Tag Archives: Football

Smells Like Football

Corpse FlowerBy Jack Edwards

People love to test their limits. Some sky dive. Others run marathons. But the real thrill seekers, the truly adventurous, march willingly into the knee-buckling stench of a blooming corpse flower. This explains why hordes of dare devils are currently lined up in eager anticipation outside the Denver Botanic Gardens.

According to a recent article by New York Times journalist Julie Turkewitz, Denver is currently the Ground Zero of stink. The corpse flower smells like rotting flesh, but only when it’s in bloom. So the clock is ticking. According to Turkewitz, these plants take eight to 20 years to bloom, and when they do, they’re only open for 48 hours.

Sadly, I can’t go to Denver right now, but I am confident I could withstand the smelly blast. You see, I’m an Oregon Duck fan.

Football fans around the country produce their share of pregame vomit, but Oregon Ducks fans consistently find a way to raise the bar. This is why I enjoy watching games on television. It don’t mind the stench, I’m just concerned about slipping. “Slipped on vomit” is the number one cause of game day emergency room visits.

Before I continue, let me assure you every word of this story is true.

A few years ago, my wife arranged for us to enjoy a game from premium seats on Autzen Stadium’s 50 yard line. Naturally, I voiced my vomit concern, but my wife ignored me.

When we reached our row, two young men were sitting on the aisle. One looked up at us sheepishly and said, “Sorry.” His companion was hunched forward over a large circle of vomit. A pleasant looking couple was sitting directly next to them, and the woman was leaning in horror toward her companion.

Always the gentleman, I gestured for my wife to enter first. We stepped over the pile and took our seats on the other side of the couple. My wife, who has the olfactory senses of a champion bloodhound, shoved her scarf into her face and stared blankly toward the field. I spotted a concessionaire and ordered a dish of nachos.

I need to slow things down here like we’re studying Zapruder’s Kennedy assassination film, because this is when things turned surreal. As I’m leaning back munching my nachos, I hear a strange noise to my left. I look over and the vomit guy is sitting ramrod straight spewing a projectile stream of vomit like a fire hose directly onto the back the guy in front of him. I’ve seen some amazing things in my life, but this was truly incredible. It seemed like a gallon of liquid was running down the victim’s back.

Here’s my point. Through it all. Through all the chaos and mayhem that ensued, I polished off my nachos. Every last one. They went down smooth.

This is why I am so disappointed to be missing the Denver corpse flower. Because I am an Oregon Duck fan, and there is no stench I cannot conquer.

Rose Bowl Bound

Football Final

By Jack Edwards

I dream that one day technology will advance to the point where I will not be forced to travel long distances, expend thousands of dollars and trudge through throngs of intoxicated sports enthusiasts to enjoy watching a college bowl game. Call me a crazy optimist, but I believe that, one day, perhaps a day in the not too distance future, we will be able to view sporting events from the convenience and comfort of our own living rooms. Yes, this will likely mean that I will not get to experience the pleasure of marching with my fellow football fans toward the stadium’s entry as I tiptoe around fresh puddles of vomit left by the truly dedicated “students of the game.” Or spend quality time with that crack squad of security professionals as they rummage through my knapsack searching for dangerous contraband, like water bottles.

This year, during Oregon’s Civil War football game, I cheered enthusiastically for Oregon State, not because I cared deeply, but because my family members are rabid University of Oregon Duck fans, and I knew I was in great peril of being coerced to fund an all-inclusive trip to the Rose Bowl if the Ducks won. Alas, fate was not on my side. In pro wrestling terms, the Ducks pulled one of those moves where they jumped down into the crowd, picked up a folding chair, crawled up onto the ropes and then came down on the Oregon State Beavers like the Angel of Death.

The good news is that I managed to pay top dollar for marginal quality game tickets. Being an idiot, I ordered my tickets through the U of O’s athletic department. This assured me of paying the full face value. Meanwhile, apparently because scores of other boneheads did the same thing and then, realizing that if Oregon beat Florida State, it would play for the national championship in Texas twelve days later, and they couldn’t afford to attend both games, decided to flood the market with Rose Bowl tickets. The last I looked, Rose Bowl tickets were going for a buck ninety-five, and they were throwing in a voucher for a free medium drink and souvenir seat cushion.

Fortunately, this trip will allow me to do research for my next career. It turns out that the highest paid public employee in every state and the U.S. Territory of Guam is being a head college football coach. So I’ve been watching these guys with an eagle eye all season.

Here’s my resume:

1. I’m balding. No, I’m not sporting the classic three-quarter bald top with a spiffy comb-over, but I’m working on it. And if this turns out to be a deal breaker with the athletic director, I can always pick up a can of Nair.

2. I’m average height. (The height of every bank robber since the beginning of time.)

3. I have an innate ability to look indignant and stomp around when I get upset. (My wife will write me a character letter attesting to this quality.)

And,

4. Most importantly, and perhaps making up for my lack of practical “on field” experience, I have a very noticeable “paunch.” Few men currently coaching at the NCAA Division 1 level can compete with me. I look like I’m entering my second trimester.

To those of you who won’t be able to enjoy spending half of your retirement savings attending the Rose Bowl this year, don’t worry, while we wait for the technology to advance to the point where you too can enjoy watching back home, I’ll take plenty of photographs to share with you when I return.

