He is a good man

So often, when athletes die, the public learns all of the good things about their lives. Sadly, this information comes at a time when we are unable to use it and fully appreciate them as human beings. Before death, an athlete may be known as a reclusive, angry felon. After death, that same man is transformed into a misunderstood, compassionate saint. Should someone really be better off dead? We say "no."

At Flotsam, we want to stop this from happening. So we've decided to profile a current athlete who is alive, so you can further understand him and know who he is. Appreciate this man while you still can. Some day down the dusty road of life, he will die.

Cooper Carlisle is turning a corner.

At age 30, the 8th-year offensive lineman for the Oakland Raiders has his life in order. He lives with his wife, Suzy, in Florida and he has a beautiful daughter, Anna Kate, who just turned 2 years old. She likes the Wiggles.

In an unexpected moment for a man who is 6-foot-5 and nearly 300 pounds, Cooper last week watched the Wiggles with his daughter. He bounced her on his knee as she smiled and enjoyed the show. Cooper talked to her about the shapes and colors on screen. He even hummed along to the familiar tunes.

"He's a truly great man," says Raiders teammate Jeremy Newberry. "He's an amazing teammate, husband and father. I admire him a lot."

Just last week, Cooper met Suzy in the tunnel following a win over the Kansas City Chiefs. He kissed her on the cheek and told her that he loved her. She smiled and told him she loved him, too. She told him he played a good game.

And he did play a good game. A good game, indeed.

This is what life should have been like for Cooper Carlisle. In fact, this is what life is like for Cooper Carlisle.

The devoted family man and active community member is enjoying a fine season with the Raiders, being part of the team's improved rushing attack. He had played for years with the Denver Broncos after being drafted in 2000, out of the University of Florida. His previous seasons had been pretty similar to this one.

Former coach Mike Shanahan understands Carlisle's dedication to football.

"This is a guy who showed up to practice every day," he said. "He did drills. He played in games. He blocked defensive linemen. These are the things that he did, and I acknowledge that they happened."

It's not just football people who know of Carlisle. Community members also remember him.

"I remember Cooper very well," said Ashleigh Putnam, a waitress at an Oakland-area Applebee's. "He came in here with his wife and ordered a chicken sandwich, some onion rings, and a Pepsi. He tipped me almost 25 percent. He was very friendly, and a good customer. It was nice to see him stop by my section."

Incidents like this are not isolated, say those around Carlisle. Despite his quiet demeanor, people have taken notice of his behavior and kindness toward others.

"I remember, like, just last week we had to stop by a gas station before heading out after practice," said teammate Stuart Schweigert. "He filled up with gas and then made eye contact with the attendant as he paid. No complaints or anything. He's just a really friendly guy."

Next time you see Carlisle pancake a defensive tackle and Justin Fargas slip by for a 15-yard gain, appreciate what he does. Notice his stout frame and solid technique. Notice his jovial demeanor and quick smile. Notice that time this week when he opened the door for a woman with an armful of shopping bags. Notice these things. And remember them.

They won't last forever.

DeJuan's "Buy Shit" Shopper's Guide

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Black Friday.

Dog, I just got goosebumps.

Bitches, there has never been a holiday more appropriately titled for DeJuan Charles Xavier C3P0. Every year, I get my freak on at department stores across this great nation in the early morning hours after Thanksgiving, giving wacko shoppers the business by shoving them out of my damn way. Dog, you can’t get deals like this just anytime. Down pillows and comforter set half-off at Bed Bath! I got all misty-eyed when I saw that shit.

The holiday season is upon us, and nobody appreciates some mistletoe, pine-scented candles, and a trio of ho’s like DeJuan. But there is a lot of shitty shit out there that you need not purchase for that fine someone, or your ma or whoever, not when it's overpriced and unworthly of the Christmas love. Keep it real with DeJuan’s buyer’s guide this holiday season.

Apparel: As you know, the DeJuan motto of “Less is more, unless you’re talking about moneys or honeys” applies here, but you can get some kick-ass bargains on sports jerseys. My favorite purchase was a Torii Hunter Minnesota Twins jersey for 10 bucks. Shit dog, I thought the security system was going to start buzzing while I walked out the door. I’m going to show that off while he’s making plays next year in the Metrodome.

Children’s Toys: All that shit from China is completely on bargain these days, so I highly recommend a Yi Jianlian figurine for that little guy or gal you may have spawned from your loins. If that don’t work, get a Tickle-Me-Elmo. Dog, kids ain’t picky. Get them whatever the hell the store has on sale. Unicorns and shit.

Tickets: DeJuan loves to be “Wicked,” considers himself “The Lion King” and loves “BroadWay,” but nobody wants to see no damn plays. Reminds me of that time I landed the lead role in Othello with the community theater posse. Apparently the snoots don’t appreciate a little remix to that death scene at the end. All I know is, the great Tupac would have appreciated me singing “I Wonder if Heaven Has A Ghetto” right after the Big O gives himself the business. Depressing shit. That was the last time I hit up a play, dog. Instead, get your honey some romantic tickets to see the NHL. That shit is hot!

Appliances: If you don’t already have a microwave, you probably don’t eat, so you’re probably dead. Do something original this time, pansies. Get DVR, so you can record episodes of Dancing With the Stars (Mel B, you’re my girl!), Bionic Woman and re-runs of American Gladiators.

Of course, if you haven’t already bought your shit on Black Friday, you’re screwed. Skip Christmas this year. Learn from your mistakes, dog.

Helio the world

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind sock

I VOTED 156 TIMES FOR HELIO CASTRONEVES!

If I’m not watching sports, there is a good chance that I’m watching Dancing With the Stars, and I was GLUED to my television set (literally, thanks to a Krazy Glue accident, haha!) for the big finale.

Helio! YOU KNOW HELIO? It’s like that commercial where that foreign Spanish guy is saying “You know Sergio?” And then they go party together. Helio is a dancing party. He’s SPIDER MAN, the Formula 1 engine that could (AND DID) win the Indy 500 like five times. HE’S A BORN WINNER and that’s why he won. Also, he’s Spider Man.

Remember when he climbed up that fence at the Indy 500 after winning? He’s so damn charming. He’s like the Roberto Benigni of reality television. And also, his dancing partner was SMOKING HOT. Better than Mel B. BOY POWER. Girls never win Dancing With the Stars, and that’s why Mel B lost. She was a Spice Girl. IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER, you got to vote for Helio Castroneves.

Sports stars RULE on that show. Anton Apolo Ohno or whatever his name is won last year (I totally voted for him) and Emmett Smith won that won time (totally voted for him) and Jerry Rice did really well. And KENNY MANYE is on sometimes giving SportsCenter updates. He’s so funny! Pro athletes are born to dance! SCREW MARIE OSMOND. That lying, fake fainter. HELIO!

Ain't Scare to Cry

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is a NASCAR writer for Flotsam Media, but he also likes to watch football. He wanted to play in high school, but his Momma was afraid the other boys would laugh at him in the showers. Jonny Dave had a whole lot of butt pimples in high school.

I got in from the deer woods on Turkey Day mornin’ to settle my butt down for a long day of dark meat, cranberry sauce, and football. I turned on Channel 13 to see some pregame and check myself for ticks.

Momma said she hates it when I check myself for ticks in front of the TV. She says there’s no way I can possibly check myself good while the TV's on. I tell her that I can. She says I can’t. We go back and forth until I finally just strip down to my skivvies and let her check me while I get worked up over "Married with Children" re-runs (Peg’s almost TOO hot with them tig ol’ bitties!).

