2006 NFL Preview

TAMPA – Already come and gone is week one of the NFL season. So you dear readers out there in infinite cyberspace may be asking yourself, why the hell are they doing a preview of a season that has already begun? First off, I’d like to eliminate any shadow of doubt that I was alive and well last week and know the season has already begun. I was not buried within the depth of a methamphetamine and alcohol binge, like some of my emails this week suggested. I honestly got backlogged with all of the international news Duncan has me covering at the moment… Several international flights and journeys to desolate backwood geysers have taken the majority of my time for the last several weeks. If you believe that, then I’ve got a little more up my sleeve for you…

Week One has given us some clues to effectively formulate exactly how this conundrum that is the NFL will be resolved this year – and it makes my job a heck of a lot easier. I’ve already witnessed – like most of you out there, I hope – some startling things that would make even Terrell Owens gasp in disbelief.

Charlie Batch is, apparently, the Mulatto reincarnation of Johnny Unitas, at least this last Thursday in Pittsburgh. Batch broke down a formidable pass defense and avoided the neaderthalish ape-reach of Jason Taylor with seemingly effortless ease. Heath Miller is all of a sudden the best deep-threat in the game, and our golden boy Big Ben is still feeling the speckled itch of his new sewn face and picking the dingleberries off the lining of his anus on the sidelines. Steelers head coach Bill Cowher is still as repulsive as ever – and I think his moustache has officially assumed dominant control of his face. Regardless, I still stick with my preseason pick that this team doesn’t make the playoffs. Fuck the Steelers.

One of the more drab games of Week One was the matchup between Denver and St. Louis. What were once two of the best offenses in the entire league were reduced to six field goals by the Rams and five turnovers by the Broncos. A surplus of 60,000 fans in St. Louis were forced to come face to face with the fact that ‘The Greatest Show On Turf’ is finally dead. Mike Martz has come out of the closet and gone into seclusion in the Detroit Lions coach’s box; Marshall Faulk now fuels the pipelines of mediocre broadcasting as his eyes scroll across the cues on the NFL Network; current players like Marc Bulger and Torry Holt will wait out the remainder of their careers in the warm bosom of NFL mediocrity. Good riddance, I say. Maybe now these fuckers will finally learn how to manage a clock, run the ball, and play defense. Mike Martz can suck the rotten amyl nitrate out of the devil’s breast for all I care?

For anyone who has been watching the endless predictions and press-frenzies this off-season might already be aware that Tom Brady is no longer the NFL’s poster boy. Brady was a project from the start – and underground execs and serious football movers and shakers really turned him into a blaze of blinding light. Anyone keen to the new jive, like I am, will be interested to know that blonde-haired-blue-eyed-tall-and-handsome-dream-of-a-waifish-faggot Chris Simms is now the league’s go-to guy. The press on this guy in the off-season is well documented, and all the angles the writers for and NFL Network take are the same: This Is His Year. You wouldn’t know it by the performance both he and the rest of the Buccaneers displayed on Sunday against the Ravens. A 27-0 shutout is a good way to find yourself in the CFL, not holding the Lombardi Trophy. Hands down the worst performance of the week, the worst of Jon Gruden’s tenure in Tampa, and quite possibly the worst the Bucs have ever put forth (creamsicles included).

The return of Terrell Owens to the spotlight, which he never left, I suppose, was not all the fans of Dallas and the supporters of schizophrenic, mentally disturbed, attention hungry wide receivers. Dallas falls to the much-improved and seriously dangerous Jags, and the soft spoken, over-sized freak from the University of Marshall stole the show. In more interesting news, following the game, Jacksonville quarterback Byron Leftwich granted correspondent Arthur Rocks an exclusive one-on-one interview. Unknown to L4L editors, Rocks and Leftwich apparently go way back, spending time together railroading underage hookers in Morocco and rural South Carolina. During the interview, Leftwich revealed to Rocks and validated suspicions that he is, in fact, Webster from the 80s sitcom Webster.

The brightest spot of the entire weekend and the whole season, if you ask me, is Brett Favre. A close friend of mine, and a regular contributor to L4L’s ‘Ask Brett,’ Favre is already feeling the pain of being a washed up piece of slack-jawed, Mississippian hick garbage. The Chicago Bears shut him out for the first time in his entire career, Sunday, and in front of his hometown Green Bay fans no less. Packers fans are easily the dumbest in all of professional sport: they’d rather see their golden boy get killed and ruin his legacy for one more year and go 1-15 than see a new quarterback develop and win maybe 5 or 6 games. What else to you expect from Wisconsin pigs but a Wisconsin grunt?

The Super Bowl is up in the air. There is no team that is the best, no matter how much all those bastards from Carolina pray and whine. My official prediction is that I have no idea. Predictions of things so random (and sometimes fixed) as the NFL are stupid, not to mention that everything is stupid, as we have continually reminded all of you on a number of occasions. I will say that the NFC will come down to a team in the NFC South, most likely (Tampa Bay, Atlanta, or Carolina), and probably the Chicago Bears, and the AFC will be fought out between the winner of the South (Colts or Jags), and Cincinnati, or Denver. The more exciting competition will come from who can be the worst in the league. It appears that it will be a dogfight to the finish between the Packers and the Raiders, with Green Bay getting the slight edge – only because they have the aforementioned X-factor.

Hopefully some things will come to fruition – like Jake Delhomme dying on the field, Brett Favre breaking his leg, and Ben Roethlisberger’s face disintegrating. It’s a random game; impossible to predict. But we can always hope, and scream at the goddam refs to go fuck themselves.



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