Roger Goodell's New Football Uniforms for a Kinder, Gentler NFL (Fashion Victim)

Da-da has uncovered Roger Goodell's secret new uniforms for a kinder, gentler NFL of the future. Here's the Indianapolis Colts' new look for Fall, 2012. Now that Peyton's gone, they're loosening up the tradition a bit. Obviously for some teams, it's more of a business than a game these days, as you'll see.

Whoa. Here's the Miami Dolphins new AWAY uniform for Fall, 2012. AWAY.

Here's the NY Giants' diminuitive HOME uniform for Fall, 2012.

And here's the NY Giants' AWAY uniform for Fall, 2012.
Uncle Fester power lunches Auntie Mame.

The Seattle Seahawks seemed a bit confused in their, "Lurch meets Baby Huey" offering, strangely modeled by Tom Brady. (It's 4th and 24, guys.) The Oregon Ducks are apparently also interested in this look.

The Vikings looked nonplussed...

...while the Jets looked pretty much the way they always do.

The Oakland Raiders were certainly not to be left out. You go long, girl.

And Da-da's favorite: The Miami Dolphins' new HOME uniform for Fall, 2012 just screams, "TACKLE ME" -- which is the name, oddly enough, of the team's new signature fragrance, designed by The Czonk.

Macrame Rah Echo E c h o E c h o

Da-da is suddenly finding macrame appealing. And MANLY.
And Da-da's all for hobbling small children so they can't easily get away.

Which is America's Game?

Note that this pic is not meant to be a dead giveaway, and that the fielders are not yet asleep.

Ok, some of you might not care, but it's allllmost baseball season. In the few moments of non-kid-screaming bliss Da-da experienced yesterday while rigging an irrigation system, Da-da was thinking about why he occasionally pines for baseball's fjords. Why does Da-da find baseball so safe and relaxing? (Maybe Da-da just needs a nap.) And why does he have quite the opposite reaction to NFL games, now? And which deserves to own the distinction of being, "America's Game," anyway -- baseball or football? Jerry Jones will tell you one thing, but who listens to him (besides those on the payroll)?

NFL PR flacks have tried to usurp Major League Baseball's claim to the title for years -- and indeed, they were close to doing so up until about 2007. But the NFL's and broadcasters' greed has cemented this trophy into the hands of MLB. Why? Horrible R-rated commercials, too many commercials, stupid rule changes and fines for basically playing the game, too many commercials, boorish commentators (with egos bigger than third-world countries), too many commercials -- and then there are too many commercials. All this makes it impossible for Da-da to watch the games (and makes them an unjustifiable, gouging expenditure, are you reading this DirecTV/NFL Sunday Ticket?), because... who else is watching these games? Any guesses?

That's right, Roger: it's Da-da's 3 and 5YO boys who are also watching -- or rather, were. The NFL, ESPN, FOX, ABC and NBC have made games unwatchable, with FOX the worst transgressor; their commercial level of bloodlust achieved new lows for 2010. (Rupert, you might consider abandoning football for something more honestly egregious, like televised executions and slo-mo footage of war, disasters and car wrecks.) But enough bitching, let's look at game/commercial structure.

Anyone who's been to an NFL game knows about the two guys on either sideline who wear big orange gloves: when they cross one arm over their chest: we're at commercial. Unofficial timeout, everyone. Those guys really broke a sweat this past season, what with all their arm-waving/genuflecting commercial aerobics. Part of this is due to the way the NFL structures these games.

Baseball, on the other hand, has a more rigid structure, with commercials in-between innings or pitching changes. It also has the best play by play announcers in sports. Overall, your sensorium is accosted by far fewer BS commercials during baseball games -- commercials that Da-da has to mute and/or turn off so his young charges aren't blasted by manipulation. This is work, not recreation. Rarely do broadcasters who carry baseball games fall to the NFL's reprehensible R-rated commercial level. Baseball, therefore, preserves its historic roots, while maintaining a more "watchable" format for folks with families. (Yes, this is important to some of us.) Then there's the head-injury/character issues.

The game of Baseball, its history and players -- and ballparks -- are also sweeter. They're nicer to watch, to be a part of. And sure, MLB ticket prices are outrageous, but they're a bargain next to the NFL (and minor league baseball games are both affordable and fun). And baseball doesn't oversell World Series seats, like the NFL just did for this most recent Stuporbowl.

