Necessary Roughness

Necessary Roughness, Week 7: What The Hell Happened?

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Necessary Roughness - Dave Brockie - 2012

Week Seven is here and there I was, happily ensconced (isn’t that a great word, “ensconced”? It’s almost like a word that doesn’t mean enough, like you should be able to say stuff like ‘man, I ensconced all over that shit, man’! Unfortunately, that makes no sense)… well, anyway, there I was, happily ensconced in the rear lounge of the GWAR tour bus, with the N.F.L. package beaming in strongly through the bus satellite link, and being as we were parked in the middle of a huge empty lot on a Sunday NOTHING was going to interfere with that! Adding to the high probability that I was going to be able to enjoy no less than THREE games in their entirety was the fact that it was a day off! No annoying sound check, no interviews and especially no show! Not that I don’t love such things more than life itself, but if there is something that rivals my love for GWAR it is my love for football!

Which is exactly what you want to read about — football, and so you shall. But before you do you must remember that this column is written by a wandering rock and roll semi-star, and the stories of my attempts to watch my beloved ball while travelling the world are often more compelling than stories of the games themselves. In my deluded mind, anyway.

And what a Week Seven it almost was. As I watched the Fox pre-game show, I admired the commentators’ new couches. They were much more comfortable looking than those silly starship Enterprise-consoles they usually sit at, and certainly much better than the butt-worn bus-cushion I was sitting on. And that Riggles guy is pretty funny — that skit with the Fox analysts as children was fucking hilarious! But is his name Riggles or Rigglesworth? I know he didn’t get the gig by accident; I just don’t have time to Google it. Is anybody catching Frank Caliendo’s ESPN act? Is it funny at all? No? Figured.

O.K., there I was. By the way, this is all build-up, like I am trying to mimic the way you feel all week when you are waiting for football Sunday. Oh, that’s right, we have Thursday night games. I think that sucks. Not a supporter of this. I predict that before too long there will be Friday and Saturday night games as well, and this is from someone who has been watching the N.F.L. for a LONG ass time. I’ve seen the changes. Hell, they are doing a game in Europe, so why not? I think everybody realizes the Pro Bowl is a big joke, but they keep doing it… why? Because they make money! And that means they are going to continue to schedule games at weird times in weird places, without any regard for the havoc played on the schedules of the organizations, or the lives of the people who will do just about ANYTHING to watch their beloved teams. Like me, for instance; outside it was a gorgeous, warm, sunny day, less than one mile away from me an air show was occurring over the beach in Jacksonville — the fucking Blue Angels were flying for God’s sake — but here I was, holed up in the back of the stinky-ass bus, the same place I was going to be hanging out for the next six weeks, all because of football! And especially my beloved Skins who stood to grab a piece of the lead in the east if they could triumph over the New York Giants in the Meadowlands. The Meadowlands, which is located in… New Jersey? I thought you were supposed play in the state or city your name was from. That would make them the New Jersey Giants. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? But what’s that? The Redskins play in Maryland? You weren’t supposed to remind me of that!

O.K., finally, back the action… the Fox team (or, as I like to call them, “The Chucklebutts”) was back at their orbital-console Death Star looking-thing, and it was only minutes from kick-off. The coolers were packed with beer, and even though I hadn’t woken up early enough to get any food, I discovered a discarded steak-and-cheese deep within the recesses of the GWAR refrigerator. GAME ON!

Then, in the distance but growing rapidly louder rose a great rumbling that could only be one thing: an approaching jet fighter flying very low and fast. It was almost like my faithful tour bus, sitting there all alone in the middle of that parking lot, was the target in the sights of that rocketing F-18 Super-Hornet. As it rocketed over the bus the entire thing rattled from end to end. The noise was so ear-splitting that it momentarily drowned out the sound of Terry Bradshaw’s hysterical laughter… completely. So much so that it didn’t return. The screen was blank, like it is between commercials. So it was coming back. Any second, it was going to. But it didn’t.

THAT FUCKING F-18 HAD BLOWN OUT MY FUCKING SATELLITE!

Unfortunately this is the part where the readers take over completely. I’ve already spent two hours writing this and it’s time for load in. I am turning this column over to YOU, the faithful readers to tell me all about what the fuck happened yesterday. I only have enough time to give some love to Eli the Assassin for showing no fear in the Giants big win over my Skins, who will be a hell of a team when they get someone besides RGIII.

So…Week Seven…what the hell happened?

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