Well, on Turkey Day, since Momma's busy fryin’ the turkey, I got to check my own self while I watched good ol’ boy Terry Bradshaw gimme the lowdown on all I need to know about football and life in general. [Side note: I’m sure glad they brought that black fella back. Things are back to runnin’ good again on Channel 13’s pregame show. Joe Buck’s pretty too look at and all, but he can’t handle Terry, Jimmy, and Howie. The black fella looks like he lost some weight or somethin’, though.]

OK, back on track. So, I turn it on Channel 13 and what do I see? I see the single most beautiful and touching and goosebump-givin’ tribute to a DIFFERENT good ol’ country boy. I’m talkin’ ‘bout Brett Farve. They had all these old guys talkin’ about how great he is and how they’re glad he joined their club. There was game film and music and I was just in awe at the greatness on my TV.

I couldn’t figure out why they were showin’ it and got scared that maybe Brett had died or somethin’. I hollered at Momma to turn on the radio to see, but she said the radio was in her car ‘cause her car radio wasn’t workin’. What was I gonna do, y’all? I had to know. I felt a lump in my throat makin’ it hard for me to swallow. I told myself, "Jonny Dave, don’t you say your goodbyes yet."

But I couldn’t help it. There I was on the floor with a tick between the fingernails of one hand, the other hand keepin’ my dog away from my genitals, and tears streamin’ down my face for a man I never even met. Momma walked in and said it was the most beautiful thing she ever saw on the floor of her livin’ room. She likes Turkey Day and ain’t hardly ever mean on that day.

Anyways, the tribute was over and Terry Bradshaw -- I knew it’d be you, Terry -- lets me know that Brett’d be playin’ that day. He was ALIVE! Well, you’d think I’d’ve quit cryin’ right then, but you’d be wrong. I just cried harder. I cried because I knew how close we were to losin’ what may be the single greatest American ever. And I had a new appreciation for my life, too. That’s what Brett can do for ya. Brett almost died that day, y’all. But I got to see him play football anyway.

I cried all through that game and most of the night. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. Momma says a man can cry if he gets rid of that tick between his fingernails, lets the dog get a sniff ‘cause that’s all she wants, and goes into the bathroom so no one’s watchin’. Well, I did that, Momma. I popped that tick, put my underwear back on, and went to the bathroom where I just stared at myself in the mirror. And guess what, Momma. Somebody was watchin’ me cry, Momma. I was watchin’, Momma. I was watchin’. And that don’t make me less of a man. And Brett will always be worth cryin’ over.

Hope y’all’s Turkey Day was good. Mine was the best ever.

Thanksgiving recap

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Folks, it's been a little while. For that, I lend my apologies. I hate abandoning thousands of loyal fans, which is why it was so hard for me to break up Soundgarden like I did.

But I have a good explanation: Thanksgiving was a bitch this year. It kept me way too busy to update this site. Here's the deal.

Good Things About Thanksgiving 2007

1. I ate a lot of turkey. When you celebrate Thanksgiving every year with just yourself and your pack of dogs, there's a lot of turkey to go around. A few weeks ago, I took a roofie with my Wild Turkey and accidentally invited Curtis to come have Thanksgiving dinner with me. I forgot about it until 10 a.m. on Thanksgiving when I heard a knock on my window and saw Curtis peering through, with three pumpkin pies and six cans of whipped cream in his arms. I pretended to be dead and didn't answer the door.

2. All of my dogs survived this year. Each year since 1993, at least one of my dogs has died on the holiday, whether it's from overeating, shotgun accidents, silly string overdose, worms, being dinner, coyotes or inbreeding. I managed to avoid that this year.

3. Brett Favre was tremendous. I approve of any quarterback with a beard, and Favre tore shit up. Watching the grizzled old coot complete 20 straight passes while I rubbed cranberry sauce on my belly was a good way to spend an afternoon.

4. I got to hear my good old friend John Madden. That guy loves Thanksgiving. We hung out back in the 1970s some. I'm one of the few people on Earth who know that "turducken" was inspired by a Turkish hooker who walked like a duck. Her name was Efromiya and she was only 4-foot-8.

5. Curtis actually believed I was dead and went away after about three hours of staring through my window.

Bad Things About Thanksgiving 2007

1. Tony Romo. Stop smiling, damn it. Just stop smiling all the time. Stop patting the referees on the ass. Stop putting your arm around Terrell Owens whenever you're on the sidelines. Stop breaking Wade's hand every time you celebrate a completion. Stop having cyber sex with Peter King every Sunday night. Stop.

2. I clogged my toilet around 8:15 p.m. This is also a Thanksgiving tradition, but it's one that I don't really enjoy.

3. Apparently, tryptophan making you sleepy is all a myth. Because of that, I didn't sleep for almost 55 hours after eating my meal.

If you're keeping track, that's five good things to three bad things. Chalk up a Thanksgiving win for Marv Blackstone. Back with more soon, homeys.

From the vault: I am the greatest messageboard poster ever

By Brandon Martin
Web dominator

I am a god, quite simply. Much like Rodney Carney is a physical freak, I am likewise a freak. Have you encountered me before? Have you felt my wrath? Have you met my tart tongue, my wily wit and my scintillating sarcasm? Have you been burned by my carefully researched points and my perfectly-constructed arguments?

If not, you are in for a treat. For I am BMart77, the greatest message board poster ever.

Sure, you may scoff at that claim. It's possible you've never seen my work -- though I bet you've heard of it. The infamous Jessica Simpson vs. Britney Spears argument on gorillamask.net. The 2004 NFL draft analysis on the scout.com boards. The Hee Seop Choi debate on nsbb.com. Those were all mine. The work of a living legend. Tears were shed, wrists were slit, children were conceived as a result of these epic spectacles.

I was schooled early in the Internet's existence. I honed my lethal tactics on the Alamak.com chat rooms, shooting down poseur theories and bucking conventional wisdom. I graduated from there to Yahoo! newsgroups, where I took on all comers. My skills were increasing at an alarming rate and the masses quickly learned my handle. So often, a thread would grow to several pages, with both sides bantering back and forth. Then I would appear, much like aurochs stampeding across the plains, devastating anything in their path, and end all possible debate.

You will never see me cheapen a post with emoticons. Each word is precious, and I do not need to accentuate my prose with such pithy symbols. If I see a poster use an emoticon, I make a mental note that they are weak, and I shall crush their will at a later date. God help your soul if I come across one of these things in your post. The ensuing evisceration will remove your will to live, I promise you that much.

Consider my carefully chosen handle: BMart77. It's simple -- my self-prescribed nickname and the year of my birth -- but it identifies me. It is not boring, yet it also is not silly, like so many other message board handles. If I see a name like TruffleShuffleMonster, I know you are a silly bitch who will one day be a target of my ire. And rest assured, that day is coming sooner rather than later.

I use the quote function of the message board flawlessly. Some posters fail to realize the value of brevity and allow themselves to quote six or seven posts that stack on top of one another. Please. How will the other posters know exactly which sentence you plan to blow apart in a blaze of bombastic glory? My secret is to quote each line individually, and painstakingly evaporate any notion of common sense from your stupid, banal attempts at debate one at a time.

Fools.

