Drew Bledsoe Heroically Offers to Fill in For Romo. Or Brady. Either of Those Dicks.

Speaking from a makeshift dais in a Tacoma-area sports bar, retired NFL journeyman quarterback Drew Bledsoe recently announced his willingness to "step up and fill in for Tom Brady and/or Tony Romo," adding that he would "take over for either one of those dicks. I don't care which one. Or both. I'll fucking play for both teams and then we'll see how much those bastards like having their jobs taken away." 

Bledsoe, a standout Washington State University player, was drafted by the New England Patriots with the first overall pick in the 1993 draft. Known equally for his rocket arm and leaden feet, Bledsoe fared well enough in the 90s to warrant a record 10-year, $103 million contract in 1991. 

However, a fierce hit by Jets linebacker Mo Lewis in second game of the 2001 season sheared a blood vessel in Bledsoe's chest, sidelining him for the year and elevating unproven backup Tom Brady into the starter's role. Brady never looked back, leading the Patriots to Super Bowl victories in 2001, 2004 and 2005.

After a lackluster stint in Buffalo, Bledsoe was traded to the Dallas Cowboys, where he was reunited with former Patriots coach and proven winner Bill Parcells. Cowboys owner Jerry Jones proved his commitment to winning by building an outstanding supporting cast for Bledsoe, drafting stud running back Marion Barber and signing future Hall of Fame receiver Terrell Owens. However, despite leading the team to a 3-2 record while throwing seven touchdowns and running for another, Bledsoe was replaced at halftime of the week seven game against the New York Giants with Tony Romo, an undrafted free agent out of Eastern Illinois University. Romo threw two second-half touchdowns in that losing effort, but went on to amass 2,900 yards and 19 touchdowns en route to winning six games, carrying the team to an NFC wildcard berth and being named to the Pro Bowl. Confident with Romo at the helm, the Cowboys released Bledsoe following the 2006 season and the passer retired rather than face the indignity of being a backup.

Although he has been largely invisible from the sports landscape since his retirement, insiders report that the fog-like gloom that enshrouded Bledsoe since his retirement began to lift just minutes into the 2008 season. "When Brady went down, Drew jumped up out of his seat like a maniac," said Martin Gale, a regular at Bleacher's Sports Bar in downtown Tacoma. "The guy's here every Sunday like clockwork, sitting in the back booth by himself, not saying nothing. We're all pretty used to his silence, and then all of the sudden he's screaming at the top of his lungs and text messaging and buying drinks all around. Kinda weird, but that's Tacoma for you."

According to waitress Kristin Vermeer, Bledsoe's gregarious change didn't last. "The next week, he was pretty much back to his old self," she said. "He seemed a little happier, though. We had the Patriots game on a few weeks back and I thought I heard him humming to himself, but it was hard to tell because he always sits right by the Golden Tee machines."

However, there was no uncertainty about Bledsoe's mood on Wednesday, reports Vermeer. "Between the happy hour crowd and people here for the baseball games, the place was packed. At one point an ESPN anchor cuts into the game and says something about Tony Romo's finger and I swear to God it was like someone shoved a hot poker up an orangutan's ass. The entire bar -- maybe 100 people -- just goes completely silent while this piercing wail builds. It's Bledsoe, standing on his table with his head thrown back and his fists clenched. He looked like the dude that got shot in Platoon. I've never heard a scream like that."

With other patrons looking on in stunned silence, Bledsoe used the opportunity to volunteer his services to either of his former teams. "Give me a call now Jones, you greasy fucking skeleton," Bledsoe shouted, adding "You too, Belichick. Let's see how much of a fucking genius you are with Matt Cassel throwing the ball." 

Bledsoe then finished his Olympia, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his 1995 Pro Bowl sweatshirt and quietly left the bar.

