillmeister. If my family needs anything grilled to imperfection—chicken, steaks, vegetables, shitty Mission tortillas—I am ready with my grill tongs and a generous amount of Pam. My grill counts as old now and, in grand American tradition, works in ways that only I understand. Only I know where the dead spots on the grate are. Only I know if the Blue Rhino tank is running on empty. And only I know that the two left burners will only ignite if you close the lid and hold down the ignition button until your knuckle cramps. This grill and I are simpatico. Whenever meat is required, we stand ready, together. I love grilling. Every middle aged guy does. It lets you play with fire, it gives you a chance to eat food before serving it, and it gives you an excuse to start drinking.
But I only love grilling so much. My oldest son eats a grilled chicken sandwich for lunch at school every day, which means I have to grill him a chicken supply at the beginning of every week. This is a pain in the ass, especially because I’m grilling something that I myself won’t get to eat. So when my son walked up to me a month ago and asked, “Hey Dad, can you teach me to grill?” I leapt at the chance. I didn’t get all weepy. “Cat's in the Cradle” didn’t run on a loop in my head. All I thought was, Finally, the boy can pull some more weight around here.
One of the biggest surprises I’ve learned throughout parenthood is that all of the fabled milestones have a great deal more practical value than sentimental value. When my kids learned to walk, I didn’t have to carry them around everywhere like a sack of groceries. When they learned to talk, I could actually interact with them instead of desperately trying to interpret their crying. Every vital marker of childhood they reached eased the strain on me, the fatigued parent. The job was still labor-intensive, mind you. It always will be. But at least I’d progressed to the next phase of things, just as my children did in those moments.
So when I taught my daughter to ride a bike, it wasn’t just to have a Kodak moment. It was so she could take her own ass to the playground instead of having me wheel her there in a fucking Cozy Coupe. When I taught her to drive, it was so she could drive her own ass to her friend’s house so that I didn’t have to do it at 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night. And when I dropped her off at college, it was so she could live her own life without me and my wife having to supervise it. Every job she learned doubled as a job completed for her parents.
Kids need jobs. I don’t mean that you should send them down into a copper mine once they hit grade school. I just mean that they need tasks. Chores. You give them a problem that needs solving, and then make them solve it. This teaches children to be self-reliant, it gives them purpose, and it allows them to experience the satisfaction that comes with a job well done. You can tell which kids have never had to lift a finger in their house. They’re usually shitty kids. They’re not useful, either. My kids, fortunately for me, have grown into useful little engines. They do their chores without having to be nagged, and they’ll do big jobs so long as they know they’re getting some extra compensation for it.
And they cook. That’s a big one. My wife and I have burned thousands of hours over the past two decades conceiving, supplying, and executing meal prep. It’s exhausting, and it’s why so many working parents are lured in by the Grubhubs and Blue Aprons of the world. There’s only so much time in a day, and you’re forgiven if you need to do a bit of outsourcing. So my wife and I have steadily outsourced those duties to our children. The youngest caught on quick to the realization that if you can cook anything you want, you can eat anything you want, anytime you want. Cooking is power for the food-addled mind, and the 12-year-old loves steamed soup dumplings just as much as I do.
The grill, however, remained my domain. It was janky, plus prone to kicking up grease fires that were unsafe for both children and for fatty ribeyes. But I discovered that I could mitigate those flare-ups if I “cleaned” the grill “regularly,” which was quite the revelation. That made me more confident that my kids could work it. They already knew how to work the oven, the gas stove, and any wood fireplace. They were ready to level up, and I was ready to let them handle raw chicken themselves, instead of always having to soil my precious hands doing it for them.
I took the 15-year-old out back and gave him his marching orders. Turn on the gas, do the weird ignition ritual, brush the grate clean once it gets super hot, spray the grate with Pam once you’re ready (FIAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!), throw some meat on the bad boy, and then wait for your shit to cook. I stood way back and let the boy take it from there. He hadn’t dealt with open-fire cooking before, so he shrank from the heat anytime the flames licked at him. I sidled over and told him that the intense heat emanating from a lit grill was normal (wow), and that grilling meant learning to work around it (like a big strong man!).
I stepped back, cracked open a near beer, and let the boy take it from there. He picked up on the grill’s moods as he laid the chicken down on the grate and let it sizzle. I stayed back the rest of the way. Ten minutes later, HEY PRESTO! He had his week’s supply of lunch, and had cooked it all by himself. I gave him a loving pat on the back. The following week, he did it again without me even stepping outside to monitor him. A day after that, I taught the 12-year-old to grill a whole flank steak. The power he felt when that steak was done was immense. He had the gift of fire now. He strong. He man. Most important, he do chore for me. Dad go watch football now.