I am in my element in these portals. Whether you want to argue the latest movies, politics, hipster music (Wilco is the greatest band ever, bar none, no contest about it, end of story, shut up right now) or sports, I will win. It won't even be close.

Roger Clemens the best pitcher of this era? Please. I have spreadsheets that will prove you wrong. And I know the code to post them, with formatting still intact.

Best Jewish athlete ever? Give me Sandy Koufax and try to prove me wrong.

Best way to grill a steak? The Better Homes and Garden people know what happens when you bring up that topic.

Is Scarface better than Godfather? Obviously you know my answer, and if you think the Godfather is better, then you are just a troll. And I don't feed the trolls.

So if you feel like challenging me, step into the ring, punk. I'll take you on any time, on any board you can think of. Just look for the name BMart77, and the scores of weeping simpletons who have tried to overtake me, and were strewn aside like a single, solitary ant on a picnic table.

I'll be waiting for you.

How do I get attention? Tell me who I have to kill.

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

When I was seven years old, I was privileged enough to have an “incident” named after me at Zigmund Elementary School back home. In an attempt to avenge the fruit snacks that had been stolen from me by one Marcy Bollingbeck – now deceased – I took it upon myself to cut off her pet hamster’s tail after show and tell on Valentine’s Day. I then neatly packaged the artifact into a square envelope and presented it to her when the time came to exchange valentines. To be fair, I also included a card asking her to “Be Mine,” but that was mostly bullshit.

The Agatha Incident was talked about for years as perhaps the most grotesque thing those bitches that called themselves teachers had ever seen. Even as I hit middle school, the Agatha Incident hung around my neck like a gold chain – until I started screwing one of the biology instructors. It was called a “scandal,” of course, and Mr. Hughes was fired immediately, but it didn’t have the same ring as “AgathaGate.” Still, despite my insistence on the matter, “AgathaGate” never made its way into the community vernacular. God, Hughes had great breath.

Dammit, what does a girl have to do to get a Gate?

A field goal by Phil Dawson happens to bounce funny, leading people to ask whether or not officials improperly used instant replay, and suddenly we’re hearing about Dawson-Gate, at least according to Sports Illustrated. Bill Belichick starts using his audio/visual capabilities to gain an edge, and he gets rewarded with SpyGate. Hell, the Green Bay Packers make some friendly wagers in the locker room, and I bet any money (if that pun isn’t intended, then I’m not the three-time champion in the Second Life “So You Think You Can Strip” competition) they’ll get a Gate before the season is over. I want a fucking Gate.

The problem is that people want sports controversies to be bigger and badder than they really are. Richard Nixon does one silly thing wrong (trust G. Gordon Liddy to do a woman’s work) and the name of a Washington hotel is suddenly associated with all things scandal. But not just any scandal gets the Gate tag -- you have to really be notorious to get the Gate. LewinskiGate gets the nod, but not Senator Craig in a bathroom stall, for example. Clinton had a higher profile, and his titillating misdeeds are thus given that sacred distinction.

So while I have done my best to equate the evil deeds of history’s finest infidels, all Phil Dawson does is get a strange bounce, and he gets a Gate. If Gate abuse continues in this manner, the exciting luster of the Gate moniker could be irreparably diminished, and all my naughty struggles will be in vain. Don’t let it happen, America.

Stupid, stupid America

Hi, America. You're pretty stupid.

Today Jimmy Rollins was named the MVP of the National League. This was decided by a group of sportswriters who earned the honor through ... well, I don't know. But they received the honor. And now they get to make very publicized bad decisions and abuse it.

To be brief, Matt Holliday was screwed. David Wright was screwed. Even Prince Fielder was screwed. Hell, Hanley Ramirez was screwed, since Rollins wasn't even the best shortstop in his own division. Four other Philadelphia Phillies were screwed, since Rollins finished FIFTH on his own team in OPS. Fifth! How can the fifth-best hitter on a team be considered the most valuable player in an entire league?

Flotsam was prepared for an immediate outcry from the knowledgeable fans of America. The baseball fans who make up the fabric of this land and are the backbone of America's pastime.

Turns out, you're all fucking stupid.

We browsed through the ESPN comments section of the article and read gems like these from fans:

Love all the Philly haters out there. Rollins had a great year and had the best ALL AROUND numbers and stats. Lets not forget he also won the gold glove. Boo Hoo to all the haters out there.

Better all-around numbers?

Rollins: .296 average, .344 OBP, .531 SLG, .875 OPS
Holliday: .340 average, .405 OBP, .607 SLG, .1.012 OPS

Hell, Holliday's batting average was almost higher than Rollins' on-base percentage.

Holliday's REAL stats if he hits in a normal ballpark. .299 AVG, 20 HRs, 70 RBIs

People haven't gotten the memo, but Coors Field is now the size of Dikembe Mutumbo's johnson. It's a huge, huge ballpark. The offensive pinball of several years ago no longer applies. In fact, what rated as the most homer-friendly ballpark in baseball in 2007? Gasp! Philadelphia!

to all those rocky fans who are using statistics as argument just shut up.....rollins was the real mvp.

I hate all of you. Death to America.

Why won't you die already?

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

When old people die, they usually go to hell.

But damn it, I was transfixed for three hours on Sunday, when the Green Bay Packers and Carolina Panthers met in AARP’s Game of the Year, featuring a 38-year-old Brett Favre and 80-year-old Vinny Testaverde. Never before have two quarterbacks been such old farts in an NFL game, and yet both showed why old people still have relevance in society.

It brought me back to my playing days, scrambling for first downs in the Lake Valley Pee-Wee League, leading my team to an exquisite 5-3 record during my eighth grade year. I was a force to be reckoned with on both sides of the ball, and I was in my prime. It’s all downhill after that, kids. First, you get cut from the team. Then you have children who disown you. Then, dentures. Finally, plague.

But what’s this? For once in my life, I felt free again, watching men who should be sleeping at 8 p.m. and considering Oprah Winfrey re-runs the most exciting part of the day. I observed Brett Favre sling three touchdowns and Vinny engineer a late comeback. There was even a play when Favre lined up at receiver, at which point an involuntary bowel movement interrupted my viewing pleasure.

Testaverde is a throwback to days of Tecmo Super Bowl, where the Tecmo cheerleaders and their bursting Tecmo boobies cheered amorously during 77-74 shootouts.

Brett Favre, meanwhile, makes me want to be a kid again. Which is probably why he needs to die. For a glorious moment –- when he found Donald Lee for the second time in the end zone -– my heart leaped from my chest and I leaped from my wheelchair. Now, I need another hip replacement surgery. Asshole.

Football quarterbacking is about being young, hip, and occasionally black, if you’re into that sort of thing. Old people are pushed aside to the curb, but not in this one game. For once, football was about being old, damn it. Older is wiser, stronger and smarter.

The orderlies are out to get me, you know. They know I’m affiliated with the Underground.

Jonny Dave's NASCAR Report

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is a currently self-unemployed freelance photographer living at home with his mother. He refuses to disclose his exact whereabouts for fear of “goverment” agents monitoring the Internet through Google searches.

Hey, y’all. NASCAR expertise man Jonny Dave here again with another report from the bowels of professional racing. Well, it’s the last race of the year and, barrin’ some crazy turn of events, it looks like the evil Jimmie Johnson is gonna be the champion. Personally, I can’t stand the guy, but it’d be better’n the alternative -- the Rainbow Wuss.