Some Upcoming Will Ferrell Projects

On the Shoulders of Giants
Washed-up Olympic diver Dex Lester (Ferrell) vowed never to get back into the pool after a final-dive belly flop cost him the 1972 gold medal. Nearly 16 years later, Dex—still sporting his distinctive perm and hilarious walrus mustache—learns he has an illegitimate son. It's none other than Biscuit (Jonah Hill), the pool boy in his run-down apartment complex! Soon, Dex is coaxed back into the water to help Biscuit train for the newest Olympic sport: Chicken Fighting. When he discovers that Biscuit's greatest challenger is the child of his hated rival (and gold-medal beneficiary) Dieter Ver Boten (Paul Rudd), Dex triumphantly—and comically—puts the Speedo back on to finally bring home the gold. Along the way, the pair get some help from Biscuit's sexy mom (Christina Applegate) and the cantankerous coach (Donald Sutherland) Dex abandoned years before.

Tight Lines and Lunkers: The Saga of Denny Ray Dwyer
In the early 90s world of high-stakes professional bass fishing, Denny Ray Dwyer (Ferrell) is king. With his trademark mullet and riotous Fu Manchu mustache, Denny Ray slays the ladies and the fish alike. But when Vietnamese fishing phenomenon Phe Nom (Justin Long) hits the Pro Bass tour, it could spell the end of Denny’s reign at the top. At the urging of his best bud, Shakespeare (Luke Wilson) and girlfriend Darlene (Leslie Mann), Denny Ray embarks on a slapstick trek to Nepal in search of legendary fly-fishing guru Sudsy McNibbles (Bryan Cox). On a sacred mountain lake, Sudsy teaches Denny Ray the ancient secret of how to become one with the fish. But will it be enough to help Denny Ray beat Phe Nom at the first ever Bass Fishing World Series?


Roshambo!
In 1982, Chip Cranberry (Ferrell) is just another humorously pony-tailed and wispy-bearded slacker living in his parent's basement. But then something magical and side-splitting happens—the greatest Rock Paper Scissors run in history. His unbeaten streak starts small—winning shotgun, claiming the last slice of pizza—but eventually grows into a global phenomenon that has the entire world asking, “when will Chip lose?” As the stakes get higher and the limelight grows hotter, Chip finds himself changing, much to the dismay of his best friend Clem (Vince Vaughn) and Valley Girl squeeze Monica (Christine Taylor). Nevertheless, Chip manages to ride his roshambo streak all the way to the World Series of Rock Paper Scissors, where he faces ruthless defending champion Tehachapi "Rock" Chang (Jon Heder) and learns what’s really important in life.


Winner Skinner Chicken Dinner
Fast-talking grifter Skinner MacGuffin (Ferrell) travels the 1930s-era deep south with Mortimer, a neurotic, tic-tac-toe playing chicken (voice of Owen Wilson). After seducing the wrong woman (Isla Fischer) with his charm, attitude and hilarious Amish beard, Skinner runs afoul of Louisiana crime boss "Cher" Gastineau (David Koecher). Backed into a corner, Skinner is forced to enter Mortimer into the World Series of Underground Cock Fighting. Skinner and Mortimer use their smarts, along with every comical trick in the book, to advance to the finals against Gastineau’s six-time champion rooster, El Gallo del Diablo (voice of Ben Stiller). When they learn the final is to the death, Skinner and Mortimer set into motion the only thing that can save their skins—a devilishly clever and zany long con!


Les Justes
In an adaptation of Albert Camus' most thought-provoking novel, Ivan “Yanek” Kaliayev (Ferrell) and his trusted band of Socialist Revolutionaries—including Boris (Daniel Day Lewis), Alexis (Davis Thewlis) and Dora (Cate Blanchett)—plot to assassinate the Grand Duke Romanov (Gary Oldman) at the dawn of the 20th century. But when given the opportunity to bomb the Grand Duke’s carriage and finally end the Tsarist tyranny that has broken the spirit of their beloved nation, Kaliayev finds himself unwilling to take the lives of Romanov’s young niece and nephew. This unexpected show of mercy puts Kaliayev at odds with his comrades and sets into motion a harrowing exploration of the righteousness and morality of blood letting.


