What we are looking at above is a number of specific answers to some larger and much more stubborn questions. This image, an original text in the Remember Some Guys tradition, bears the handwriting of a young Tom Ley and was furnished to this website by his mother, Mom Ley. It illustrates the results of an auction-style NFL fantasy draft held at a time that leading experts have estimated but not yet ascertained. That is what we know for sure. The rest is conjecture. This is the way it goes.
Read moreAuthor: David Roth (page 1 of 1)
Yes that seems like a lot for Jason Elam, but if you want quality you have to pay for it.
"Oh I'm sorry, I had you confused with Prof. Logic Halberd." (Illustration by Giri Nathan.)
It arrived like a beacon pushing through a heavy fog, or the first gray shoots of daylight at dawn’s very opening, or more specifically as a notification in my direct messages. Things have changed in ways no one ever wanted, structures and edifices slouched and then slid into rubble, streets are all ashes, and yet it is clear that there is another side of it all—that there is still a pulse, an understory waiting to break and burst forth. It can be easy to lose sight of this, and I had lost sight of it when the notification came. Of course there would be a Name Of The Year Bracket, and of course it would need a home. That we could make a home for the bracket here is fortuitous. That Drew and I might be able to resume our annual tradition of saying names like “Editrix St. Furt” or “Krokodilbert Van Der Peen” and then giggling like idiot 11-year-olds…it was something I’d forgotten I could dream about, until I saw the light.
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If you want to Celebrate America before the biggest game of the NFL season, you’re going to need some kind of horn, the cheesiest you can find. Not the same kind of horn that the Yankees use to push their season ticket plans on television between Raymour & Flanigan ads, that’s more of a burbling Brahms-type thing, but the idea is the same. For an institution of sufficient importance, you’re going to have to get yourself a horn and you’re going to want to make some Revolutionary War-style sounds come out of it. It’s what America deserves, and in the years when Fox has the rights to the Super Bowl, it’s what America gets in the hours before the game.
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Ceci n'est pas un brap.
You couldn’t be Mike Francesa. This is fine, to be clear, and you should be glad about it. It’s hard to imagine who besides Mike Francesa would really even want to be Mike Francesa, just given that his job is extemporizing about sports on the radio for six hours a day despite not really liking sports anymore and also how his brain is. But that’s just it: no one else could do it. To be Mike Francesa, to inhabit his specific grandiosity and towering impatience and thermonuclear self-confidence, one must always have been Mike Francesa. Francesa is very good in Uncut Gems in a small acting role, but he’s effective for the same reason that those unsettling baldish brothers who keep popping up to harass Adam Sandler are—he’s been refining his craft as a very specific type of strange person for many years. In his stupendously pissy high-handedness, Francesa is a masterpiece of his own making. It is in every way a life’s work.
That work is not the sort of thing that any person, let alone one as proud as Mike Francesa, would want to see undone by the brassy and undeniable brap of a fart captured on tape. This is where our story begins.
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