Momma’s happy, though. Jimmie Johnson’s her favorite driver. She thinks he’s the sexiest man since Billy Ray Cyrus. I tell Momma that she don’t know a thing about what makes a sexy man. I tell Momma that Jimmie Johnson is about as sexy as a vagina fart and that everyone knows that Junior is, hands down, the sexiest man in NASCAR and pretty much the world. He’s got better hair than Jimmie Johnson. He’s got better hands than Jimmie Johnson. And he’s got a better butt than Jimmie Johnson. Momma says that any man that feels that way about any other man probably wants to smoke more than cigarettes. I say that Little E’s piercing gaze and photogenic smile can make even the most hetero of sexual men address unspoken wants and needs permeating in the nethermost recesses of his jorts. Me and Momma are both speakin’ in strictly generality terms, of course.

My pick to win this weekend is none other than THE Ryan Newman. Why not Little E? Because Little E is gonna do the world a favor and take out Gordon and Johnson early in the race so we ain’t gotta watch those two flirt around the racetrack. Then we can all sit back and enjoy the race. I like to watch the race with a big ol’ mess o’ corn dogs in front of me. Momma knows just how I like ‘em, too -- deep fried and on a stick with a weenie in the middle. Put ‘em in your mouth and enjoy, y’all!

I’ll be back some other time with more NASCAR stuff. Y’all ain’t gettin’ rid of me just because the season’s over. Gobba geeba DOOO!

I'm at an all-time high right now

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

The Doctor is in.

The doctor, in this case, is the NBA COACH OF THE YEAR Doc Rivers, who has turned the Boston Celtics around from a franchise without anything going for it except some silly parquet floor into the best team out there. Look out, Western Conference! That's right Shaq, I'm talking to you!

God, I love Boston teams. What a great year to be a Bostonian! Matt Ryan, Josh Beckett, Tom Brady and KG1000! Every team is AWESOME.

Kevin Garnett is the best player in the league, and now has some real teammates instead of the crud he had to work with in Minnesota. THERE WAS NO PIPPEN TO HIS JORDAN! But now he has a Pippen -- Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. They're really old and stuff, but they are kicking ass and the Celtics are SEVEN AND ZERO, and to show how great Garnett is, he was named conference player of the week! That stuff doesn't happen overnight.

That's their best start in 35 years! Do you know how long ago that was? That's 1972! That's before Ray Allen was even in the league. LARRY BIRD was still playing for the Celtics, probably. And the General Robert Parrish from THE COLLEGE OF CENTENARY! Do you know how I know that? WIKIPEDIA. Larry Bird went to Indiana State, John Stockton went to Gonzaga.

I have a theory. Kevin McHale, who played with Parrish and Bird in Boston and his now GM in Minnesota, knew that the Celtics needed to return to their glory days. So he traded Garnett to Boston. It's a CONSPIRACY. SOMEONE CALL FOX MULDER. Just kidding. But now the Timberwolves are bad, so McHale is probably torn about how good the Celtics have done. NO TRADEBACKS, KEVIN, haha! That guy is pasty white.

I smell 82-0 baby! Everyone always says how impossible that is, but nobody's saying that now. The Boston area is all about perfection! The Patriots are going to go 16-0, the Red Sox won the World Series, the Boston College football team is going to go undefeated, probably, and now the CELTICS. I. can't. breathe.

Kiss and make up

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Sometimes, daddy yells at mommy. I am smart for a 7-year-old, and I know what happens next.

First, daddy walks out. He slams the door, and sometimes my art pictures fall down from the wall next to the door. I think if mommy and daddy looked closely at the pictures, they would see that I drew them fighting. But I am not a good drawer. I tell them it's a picture of unicorns in the woods.

Daddy comes back after I'm in bed, but for two days, he and mommy don't talk. Daddy sleeps on the couch. This is a good time to get what I want, because if Mommy says no, I go to daddy, or if Daddy says no, I go to Mommy. If they both say no, I cry. They do not talk to each other, so they never know what the other has said. I get many candies.

Then Daddy and Mommy start talking. First, it's only a few words, and maybe they will have a small fight again. But then one of them says sorry. Daddy says he did not know one part of the argument, so he was angry for dumb reasons. They hug. Naturally, they wrestle. And then it starts all over again, sometimes that night.

Alex Rodriguez and Yankees peoples are doing the same thing. Alex slammed the door during World Series, and there was some days where they didn't talk. But they love each other! They don't want to talk right away after the door slam, because they don't want to start the conversation first. Tanner says that person who speaks first is the "sucker" Mmm...suckers. Tanner also thinks mommy and daddy are going to get a D-Force.

But then they start talking a little, and start to see things they didn't see before. They say sorry. They hug. They wrestle. Sometimes, they win MVP awards before fighting again sometime in October.

Daddy also says he fights because he has had too much Captain Morgan. I think Scott Boras would look good if he dressed like a pirate. Arrrrr!

I like pajamas.

Freddy Fantasy Flotsam

Freddy Baird
Fantasy Expert

Hey guys, I'll be brief with the introductions this week. I've been cuh-raaaazy busy lately, dealing with a new girlfriend who's smoking hot. She's also flipping crazy. She's crazier than Lindsay Lohan on a crack binge, I tell you. She doesn't even let me use the Internet during weekdays, so I have to crank this column out fast before she finds out I was online. On to your questions!

Man, hasn't this football season been crazy? So many unpredictable injuries and bad fortune for a lot of players. Can you remember a season as wild as this one?
- Evan Switzer, Toledo, Ohio

I've heard a lot of people saying that this season has been unpredictable. To some, maybe. But not to me. Only simpletons get surprised. Remember that. Put it on a bumper sticker.

I made a lot of predictions this preseason, and they've pretty much all come true. Steven Jackson's poor season? I had him ranked 38th among all running backs because I knew he'd miss several weeks. Rudi Johnson? I didn't draft him in even one league. Meanwhile, Brian Westbrook was my No. 1 target in all my PPR leagues (yes, ahead of Tomlinson), and I kept telling people that Adrian Peterson would be the best running back in standard scoring leagues, despite his rookie status. You can also check the archives if you want to know what I thought about Derek Anderson. I had him listed right behind Tony Romo in my QB rankings. That's some prescient shit.

Who's a better bet going forward, Terrell Owens or Braylon Edwards?
- Lance Rogers, Ontario, Canada

Are you fucking serious, asking me that question? How about you go shove a flagpole up your ass and then fuck yourself in the ear with Liberace's gay, dead dick?

Fine. Edwards.

If you had the No. 1 choice in a hoops draft, who would you be taking at this point in the season? I like Garnett a lot, but Shawn Marion is underrated. Thoughts?
- Tanner Lee, Austin, Texas

Good question. At this point, I'd be narrowing my list for the No. 1 overall pick to Garnett, Marion, LeBron, Kobe, Dirk, maybe Steven Nash and also Gilbert Arenas. Yao Ming has also looked great so far, and I've been impressed with Chris Paul's all-around game. Watch out for Pau Gasol, too. Any of those guys are worth considering. Check back at the end of the season and see if I was right. I bet I will be.

Which player has the best fantasy playoffs schedule? So often, it's those little-known guys who make the difference in the final weeks of the season.
- Ted Moore, Boston, Massachusetts

Well, it's not too hard. You want to look for running backs who play against bad run defenses, and quarterbacks who go against bad pass defenses. There are several of those players available. Try to find or acquire them and you'll be set. I do it all the time.