The Royal Flush
Before no-limit poker was played on TV, it was played in the smoky back room of Las Vegas’ Lucky Star casino. And in 1970, nobody played better than the larger-than-life Royal Brammer (Ferrell). Behind his familiar cowboy hat, aviator sunglasses and uproarious bushy beard, Brammer has bluffed and beaten ‘em all—including his best friends Chip Sizzler (Paul Rudd) and Briarpatch Sampson (John C. Reilly). When the crooked owner of a new casino (James Caan) tries to muscle the Lucky Star out of business, Brammer goes "all in" by outlandishly challenging him to a Super Bowl of Poker—with the loser closing up shop and leaving town!

I Ever Tell You About the '62 Pro Bowl? (Part 3)

(For part 2, click http://thelovingcudgel.blogspot.com/2008/01/did-i-ever-tell-you-about-62-pro-bowl_31.html)

So I drove. I never took my eyes off the road ahead of me. Every few minutes Train would hiss out a “left, bitch” or “right, motherfucker,” and each time, I would turn the Ford without so much as a glance in his direction.

I drove to a part of L.A. I never knew existed. After twenty minutes or so, the road turned to dirt. The liquor stores and pawn shops dried up, along with the junkies and hopheads and the cheap, greasy whores. There was nothing out there but scrub brush and dead, leafless trees. The sight of the headlights dancing on those woods ran a tingle up my spine, one I hadn’t felt since the Imjin River in ’51. I remember looking up at those trees and down at the white knuckles of my hands on the wheel. And I felt fear, boy. Real fuckin’ fear.

Night Train rolled the window down and suddenly I could hear the distant sound of voices and music, rollicking negro horns and pianos blasting through the trees on top of the heavy boom of metal drums. It was faint at first but grew loud quickly—we could hear yelling and the crash of wood on wood and the sick thump of bodies against one another. Suddenly a POP! POP! POP! rang out. There were screams and the music began to build.

“Yeahhhhh,” Night Train said softly and he began tensing up, almost shivering in his seat. “We gon’ have some fun tonight, motherfuckers. Yeahhhh….”

There was a bend in the road up ahead and on the other side of the turn the night was glowing yellow and red as if on fire. Shadows danced in an out of the light as the car eased up to the turn.

POP! POP! POP!

“Uhhhhhhh,” the Train moaned with his eyes closed tight while stroking the thin stocking on his left leg. Daddy whimpered in the back seat and when I glanced in the mirror I saw the face of a terrified child.

The bend in the road was getting closer—whatever was on the other side was just seconds away. The music was pounding now and the shadows writhed grotesquely on the trees in front of us. I looked left and saw an embankment down into the woods. In the light I couldn’t make out how steep it was or far it went down. Suddenly, the Train bolted upright, as stiff and rigid as a tackling sled. In one furious motion he pulled the razor and turned to face me. I don’t exactly know how to describe it, but the world outside seemed to freeze.

Let me tell you pissants something. I’ve seen things in my life. You understand me? I was at Yultong Bridge. I stormed Chosin Reservoir. I fought at goddamn Inchon. But I never saw anything as awful as Night Train Lane in that moment.

His face…it wasn’t human. His gauzy yellow eyes were rolled up in his head and his sinister grin was like something from the bad parts of the Bible. He threw his head back and opened his mouth wide, impossibly wide. He slid his pink tongue over his jagged teeth and drew the blade across it. His mouth filled with blood. He shuddered and let it run out the corners of his mouth, down the front of his shirt. Daddy was moaning now “nonononononononono.” Train lifted that blade up again and it was like I snapped out of a trance. The car was hurtling towards the bend, the noise on the other side deafening. I threw open the door and lunged out of the moving Ford. I felt something graze the back of my neck, as soft and gentle as a Korean whore.