There was emotional value to all of this, of course. I got all of the “I love you, man!” feelings you’d expect from ushering my kids through this rite of passage. They can man a grill now, which means that a whole life of grilling awaits them. At home. At college. At the tailgate. At work, if they ever end up in the hospitality biz. It feels good to pass on what you know to your offspring. It makes you feel like you did your job as a parent, because parents need to feel useful too. To be useful is to be needed. Loved.
To that end, I can’t wait to teach these boys how to clean that fucking thing.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Bills at Ravens: This might very well be the year that Josh Allen eats the world. That’s not a jinx coming from me because A) I cheer for a different accursed franchise, and B) there’s nothing I can do to ruin the Bills’ chances that the Bills can’t already do themselves. The Bills have a psycho for a head coach, a depleted receiving corps, and a 57-year-old Von Miller still out there trying to do stuff. I’m not sure any of those problems will end up mattering in the end, because Josh Allen isn’t fucking around. Come playoff time, he might end up seizing the headset from Sean McDermott and running the whole operation by himself.
Vikings at Packers: Here’s a battle between two head coaches who, counterintuitively, needed to rid themselves of the Pro Bowl quarterbacks they’d inherited in order to flourish. Aaron Rodgers refuses to do what his coach asks him to do, and Kirk Cousins CAN’T do what his coach asks him to do. Both Matt LaFleur and Kevin O’Connell needed quarterbacks that they could mold, even if those QBs were sourced from the discard pile. I never thought I’d see the day when I was grateful that Sam Darnold was my team’s QB. But folks, you have NO idea how good it feels at the present moment.
Four Throwgasms
Seahawks at Lions: Let’s talk about these Seahawks for the moment. Not only are they undefeated, they also appear to have found a worthy successor to Pete Carroll in Mike Macdonald, their QB has gone from being a fun reclamation project to being one of the straight-up best passers in the sport, and they have this freakazoid anchoring their defensive front.
Recency bias has a nasty habit of fooling NFL fans. Take it from me, a guy who thought the Bucs might end up being a Super Bowl contender before the sadass Broncos obliterated them a few days ago. But the Seahawks have an awful lot of 100-percent legit talent everywhere, including over on the sideline. I can already hear their fans workshopping new referee complaints for the postseason. That’s how you know a team is on the verge of something.
Three Throwgasms
Commanders at Cardinals: The ghost of Dan Snyder means it’ll always be hard for me to take the Commanders seriously. But they sure as shit looked like a real team on Monday night. Someone tell Roger Goodell to design a robo-exoskeleton for Jayden Daniels to wear out on the field so that he doesn’t pull an RG3 a month from now. We gotta protect the handful of decent QBs still left in this godforsaken league.
Saints at Falcons
Eagles at Bucs
Chiefs at Chargers
Two Throwgasms
Cowboys at Giants: If you consume as much NFL media as I do, you’ve heard the term “measuring stick game,” which translates to an “OK, let’s see if you’re REALLY as good as your record says” game. These are the games that’ll be used by talk radio and embrace debate shows to determine if your team is legit or not. But here’s a game tonight that serves the inverse purpose. The Cowboys came into this season as a favorite to win the NFC. They are now 1-2 after getting their asses kicked by the Ravens (for three quarters) and the Saints (for four) in successive weeks. Their defense has fallen off the face of the Earth. They have no running game of any sort. And Dak Prescott currently has a lower QBR than the QB he’s playing against tonight.
So I’m not tuning in here to see if the Cowboys are for real—no Thursday night game can ever determine such a thing—but to see if they’re about to endure a nightmare season. I think you know which outcome I’m rooting for here.
Steelers at Colts: We all know Russell Wilson is never getting his job back now, yeah? A fitting end.
Rams at Bears
Jaguars at Texans
Broncos at Jets
Patriots at 49ers
One Throwgasm
Titans at Dolphins: Every new head coach deserves time to grow into the job, but I’m hardly alone in feeling like Brian Callahan doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. His quarterback certainly doesn’t.
Also, this game is part of yet another MNF doubleheader (Seattle-Detroit is the other one). These twofers are a quirk in Disney’s current rights agreement with the NFL, but there’s definitely a future where they happen every week. Shit, we might even end up getting a mini-slate of three games every Monday night come 2033, featuring key NFC Asia matchups! Can’t wait. That’s not a joke. I am now happy to sop up every last drop of football I can find.
Bengals at Panthers
Browns at Raiders
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell,” from Iggy & The Stooges! Reader John insisted on this chestnut:
Call me a sucker for the classics, but whenever I ask myself, "What rocks more than anything else?" I pull this one up and crank it to 11.
Can’t argue with you there, amigo. Nothing beats original punk cranked out by a dude who used to cut himself with glass for kicks and has 0.00001% body fat.