That's all we have time for today, sex kittens. Until next time, make sure Reggie Wayne isn't available on any waiver wires! He's a good one!

From the vault: Tell me why I can't wave my penis at that referee

By Trent Bonner
Systems analyst

This is a frustrating game to watch. I come here and pay my money just like everyone else, and I have to sit through this? Well, this is just totally unacceptable. These seats were expensive, those nachos were expensive, my beer was expensive and this is the way I’m treated?

First, you want me to just sit idly by and act like it’s OK that these players are running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. Well, it’s not OK, darnit! I’m a paying customer and I have my rights. And then, not only is this team playing like a thousand crudbuckets, the referees are completely blind out there. They don’t have a stinking clue! Hey baldy, have you ever heard of over-and-back? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

And I feel like I should be able to express my displeasure. But you want to stifle my rights as a paying customer, nay, as an American. I didn’t come here to take this guff so easily. Tell me why I deserve this. Tell me why I should have to sit here and take this treatment.

Tell me why I can’t wave my penis at that referee.

What better way to express my disappointment with this putrid mockery of a sporting event? Oh, loosen up, you old bat. You know you were looking at it from across the aisle. It’s a perfectly acceptable penis; it’s very well-suited for waving at blind and stupid referees. And don’t act like you’ve never seen one before. I bet you were a real tramp back in your hey day. Any 65-year-old woman who wears that much rouge is surely one of the whore’s ilk.

Oh, you’re only 47? Ha! Your face looks like my scrotum.

Which you just saw, by the way, thanks to the ineptness of that idiotic referee down there on the wing. No traveling? Well, my compadre, if you’re not going to watch the game, then take a good look at THIS!

It's happening again. My creativity has been squelched ever since I was a child. My grade school teachers repeatedly told me that I couldn’t get upset with poor grades and remove all my clothes, put my socks on my hands, stand on a chair and loudly recite the alphabet. Well, how else do you expect a nine-year-old to cope with life? And my high school art teachers always called my drawings "tacky," "inappropriate" and "extremely obscene." I guess there’s a reason those schmucks are limited to teaching public school art.

I am the true artist. While the rest of the 23,381 in attendance here today show their emotions via foam fingers and socially-acceptable clapping, I opt for the more demonstrative choice. And that choice is to wave my penis at this officiating crew.

Oh, security. Yup, here they come. That's real original. I expected this. A good paying customer tries to speak his mind and express himself, and they’re coming to take me away. Where are you going to take me, you fascist oppressors of freedom and liberty? To jail? It’s just a penis, folks. Both of you guys have one, though this tubby guy here may not have seen his in a while.

Well then, good sir, if that’s the case, I’ve got a treat for you!

Jonny Dave's NASCAR Report

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Jonny Dave Floyd is a NASCAR fan from way back in the day. He enjoys a good corn dog, Little E, and a mostly clean pair of jorts. He’ll provide updates when his Internet works.

Hey, y’all. Jonny Dave here. I’ll be lettin’ ya know about all things ya need to know about NASCAR.

What’s my credentials, ya might be be askin’ yourself. Well, Momma always told me that if I’m sittin’ there askin’ myself somethin’, then I’m askin’ an idiot somethin’ and I should ask someone smart. I think she was speakin’ in strictly generality terms, I suppose. Time will tell. You can ask me about me, though. Actually, you don’t even have to ask. I’ll just tell ya.

I’ll have ya know that I been to upwards of 16 NASCAR races, most recently sufferin’ in person the unfortunate indignity of witnessin’ Jeff Gordon, the Rainbow WUSS, be victorious at the Bank of American 500, which ruined an otherwise glorious day. Momma always said that a day at a NASCAR race is better’n a day bein’ a danged fool somewhere else, ‘specially somewhere close to her. Agin, I think she was speakin’ in strictly generality terms there. Anyhoo, this bein’ the first piece and all, I thought I’d just give ya a few basics on what the deal is with NASCAR.

1. It’s gonna be a bunch of left turns. There’re some tracks with right turns, but they’s mainly in there to placate the foreigners. I don’t agree with that because the sport was predicated on the sweat of good, honest men runnin’ moonshine durin’ the Prohibition years. Look it up. I’m right. Most of ‘em don’t even pronounce their names the USA way. Its gotta be foreign-speak and that really chaps my behind.
2. The best car don’t always win. It’s all about luck, areo-dynamics, and clean air. I’m not really familiar with any of those things, ‘specially the clean air, what with my love of corn dogs and all. Momma said that if ya go around eatin’ corn dogs all the live-long day, then you’ll never get married and move out and your undies will always be stained. Agin, I’m pretty sure she’s speakin’ in generalities, but that one feels kinda pointed. Momma’s mean sometimes.
3. Pick a driver and support him for all your worth, even your worth ain’t much to speak of. Ya gotta git hats, shirts, shorts, windpants, socks, shoes, and sunglasses. All’a that. Ya GOTS to! It’s your duty as a fan. Them boys are bustin’ there butts and riskin’ there lives so you can spend a relaxin’ day at the racetrack losin’ your hearing and standin’ up and holdin’ up your hat with your driver’s number on it every single time they pass you by and pointin’ to it so everyone around ya knows who yer pullin’ for. The least ya can do is show ‘em how much ya care, even if you’re sittin’ at home and watchin’ it.

Anyway, that’s all for now until next time. If you can’t get to the track, then plop your happy tail there on your couch in front of the TV and enjoy the show. Before I go, here’s my pick to win this weekend.

JUNIOR! Junior…Junior…JUNIOR! WHOOOOOOO! Gobba geeba DOOO!

‘Til next time, y’all. Send questions or comments my way if ya got ‘em.

Jonny Dave

DeJuan takes on the GM meetings

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

For a minute, bitches, Alex Rodriguez was gonna be a member of the Chicago White Sox.

So check it, I show up a few days ago in booty-full Orlando, Fla. for the general managers meetings and I'm all decked out for a party. I check in with my main man Kenny Williams and we start kicking back some cold ones at a local tavern. Shared stories all night and dog, you would not believe the awful shit Ozzie Guillen sings in the shower. How does Kenny Williams know this? Shit, foo, ain't my business.

Anyway, Kenny gets liquored up on some scotch, rum and fuzzy navels and can't even get his ass out of bed the next morning. So he's all like "DeJuan, your country and shit needs you!" and I get my finest piece of leopard-woven leather boots and high tail it to the meetings as K-Dawg's official voice of the people.

I had a great day, and shit I had this incredible plan to get A-Rod hitting home runs for the pale ho's. They were talking some serious cash and carry for this guy's services, something like three G's. Dog, I don't have that kind of scratch. So I peek around some corners, find A-Rod, and lock his ass in the freezer of the downstairs kitchen, thinking K-Dawg and Ozzball can get some reinforcements and carry him back to Chicago. Shit, it ain't stealing if it's overpriced.

Turns out it wasn't A-Rod though, it was Omar Minaya. How am I supposed to tell these people apart?

Before all that went down, I voted for instant replay (shit, just ask the fine LaToya Lenear how inspirational some nice video playback can be), threw some money at Juan Uribe (the brother looked like he could use a break after sucking for all those years) and gave an unsuspecting Jim Hendry a wedgie. Shit, I'm just doing my part cuz there's this rivalry and such.

I didn't really give him a Wedgie, but I did tell him how fucking awesome Kaz Matsui was, and in the end, I think that gag was way better.