I hit the ground rolling. The embankment was steeper than I thought, and I crashed down through rotted trees and dank, poison-smelling mud. When I stopped rolling, I jumped up like a rabbit and ran. I had no idea where I was or which way I was headed, but I wasn’t resting until I got there. I just ran as hard and fast as I could. As I tore through those woods, I noticed a warm tickle running down my backbone. I touched the back of my neck and suddenly felt a searing pain. Even in that moonless night I could see the blood on my hand. The cut on my neck was deep and wide, like the grin of a mean, black cat. As I ran and pulled my shirt off to staunch the bleeding, I swear heared the faint, distant sound of the Train laughing as the music faded into the dark of night.

I skipped practice the next day and the Dutchman benched me for the big game as punishment. I sleepwalked through two more seasons, and whenever we played the Lions I managed to sprain my ankle or pull my groin the week before. I’m not ashamed to admit it. In ’63, Big Daddy caught his devil dose and rode the mainline express to the sky. I didn’t bother showing up for his service.

I haven’t ever been back to Los Angeles and I never saw Night Train again. I watched his induction ceremony in ’73 on the TV in a little shitbox bar in Reno. I remember I shivered at the sight of him. When he crossed his legs and his plaid pants rode up over his ankles, I saw a slender but unmistakable bulge in his sock.

I stood up, paid my tab and walked quickly out into the light of day.

Ryan Leaf: “I’m All Set For Cash, Bro”

Canyon, TX—Former standout Washington State University quarterback Ryan Leaf is widely considered the biggest bust in the history of the NFL, if not all of professional sports. He once commanded millions of dollars in salary and endorsements but these days draws far more meager paychecks as quarterback coach of the Division II West Texas A&M University Buffaloes. Leaf’s precipitous fall from grace has been well documented. Chosen second overall in the 1998 draft by the San Diego Chargers, he started the team’s first nine games, throwing two touchdowns and thirteen interceptions before being benched in favor of journeyman Craig Whelihan. Leaf spent five more disappointing seasons in the NFL—including humiliating stints on the Tampa Bay Buccaneer and Seattle Seahawks practice squads—before retiring with a career passer rating of 50.

Because of public knowledge of his struggles and current situation, Patrons at Pepitos Mexican Restaurant in this sleepy West Texas town were taken completely by surprise when Leaf noisily and repeatedly asserted Tuesday that his finances are in “awesome” standing.

According to Pepitos bartender Mike Meachem, Leaf made the proclamation when another patron, Buffs fan Raul Espinoza, offered to buy him a beer. “Raul saw Leaf sitting by himself at the bar. He came up and said nice as could be, ‘Coach, we’re glad to have you on staff. Why don’t you let me and my friends buy you a beer?’ Leaf just flipped out. He got in Raul’s face and asked him why he thought Leaf ‘needed a handout’,” said Meachem.

According to several witnesses Leaf then loudly told Raul his finances were in “awesome” shape and that he was “all set for cash, bro, but thanks for fucking asking.”

Other patrons verified Mecahem’s version of events. Canyon resident Debbie Braun said the red-faced Leaf jumped out of his seat and began screaming about his “signing bonus” and “huge endorsement deals” until Espinoza walked away. “That other guy just put his hands up in a friendly gesture, smiled and went back to his table,” said Braun.

At that point, said Meachem, Leaf began yelling loudly to nobody in particular about the details of his finances. “He was shouting into his beer about a ‘money market account’ and ‘two-bedroom place in Amarillo’ and the ‘late 90s-era ATV he owned.’ At one point he turned to the room and yelled that his ’02 Tundra ‘only had 40,000 miles’ on it. Stuff like that. I wanted him to shut up, so I just kept washing glasses and tried not to look at him.”

Meachem said that Leaf finally calmed down a few minutes later. “He was just muttering shit at that point, saying stuff like, ‘buy me a beer? I’ll buy you a fucking beer.’ He asked me what those guys were drinking. I told him Heineken, but he ordered a pitcher of Miller Lite and had me send it over, ‘compliments of the NFL.’”