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:
Sean Payton
Brian Daboll
Dave Caneles
Doug Pederson********
Kevin Stefanski
Nick Sirianni*
Mike McCarthy*
Mike McDaniel
Antonio Pierce
Zac Taylor
Matt Eberflus*******
(*potential midseason firing)
Let’s check in on how things are going over in Duval:
I like this source throwing in, “Usually this man is a perfect gentleman!” as if Shad Khan spends all day petting alpacas and isn’t a shady-as-fuck car bumper magnate. Oh, NOW the rapacious billionaire is mad! He might be so mad that he makes a series of rash, ill-informed decisions that result in no visible on-field progress of any sort!
Eric Adams’s Lock Of The Century: Giants (+6) over Cowboys
“Now I’ve been a Giants fan my whole life, so I know a thing or two about false allegations. I know that Lawrence Taylor is a true friend to children everywhere. I know that Josh Brown had true love in his heart when he quarreled with his wife. And I know that Eli Manning deserves to be inducted into the Hall of Fame for his accuracy alone. None of these great men have gotten the credit they're due. Instead, they’ve been attacked. Much like I’m being attacked right now. That is because our country has a bad habit of, as I tell my nieces and nephews, arresting the arresting. We only imprison the troublemakers in this country. You make good trouble, they’ll charge you double!”
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Mike sends in this story I call PAST DUMPS:
In the mid 90s I and my friend (also named Mike) were embarking on a backpacking journey to Southeast Asia. We had a big going away party at our local bar the night before our early morning departure the next day, up pretty much all night drinking cheap draft beer and toppING it off with some greasy diner food. When I picked Mike up a couple hours later to head to the airport, he was in the throes of a vicious hangover.
Our flight routed through Seoul, so we had added a three-night stopover there. We stayed at the cheapest hotel possible, one with a communal bathroom across the courtyard (this being January, temperatures were below freezing). Mike, having never traveled before, was not impressed with the quality of the facilities. So he declared that he was shutting down his bowels until he found a more welcoming environment. He never found that welcoming environment in Korea. So, as a man of principle, he remained shut down for three days and three nights. Mike’s never been a particularly impressive athletic specimen, but I say without hyperbole that his ability to refrain for more than 72 hours is one of the most physically impressive feats I've ever witnessed.
When we landed in the Singapore airport, he absolutely destroyed the first bathroom he saw.
Shit when you gotta, people. Don’t tempt fate like this.
And Now Let’s Go Down To The Sideline And Check In With Charissa Thompson
“Drew, you guys just saw Ellen DeGeneres walking over to the Dallas sideline with her fists clenched. I was actually near her when this happened, and I could overhear DeGeneres saying to the Cowboys, ‘I just don’t care what anyone says about me anymore. I’m not gonna apologize for being a human being!’ When defensive coordinator Mike Zimmer saw DeGeneres trying to rally his team, he said out loud, ‘What the fuck is Ellen DeGeneres doing here?’ I’ll keep you updated when I find out the answer. Back to you, Drew.”
Thank you, Charissa.
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Karhu! From Finland via reader Philip:
This summer I spent a lovely week in Finland, which is essentially heaven on earth for dirty commies like me. This is Karho, one of the few beers in Finland you can get for under 5€ apiece. It was about 1.50€ per can. The name means bear, as you might have guessed. And it very much evokes the Chicago Bears. It’s flat, just barely passes, and is something you can imagine enjoying only if the alternative is freezing to death during a six-month winter.
Lemme tell you, if the Chicago Bears decided to use Karhu’s logo as their own, they’d win another Super Bowl within the next five years. You heard it here first.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Titans Fans
Ridley Scott’s The Duellists. This was Scott’s first feature film, which earned him a job directing Alien, which in turn earned him a job directing Blade Runner. Scott was already 40 years old and a veteran set designer by the time he made The Duellists, which gave him more seasoning for a career behind the camera than most first-time directors usually get. Still, the fact that this man’s first three movies were these three movies is fucking astounding.
You already knew that Alien and Blade Runner were masterpieces, but The Duellists isn’t far behind either of those two in terms of quality. First of all, as with all of Scott’s movies, it’s gorgeously shot. Secondly, it does what it promises on the label and gives you not just one duel, but a shitload of them. And these aren’t bullshit, overly choreographed sword-dances. These are legit sword fights, with poor Keith Carradine trying to fend off incoming parries while a flap of skin is hanging off of his arm.
Lastly, your villain is played by Harvey Keitel in absolute peak form. Keitel plays a batshit crazy Frenchman who demands satisfaction anytime he feels dishonored, which is often. Carradine becomes the sole focus of his hatred, and so both men carry on a bloody rivalry that perpetuates itself, for no justifiable reason, across multiple decades, outlasting wars that will end up redrawing the map of the world. Real Iron Bowl shit. Four stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“Maude, these new finger razors make hedge trimming as much fun as sitting through church!”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