Once they got Minaya out of the freezer, though, it was bye-bye for DeJuan. I tried to disguise myself with those Mickey Mouse ears, but Omar's got eyes like a Spanish eagle. I did my journalistic duty though and embedded myself in those meetings, and I can officially report that there be some hella talk about trades. And at least one team (the fuckin' White Sox!) is offering 20 million over four years to David Eckstein. Dog, I love leprechauns.

Silly Rays, sunshine's for gays

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Yesterday, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays unveiled a new logo and an updated set of uniforms to their fans. Switching away from the green look, which switched away from the original purple, teal and yellow seizure, the team is going to introduce a "classic" navy and white look. The uniforms were modeled during a fashion show by the team's players, which sounds incredibly gay.

Not that there's anything, uh, you know.

Companies are always re-packaging their products, slapping labels like "New look, same great taste!" on the packaging. What the shit is that supposed to mean? That I'm paying more for my weekly box of chili just because the bastards down at Hormel decided to hire a new graphic design firm to give their product a more rugged feel? I know it's still the same salty, beefy chili inside. God damn, it's 6:36 in the morning and I already want chili.

My point is, why do baseball teams do this? The Devil Rays will still suck, but they expect to appease all 38 of their fans for another year with new aesthetics. Maybe they should go get some fucking pitching first.

As for me, I'm going to go get some chili before I type another word.

From the vault

Editor's note: Bad news. The Flotsam staff has decided to join the picket lines, along with the Writer's Guild of America. We're going to have to shut down production until we meet their demands. Dakota wants three more juice boxes per day, Burt wants a subscription to Maxim, and Agatha is demanding a tryst with Benjamin Burnley on the space shuttle, of all places.

That shit isn't happening.

So, like so many other productions affected by the WGA, we will have to go with re-runs until the strike is resolved. We apologize to our readers for the inconvenience. Then again, if you haven't read it ... it's new to you!

Why doesn't anyone pay attention to my touchdown celebrations?

By Jesse Adams
White Receiver

I don't get it. I've enjoyed a solid start to my NFL career. I came out of college as a lightly-regarded prospect and I bullied my way into a starting gig by sheer will and hard work. I run crisp, clean routes and I have good hands. Because of extra time spent in the weight room, I've become physical enough to get past most jams at the line of scrimmage. And since I stand 6-foot-5, I'm one of the league's more dangerous red zone threats.

So with that said, I have to ask: Why doesn't anyone pay attention to my touchdown celebrations?

Take two weeks ago, for example. We had the ball on the opponent's 15 yard line and were threatening to score. With the snap, I shimmied off the line and shirked the cornerback. I ran straight out precisely nine yards, juked right and then snapped off left to the corner of the end zone. A perfect fade route, bitches. I turned and saw the ball halfway to me and I jumped up, battled the safety and took what was rightfully mine. Touchdown.

I then put the ball in between my feet and stood on my hands, walking on them back and forth across the end zone for a few seconds. When I came down, I looked around for someone to celebrate with, and no one was there. Not a soul. Everyone was already back on the sidelines, hamming it up with the quarterback.

That night I made sure to watch ESPN, figuring that I'd be on there with a display like that. And I was. But just my catch. After they showed the grab, they immediately cut to a shot of our quarterback jumping into the air to celebrate.

That night's Sportscenter had clips of Steve Smith making snow angels in the end zone, Plaxico Burress faux-riding a horse and Santana Moss making out with Clinton Portis after a score. But no love for me.

So what gives?

I'm well-liked by all of my teammates. I'm widely known as a good clubhouse presence and a leader in the community. People around the league describe my game by using such terms as "steady," "consistent" and "reliable." Sports Illustrated's Peter King wrote, "Jesse Adams isn't flashy, but he just goes out there and does a good job."

Not flashy? Excuse me? He must not have seen the time I scored on a post pattern against the Ravens and then did the chicken dance for nearly 45 uninterrupted seconds. Or the time that I slipped up the middle against the Seahawks for six, tied the football to the goalpost with some twine and played tetherball with myself. I'm sorry, but that's just pure genius. But no, what was on Sportscenter that night? Just another shot of Chad Johnson dipping his balls in nacho cheese and serving them, along with tortilla chips, to T.J. Houshmandzadeh.

Bullshit, I say.

My donning-a-mullet-wig-and-playing-slap-bass-on-a-four-stringer- and-amplifier-that-I-pulled-out-from-under-the-goalpost celebration was way better than that. But the cameras didn’t even catch me. They showed our running back holding one finger up in the air toward the crowd. Oh yeah, that's real original.

I guess I'll just have to up the ante next time. And there will be a next time, because you can’t stop Jesse Adams.

Book it.

Tyler's so hawt

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

So, like, everyone is handing out these All-American things even though nobody has played a game of basketball yet, and that’s really ridiculous. I mean, I get that it’s really easy to say who is All-American material and wears AE and Abercrombie and stuff, but it kind of seems like people are basing everything off what happened last year. A lot can happen in a year. Mark Wallace was totally hot last year and everyone wanted him, but then he dyed his hair black and started getting into, like, Rage Against the Machine and stuff. So he is so off my radar.

Like anyone who knows about the world, I want to chime in with my own All-American list.

Tyler Hansbrough, North Carolina. He’s, like, quirky-hot like Shia LaBoeuf (who totally just got arrested in a Walgreens? Lame. Like I said, things change quickly) and I totally think that blue outfit brings out his eyes. He was so completely grossing me out with that mask thing he wore last year, but if he’s au natural this year, he’s probably my favorite.

Drew Neitzel, Michigan State. I always make fun of Jenny Mientkielowski, because she totally has this thing for bald guys! Can you believe that? Seriously, bald people are disgusting, barf. But I have to admit, if a guy like shaves his head and hits three-pointers, it’s kind of hot. It’s a bad boy sort of thing, and I like that.

Darren Collison, UCLA. Um, is he related to that ugly Nick Collison from Kansas, because that guy was so not attractive, and he had that little elf Kirk Hinrich on the same team. Ugly. This Collison is much less pasty, and hello! California guys are the hottest! I can totally see myself running around the beaches with Darren.

Eric Gordon, Indiana. I still sort of feel bad about it, but last year Angie Winstrom broke up with Jason Violette cuz she totally saw him making out with another cheerleader. Yeah, it was me. Whoops. I mean, I don’t know what came over me, we just started this hot makeout session in the middle of lunch period. Anyway, I normally am so not into guys who are with one girl and end up with another, like Eric Gordon was with Illinois and now Indiana. But when I’m the other girl, then it’s cool. :-)

Roy Hibbert, Georgetown. Ew, too tall and dark and weird. I’m not sure if he’s right for this sort of thing, but there is something really mysterious about guys who wear black like Georgetown. I like mystery.

You're hardly nothing but skin and bones!

Doris Tipton
Grandmother

I tell you, I was flipping around the television channels the other night and I happened upon a basketball game! Oh, I hadn’t seen one in so long, so I decided to just sit there in my chair and take a gander.

Now, I must tell you that I really do enjoy competitive sport, and basketball is one of my favorites. As a young girl, I used to really like my physical education class, when I always received high marks because I was so good at putting the ball in that apple basket on the wall! I really enjoyed the physical aspects of basketball. Also, Wilt Chamberlain once plowed me like a three-furrow in the soft Georgia soil. Fond memories.