I Ever Tell You About the '62 Pro Bowl? (Part 2)

(For part 1, click http://thelovingcudgel.blogspot.com/2008/01/did-i-ever-tell-you-about-62-pro-bowl.html)

You fucking kids today may have heard a thing or two about Dick “Night Train” Lane, but trust me when I say you don’t know shit. Dick Lane was a bad, bad man. I’m no coward—and I’ll put the pipe to anyone says otherwise—but I’m man enough to admit that I was scared of the Train. Me and every other ballplayer from those days. It wasn’t just the thought of catching a Night Train Necktie when playing the Lions—the league was full of tough, mean motherfuckers. But the Train was a different breed. He was brought up hard. Texas in the 30s and 40s was no Shangri-la for a black boy, especially one born in a dumpster and raised by a stranger. That kind of history can turn a man to stone. The Train was stone and then some, friend.

Nowadays, a player bets on a dogfight and the FBI treats him like Al Fucking Capone. Well back then, everyone in the league knew about Night Train and the juke joint killings, but nobody so much as whispered a word about it. He had a slender little razor he kept stashed in his sock that he only took out on gamedays—Earl Morrall once told me he kept it tucked in there during practice—and God have mercy on the men who ever saw him whip it out. Those poor souls are buried face down in shallow ditches from Birmingham to Port Lucie, some for nothing so much as a wayward look. Even George Wilson himself was scared of Lane. The Train might work the sleds and do the hitting drills—oh, he loved to hit—but while the rest of the defense ran sprints, he’d head back to the locker room, slip on his velvet robe and burn the day drinking peach brandy and throwing dice with the attendants.

So, the long and short of it was I didn’t want jack shit to do with Night Train Lane. I’m just about to tell that exact thing to Big Daddy when the front door jerks open. The suddenness of it makes us both jump. My raw nerves get another jolt right away when the Train slides into the front seat, smooth and silent as a wraith. He pulls the door closed, runs his hand through his hair and without even so much as turning his head to acknowledge us, hisses, “I told you to meet me at the Early Bird, motherfucker.”

I don’t have to glance in the mirror to know Daddy has tensed up. I spent a lot of years knuckle to knuckle with other men and I know a thing or two about violence and fear. Ten minutes ago all I could smell in that Fairlane was the faint hint of that Braniff stewardess. Now it stank of fear—mine and Big Daddy’s.

“I was coming, Train. Ain’t no cabs ‘round here and I can’t see no bus.” Daddy’s voice was so high and pleading he sounded like a strung-out broad. There was no answer and we sat there in silence for what seemed like forever. Then Train turned his head slowly like a cat and eyed me.

“Drive, boy. We going to Mabel’s and you comin’.”

“Aww now come on, Train,” Daddy said leaning forward, a note of panic in his voice. “This boy don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Mabel’s. That’s not his bidness. And you said we could just take it easy—”

I never even saw Train move, but I heard the crack when the back of his hand hit Big Daddy’s face. I mixed it up in a Tulsa ice house with Bobo Olson, just a few months before he fought Archie Moore. Bobo was fast, brother, but the Train could have thrown his left, stopped for a cup of coffee, thrown his right and landed both shots before Bobo even got his mitts up. I didn’t bother waiting for more directions. I put the car in gear and eased out of the lot.

END PART II

Rehab Clinic to Miley Cyrus: “We’ll Be Waiting For You.”

Malibu, CA – In a rare advance display of concern and support, officials from prominent celebrity addiction treatment center Promises of Malibu issued a public statement assuring 16-year-old sensation Miley Cyrus they’ll be ready and waiting to serve her upcoming rehabilitation needs.

Promises, which charges up to $50,000 a month for inpatient services, became nationally known after hosting celebrity addicts like Robert Downey Jr., Matthew Perry, Charlie Sheen, Britney Spears and, in 2007, notorious former child star Lindsay Lohan.