American Football Renamed “Handball”

Handball

I am as stubborn as the next guy.  Do I ever stop and ask for directions?  No.  Even when I’m hopelessly lost?  No.  Even running late to an important event?  No.  A wedding?  No.  A funeral?  Sorry, not going to happen.  Back when the United States was trying desperately to convert to the metric system, I was playing defense on the front line.  It was not going to happen.  Not on my watch.  We measure by feet, gallons and pounds.  Liters are for smarmy folks who prefer mineral water over tap water.  I am still duking the liter thing out.  I make a point of buying my soda in 12 and 16 ounce containers.  I scorn the half liters and the liter bottles.  In short, I am as set in my ways as any other red blooded, ethnocentric American.  I offer this proof of my loyalty to tradition, because I am about to commit sport’s fan heresy.  I may even need to enter the witness protection program, change my name, and get a nose job.

The title says it all.  It is indeed time for the US to man-up and join the rest of the civilized (and uncivilized) world in referring to the game Americans call soccer, by its more logical name, football.  Yes, I am fully aware that this would cause a domino effect.  We would need to rename our national sport (No, not baseball – wake up buddy; look at those empty stadium seats).  American football has little to do with feet.  In fact, it has as much to do with feet as soccer has to do with hands.  So, there you have it – we should rename American football “handball.”  (Now don’t start whining; the runner-up alternative name was my personal favorite, “concussion ball.”)  “But Jack,” you say, “shouldn’t we ask the Canadians?  They play American football too.”  No.  They’ll just need to get with the program.  It’s not real football anyway.  “But Jack, there is already a sport called handball.”  No, not really.  There are only three people who play handball, and I have already spoken to each one.  They were fine with it.  I gave them their choice of three new names: Palm ball, small ball, or wall ball.  They chose wall ball for obvious reasons.  When I mentioned to them that racquet ball players used walls too, almost in unison, they chuckled and whispered something in a derogatory tone under their breath.  Then they stared at me as if they had just eaten something sour.

And here is where you, my loyal readers, come in to play.  Although my audience includes readers from over 50 countries (a true and shocking fact—who would have imagined?), only a tornado-like social media revolution will rock my pig-headed brethren into even considering this modest and reasonable change.  (As a side note, it would be great for the American economy, like when Apple decided to screw everybody over by changing the plugin for the iPhone 5 and force us to buy new $20 chargers that cost Apple a negative one penny to produce, except here it would be sports apparel).  I know that both the American and the world football audience is out there.  In fact, I wrote a column titled “Stinky Football Fan Creates Chaos,” and loyal fans of Jocularious.com nearly burned up GoDaddy’s servers.  So I rest my case.  I’ve done my duty.  It’s now time for the world’s soccer fans to like, share and tweet this worthy cause to victory.  Let the handball revolution begin!

Stinky Football Fan Creates Chaos

Stinky

Dear Abby,

I am at my whit’s end.  I requested a change in the location of my college football season tickets, and couldn’t be happier with the new view; however, my wife and I quickly realized why these seats became available.  The guy to our left smells like a dead possum.  The stink fumes rising off this guy are actually visible.  I have visited landfills on hot August days that were less offensive.  After considerable thought, we have identified the following options:

Option 1.  The stadium has a “jumbotron,” an enormous video screen visible to all 60,000 people in attendance.  For an immodest fee, fans can post announcements during breaks in the game.  Birthday wishes.  Anniversaries.  An occasional marriage proposal.  (This is the University of Oregon’s Autzen Stadium – but delete this comment before you publish this, I don’t need to get dragged out to the parking lot by the athletic department’s henchmen and put through a little “Spring Training” if you get my drift.  Let’s just say they don’t tolerate criticism of their program very kindly, even if it is just one smelly guy in Section 32.  I repeat, DELETE THIS COMMENT BEFORE PUBLICATION!) Anyway, my idea is to surreptitiously take a photo of my neighbor using my iPhone, and then posting the photo with an anonymous message on the jumbotron.  Something subtle.  I’m thinking, something like, “When even your dog won’t sit next to you, it’s probably time for a shower!”  This option could also include hiring one of those planes that fly over the stadium before the game pulling a banner.

Option 2.  I watch my share of law enforcement dramas on television.  So I have seen my fair share of fake autopsies.  The pathologists and cops are always smearing some sort of gel beneath their noses to dull the odor of the corpse.  (Sometimes the tv detectives smear this stuff on before they enter a home where some poor sap of a beat cop has discovered a decomposed body; so you know it’s got to be good.)  If that stuff is real, I could get some of it.  Of course, it would take away from the “crisp fall day” experience, but the air isn’t too crisp as it stands now.  Right now, it’s the “ripe fall air.”

Option 3.  I could confront him.  Tactfully.  Now keep in mind, I don’t know this fellow.  He is a complete stranger.  And this would take something of which I am in desperately short supply.  Courage.  This is the Achilles heel of Option 3.  I floated the idea by my wife that she might engineer this little social intervention.  She explained her position on my request as follows, and I quote, “No.”

So, Dear Abby, I implore you.  Help!  If you are kind enough to respond to my plea for advice, I can use Option 4:  Taping your column to his seat prior to the next game.  So, please, in your answer, refer to us as “Sitting behind him.”

Signed,

Sincerely,

“Victims of the stinker in front of us!”

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