So, some of those fond memories washed over me as I watched the two teams gallivant about on the hardwood. As the game progressed, I became drawn to the young star of the Sonics (what’s a Sonic?), Kevin Durant. He has a very soft shooting touch, and he’s very tall!

He also looks like he needs a good, big meal. The boy appears to be rail-thin, and I’m concerned that’s he not getting enough to eat.

Kevin! Do you hear me? You need to be well-fed, and finish everything on your plate, every night. If you don’t get enough protein, your internal organs will wither up and eventually leave your body in the form of excrement. I remember back during the beet drought of 1929, Henry Elmer Waddles, a classmate of mine, didn’t get enough protein and he died right there in the schoolhouse while we learned about the evils of little black children, such as yourself.

According to your biography, you are 6-foot-9 and weigh 225 pounds. When was the last time you had gravy? Lots of hearty meat with gravy will be a cure for what ails you. How would your mother feel if she saw you and you were that skinny? She’d be beside herself!

If you want, we can go to the Village Inn down in Wabash and get a good meal there. We'll go there on Tuesday for dinner, around 4:30. Don’t trouble yourself with anything; I’ll pay for it. They have a great chicken-fried steak dinner that comes with mashed potatoes, a biscuit and vegetables. When was the last time you had vegetables, Kevin? You need to eat vegetables or your eyes will just turn into sponges and you won’t be able to see anything. You need to see if you want to play basketball!

So would you please eat a meal sometime, honey? I’m worried about you running around and playing with the other boys on an empty stomach. That’s not healthy! Next time I see you on the television, I want you to look healthier.

Do you want some pie with your country fried steak? They can even put cheese on your pie here. Doesn’t that sound good? Eat up, Kevin!

The world is ending

All weekend long, Flotsam will be bringing you news and updates on the biggest event to hit the world, ever. We'll keep you informed, amused and probably titillated. Check back for updates. Say your piece below. You know the drill.

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Sunday Update: an hour before kickoff.

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE.

I have tried to sleep for the last three nights, but I simply can't, so I'm on coffee and Smarties and Tootsie pops and caffeine pills, thinking about NFL football! I NEED TO KNOW WHO WINS THE SHOWDOWN.

You have The Patriots and their New England dynasty and Belichick the MAN-GENIUS and a nervous Bob Griese and Donte Stallworth up the middle and Richard Seymour, Medicine Man, and Randy Randy Moss! You can't not love that. And it's BOSTON, THE CITY OF ANGELS.

Then you have Peyton's Place and Marvelous Marvin Harrison and Reggie Wayne and going through the big D, and yes I mean Dallas! Dallas CLARK! The defense is hard hitting, with Freeney and Sanders and TONY DUNGY IS A BLACK MICHELANGELO. You can't not love that. Indianapolis FIVE-HUNDRED. I'm a member of the A/V club, and you know I'm talking about Adam Viniateri.

In the end, I choose neither. TIE GAME. You heard me.

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Saturday Update: 4:09 p.m.

By Curtis Woodsworth
Fabulous

Honey, if you don't think I'll be watching tomorrow's game sitting in a bathtub full of raspberry jello, with my hair in rollers and clutching my Tom Brady and Bob Sanders bobblehead dolls, you are cuh-razy.

I love a good football game, and this is as good as it gets. While Peyton doesn't have the looks, he has the brains and sometimes you can look past a flabby ass and trapezodial forehead to appreciate some smarts.

On the other hand, Thomas is as rugged as camping in the woods with Kevin Millar in November. And he's got an arm like a big ol' hose.

My prediction for the game? Ecstasy.

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The dark side - Saturday, 11:45 a.m.

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

I am damn sure that Uncle Marv is illiterate, but if he's reading, I want to make it clear that from now henceforth, I want the title of my column to be "The Dark Side With DeJuan C3p0." I can hear the pitter patter of fine ladyfeet running over to stroke DeJuan's chest hair as I type. "Oooh, suger, you that fly C3P0 from the Dark Side?" "Honey, let me show you my death star."

Cue that crazy ass music. Darth Vader is in the house, and he is breathing heavily.

That dark side shit is damn appropriate cuz that's kind of what the New England Patriots is. They've got Tom Brady and Mike Vrabel and Wes Welker and a whole lotta white folk, but that Bill Belichick is evil. He's got cameras in bathrooms and shit. DeJuan is not okay with that.

He's also done some damn crazy stuff in his career, and I am pretty sure ain't nobody likes him. He's probably killed a man. That's uncouth.

So all this undefeated shit, and this rolling over opponents? Dog, I think he's using some kind of dark force. Mindmelding and shit. I think Yoda would be mighty pissy if he saw what was going down. Man, I am on board with not calling down the dogs if you're up 21 in the fourth quarter. But they were up 40 with two minutes to go. What the shit? You don't want to kick the Redskins when their chips are down.

They've won three Super Bowls, and I have to wonder if some soul-selling with the devil ain't part of that. It just ain't right. It reminds me of my favorite song, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by the damn incomparable Charlie Daniels. Of course, the devil did not go down to Georgia because the Falcons probably didn't sell their soul. If they did, they got some shitty results out of that deal.

All's I've got to say is I'm pulling for the good guys, the whitest of white people Peyton Manning and Tony Dungy's white wizard Gandolf shit. Frodo Fucking Baggins.

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Quarterback comparison - 7:27 p.m.

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I will always love Mr. Bubba.

He was my favoritest stuffed animal, a ginormous panda bear, and we had many wonderful times. Mr. Bubba was by my side went I rode on a plane for the first time to visit Grandma, and when I first climbed up the big tree at recess and started running around the school roof. Mr. Bubba was always there for me.

He was the greatest stuffed animal I ever had. But then came Dr. Eugene Burp.Dr. Eugene Burp was a present for my sixth birthday. He was a stuffed grizzly bear, with fuzzy fur, and he TALKED! All I had to do was grab his hand and he said funny things, like "Raaaaaaar." And "Don't start forest fires." We had lots of conversations, and Dr. Eugene Burp became a stuffed animal who could listen and talk back when I wanted to tell him about my day. I told him about how Tanner and I put a mice in Mrs. Winston's coffee, and he said, "Say no to smoking." Dr. Eugene Burp!

Slowly, he became my favoritest stuffed animal. When I would play in the yard, he would come with me and tell me fun things, even though it used to be Mr. Bubba who came with me. I think Mr. Bubba was jealous. It makes me sad sometimes because Mr. Bubba is still a really good stuffed animal, and if he challenged Dr. Eugene Burp to a fight, I think Mr. Bubba might win.

The media doesn't care about their Mr. Bubba, Peyton Manning, anymore. He averaged 36 touchdowns over the last three years and won a SUPER DUPER BOWL last year and has completed 65 percent of his passes every year since 2002, including this year. Tom Brady is pretty good, even better than Dr. Eugene Burp, with 30 touchdowns already. But before this year, he never completed 65 percent of his passes, and he has the advantage of a super good football team to play with.

But that doesn't make Mr. Bubba a bad stuffed animal, or Peyton Manning a quarterback everyone should forget. But there is only room for one favoritest stuffed animal in the hearts of people, and right now Tom Brady is the one who talks! "Don't have sex before marriage." I don't know what that means, but the man with the pretty green robe said it last weekend at church. It sounds like something Dr. Eugene Burp would say.

I still think Mr. Bubba could beat Dr. Eugene Burp in a fight. Someday, I will know.