"We want Ms. Cyrus to know that no matter what her future addictions may be – alcohol, drugs, sex, food or any conceivable combination thereof – Promises of Malibu will have a room on hold,” announced executive director Barry Horvath. “We know how harsh the limelight’s glare can be, yet we also understand the sheer emptiness its foreseeable fading leaves. When Ms. Cyrus tires of filling that void with Grey Goose, heroin and illicit, videotaped sex, we’ll be waiting to help her start the healing process.”

By using celebrity behavior-modeling software and analyzing variables such as entertainment trends, economic indicators and fluctuating street drug prices, Promises expects the tween star to check into their lavish facility via court order in mid-June of 2013.

Cyrus, currently in the midst of a sellout 70-city tour, became internationally famous as the lead in Hannah Montana, a Disney Channel sitcom that ranks among the highest rated kids’ shows of all time. Her superstar status isn’t just limited to the stage or small screen - she has released two hit albums and her 3-D concert film opens next week.

"It's a schedule and inevitable career arc that would—and will—ruin even the most well adjusted child,” notes Horvath. “And that’s not even taking into account that we're talking about the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus.”

Although such such advanced bookings are unusual, Horvath admitted the facility had also blocked out rooms for the younger two Jonas Brothers, Elle Fanning and "the mohawked Jolie-Pitt kid." When asked about the sons of Britney Spears and the unborn child of her 16-year-old sister, Jamie Lynn, Horvath offered his somber professional opinion: "It's too late for them."

Student Photography Exhibit Disappoints

State College, PA — Attendees to the opening night of “Voyages of Discovery," Penn State's 2008 student photography exhibit, were dismayed and disappointed to discover the show consisted entirely of photographs of old people's hands.

According to a “vision statement” distributed at the opening, participating students were instructed to “process their education and experience and distill their core aesthetic beliefs into photographs that best represented the essence of themselves as students, artists and human beings.”

The finished works, comprising 80 prints from 12 photography majors, varied in size and format. But by sheer coincidence, every single piece prominently featured the wrinkled hands of elderly people.

Paul Newell, chair of PSU’s Department of Art & Architecture, said students were neither encouraged nor mandated to photograph the hands of senior citizens, noting “that’s something each student apparently chose to do on their own.” Newell said the students didn't see each others work until after it was hung, adding, “we probably should have a had a progress meeting at some point.”

Photographer Rebecca Abernathy, a junior from Haddonfield, PA, was livid about the overlap in subject choice. “I can’t believe the others copied me,” Abernathy said, gesturing to her photos of old hands clasped together. “Hands have been my thing all semester. I was doing hands while everyone else was still taking pictures of ducks on Spring House Pond and the fucking chapel at sunset.”

Kevin Morris, a senior from Wallingford, PA, defended his work, eight black-and-white close-ups of the hands of Wesley Hollandale, 72, a fruit and produce farmer from nearby Pine Grove Mills. “Look at those hands,” Morris exclaimed, pointing to a sepia-toned photo of Hollandale’s hands resting atop a weathered wooden fence. “Can you even tell where the hands end and the fence begins? Who else bothered to explore that kind of paradox?” a flabbergasted Morris wondered aloud.

Morris’ irritation was echoed by Curt Jensen, a junior from Allentown, PA. “This is bullshit,” said Jensen, whose work consisted of six color photographs of old hands clutching the bible. “I spent all day at the Greyhound station getting those shots. Do you know how disgusting that place is? I had to throw that brand new bible away when I was done.”

Junior Andy “Pax” Paxton of Princeton, N.J. laughed off the coincidence. “Dude, I knew something was up when I saw Pete, Lauren and Javy at Foxdale Village [Retirement Home] last weekend. 'Community service' my ass."

Although the university doesn’t release attendance numbers for free events, “Voyages of Discovery” is believed to have garnered the lowest turnout in school history, breaking the mark set by last year’s student exhibit, “I Am, I See, I’m Me: Portraits of Consciousness,” which featured nothing but unrelated photos of children's bare feet.