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Scouting Report Update - 4:07 p.m.
By Murphy Kramer
Punters win championships

Coach Murphy Kramer is the head football coach at Plano Horizons High School in Plano, Ohio. His Fighting Broncos have a 18-77 mark in his 10 seasons at the helm, including a 2-9 mark last season.

I've seen a lot of tremendous football games in my years on the Planet Mother Earth, some of them in person. A man with a sharp mind such as mine never forgets those moments, the rush of anticipation and the occasional burst of urine that squirts out the chute on a game-winning touchdown. I will never forget, for example, when the Buffalo Bills had an exciting 13-3 lead on Dallas at halftime of Super Bowl XXVIII in 1994, only to fall, 30-13. Games like that make you proud to be a coach.

But I have never seen anything that rivals this. The New England Patriots and Indianapolis Colts will square off for legal supremacy of the National Football League, with each team bearing a quarterback, a dominant aerial attack, coaches at the top of their game, and a fan base that comes from two of America's largest markets. It's Goliath vs. Goliath, which I promise you, will make any David vs. Goliath matchup blush.

This is not pansy football, like the Giants and Dolphins flying to England for crumpets and a friendly game on the goddamned pitch. This is what we've been waiting for. Old Murph breaks it down:

Running Game: Never in my life have I allowed a player of mine to have long dangling hair out of his helmet, unless that player wants to be called "she" for the rest of the year. I love Bill Belichick like a father loves his adult son -- proud and loving but always slightly irritated when he doesn't loan me money when I ask. I don't get this lapse in his coaching genius, allowing Laurence Maroney to parade all over the field like a little gypsy. I'd much rather have Joseph Addai and his superb start to the year, making everyone forget Edgerrin James. Advantage: Colts.

Wide receivers: I used to love Marvin Harrison, but not being able to play on the day of reckoning deeply disappoints me. It's like the feeling you get when you kid talks back to you for the first time, or runs away from home, or steals someone's car. It's just disgusting. And while Reggie Wayne is good, Randy Moss is the best big play receiver I've ever seen, and the Patriots have an edge if the Colts are missing half of their 1-2 punch. Somehow, Bill Belichick got Moss to try. Probably electrotherapy. Advantage: Patriots.

Quarterback: How dare you ask me to choose a side. One is on pace to break every record in the book, both in lovely young ladies bagged and touchdown passes thrown. Needless to say, scoring is not Tom Brady's problem. But all Peyton Manning has done is win a Super Bowl more recently than any other quarterback, and continue to dominate the league while everyone looks the other way at the shiny object in Massachussets. When will Peyton get some respect? I'll tell you when. Now. Dammit. Advantage: Colts.

Defense: That Bob Sanders has a lot of heart, but heart only gets you a cup of coffee, some doughnuts and a membership to the ladies' book club. The Patriots have real men with real size on their side, including the behemoth Mike Vrabel, who forced three fumbles in one game last week. Advantage: Patriots

Special teams: Adam Vinatieri has won Super Bowls with both these teams, which should tell you something. The mark of a good team is its kicker, and this is no exception. Advantage: Colts

Coach: You make me choose again, you wretched hags. Bill Belichick is a genius of epic proportions, while Tony Dungy is the greatest black man of all time. They're both going to be at the top of their game, with Belichick calling many plays involving Brady and Dungy calling many plays using Manning. In the end, I have to go with the man who dresses snappier. You can tell a lot about a man based on what he wears, and the color of his skin. Advantage: Colts.

Intangibles: The Patriots might be the best team ever. Advantage: Patriots.

In the end, I like the Patriots to win by two touchdowns, and the world will laugh and giggle at the concept of an undefeated season until Baltimore gives them the business on Monday Night in Week 13. It's a brave new world we live in, and Old Murph is just glad he isn't dead yet.

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Friday, 2:27 p.m.: Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. To get psyched up for this weekend and The Greatest Regular Season Game Ever Played, let's do some pump-up word association.

Tom Brady. Peyton Manning. Football. Undefeated. Bill Belichick. Evil. Voldemort. Harry Potter. Hermione. Hot. Sex. Porn. Rusty Trombone.

Nice.

Properly psyched for the Apocalypse? I thought so. Here at Flotsam, we'll have coverage all weekend of an event you don't want to hear anymore about. But that's what sports journalism is about: ignoring the tried-and-true methods of supply and demand.

Here's a few links to get you started:

Tough crowd (ESPN): In this article, Greg Garber states his goal of finding out whether Tom Brady or Peyton Manning is better. He then polls several legendary quarterbacks about who is better. Predictably, they all act like little bitches and refuse to pick a side, saying that it's impossible to separate. It's a huge goddamn waste of time.

Mike Sando of ESPN writes another article about this same topic. He also fails to reach a single conclusion about which quarterback is better. What the hell? Who are we talking to here? Why won't anyone make a decision? Let's see if Sports Illustrated is any better.

Dr. Z of SI.com takes a look at the offenses of the two teams and compares the quarterbacks. The result? Another tie. The sports media can go to hell.

Check back later, when we'll have our own scouting report, as well as the entire Flotsam staff weighing in with their thoughts on the matchup. We're just going to keep updating this same post until it's longer than DeJuan's johnson.


P.S. Peyton Manning is better

Hollow weenies

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

As I was carefully unfurling the ritualistic costume for my annual Halloween festivities, I had an epiphany of epic proportions. With money being tight at the Moonfry household, given the alarming number of souls in today's modern economy unwilling to engage in a friendly tarot reading, I am often looking for ways to make some extra money.

The idea stems from my weeklong parade up and down the city streets of America's six largest major cities, adorned in the furry armaments of the Sinister Nurse. It was a disappointing year, to be sure, as the standard for good Halloween costume fare has plunged to an achingly low level, and I could see this sad reality in my travels. For the first time in years, I am considering using my two weeks of paid vacation for another occasion. Possibly the harvest moon.

A girl can only handle so many "Dick in a box" costumes before purging all over the city streets of Philadelphia or New York. Men without any sort of makeup, headgear or attire think they can get away with simply attaching a cardboard box to their nether regions and unceremoniously scribbling something in black magic marker across the side.

And so I shall solve two problems with one swing, by starting the Moonfry Sports Costume Line, for Halloween or other, more sexually-charged occasions during the course of the year. Some examples:

The Travis Henry: Broncos helmet, with cannabis decals fasted firmly to the side, and plenty of hemp accessories. Possibly carrying a sampling of snack foods, with some drops to make eyes nice and red. "World's best daddy" t-shirt a must, possibly with up to six baby dolls fastened to person. Evil baby dolls.

The Tony LaRussa: Long, fabulous hippy hair, with a grouchy disposition best conveyed by folded arms and short, snippy sentences. It's a reach, but must have worn out tennis shoes to signify constant walks to the mound. A magnifying glass to portray micromanagement. Also, subject must be drunk.

The Alex Rodriguez: A Yankees outfit made with wads of cash, and must have an angel on one shoulder (Derek Jeter) and a devil on the other (Scott Boras). Possibly made out of paper mache. Also, subject must be willing to beg for attention the moment it shifts away.

The Kobe Bryant: Simple Lakers jersey constructed out of money will do, though subject most hold two basketballs at all times and never, ever allow others to hold them.

The Jon Kitna: See link.

I hope your Halloween was as hallowed as mine, with plenty of candy, liquor, spooky fun and sex. Toodles.