Bottom line: it's baseball that deserves the title of, "America's Game." It's safer and more entertaining for kids to play and experience, and for kids and parents to watch together. On the other hand, sadly, the NFL has jumped the shark. Besides the greed, look at all those wussy players shivering in the cold at that letdown, "snow game," versus the old-timey toughness of Bud Grant and co. From now on, for that level of autumnal, game-day excitement, Da-da will turn fully to college football. Let the MLB games begin -- and the NFL lockouts commence. Da-da, for one, could use a permanent vacation from the NFL. Hope you guys made enough money off of everyone, because those days are over.

P.S. Yes, honey, Da-da is officially making a public commitment to NOT renew his DirecTV/NFL Sunday Ticket for 2011, or any year subsequent. However, Da-da will be hitting you up for some baseball tickets.

For the Love of the (SNOW) Game

Da-da (white coat) gets a moon pie from a friendly passerby.

Being a high-powered mutant hatched atop some Godforsaken roof-of-the-world desert where the wind howls 60 mph every day is kinda fun (in a painful way), and because of this soothing environment, Da-da of course LOVES rain, snow, fog, wind, hail, freezing cold, and really any weather that makes you hang onto something heavy so you don't vanish into the screaming void (which describes parenthood quite well, ahem). Anyway, much to his family's dismay, Da-da is consequently impervious to cold and really any weather except HEAT (heat being Da-da kryptonite).

What Da-da loves most of all are SNOW GAMES. Snowy football games. Football games played IN THE SNOW. Is this clear, yet? Football games (and tailgate parties) played in blizzards, the freezing muck, the ice, the fog, the driving rain, the lava, the toads, pyroclastic flows, etc. Love it.

Indeed, Da-da's not so much of fan of teams (which have fallen to mere BRAND status these days), but of open-air stadiums. If Da-da had endless moolah, he would regularly be seen at outdoor stadiums like Soldier Field, Lambeau Field, Heinz Field, Potter's Field, etc. Old fashioned, raw-knuckled, missing-teeth and -limbs kinda tombstone-y stadiums, where the chill-wind hakken kraks howl so fiercely that you can't feel your -- or anyone else's -- thighs, anymore. The kinda place where you start seriously thinking that it might actually be a good thing to wear a giant fake cheese on your head.

People stop Da-da on the street all the time (esp. the police) and inquire as to why he loves watching snow games so much. Is it simply the love of nasty weather? The festive, snuggly winter triumph of tenacious life over death? No, officer, it's quite simple:

Da-da LOVES to see millionaires suffer. 

 Watch as they slip and slide, fall down... boom. (Da-da likes to see billionaires suffer, too, but they seem to have the smarts to stay inside, buncha pansies.) Da-da would say his heart goes out to those poor schmoes playing in the elements who make the league minimum ($325k), but that's $325k more than Da-da makes, so they can shiver and bleed and eat snow like the rest. (Truth-be-told, Da-da loves everyone. Everyone is Da-da's brother. He's just a little grumpy. Children do this to you.)

Da-da's beyond old school. He's more stone age school, a snowy schadenfreude that demands all football and baseball and hockey games be played above the arctic circle, surrounded by hungry polar bears and fans on old Russian tanks, the game played endlessly until one team succumbs to either the elements, or the toothy fauna, whichever comes first. The survivors are then frozen till next season, which saves everyone time and money on off-season shenangians.

Da-da's gotta go. It's time for his two-hour soak in the Neva River.

What? You didn't know Da-da was hot?

God, Please Help Those Mothers SCORE

Now that it's nearly college football bowl season -- and given that Da-da's bloodthirsty young charges, Bronko and Nagurski, are already being scouted at 3 and 5 -- Da-da will venture a brief, fearless, third-person commentary on prayer and football.

You probably don't recall the Supreme Court’s decade-old ruling that prohibited a high school in North Carolina from broadcasting a prayer over the school's stadium PA system immediately prior to a game, as it violated the Constitution’s mandate on the separation of church and state. That’s fine, but has the Supreme Court delved into what’s REALLY going on in the stands? Da-da doubts it.

Basically, both sides -- the tragically in-bred VISITORS and the shining HOME TEAM -- are doing what homo sapiens sapiens have been doing for the past million years or so: praying for carnage and overweening VICTORY, at all costs.

With an eye toward his youngsters' scholarship future (never too early, as they say), Da-da was invited to a college game in the middle of the season between two middleweight schools who just happened to be playing one another. Frankly, even Da-da was SHOCKED at the steaming bloodlust of such educated people (and Da-da's been to lots of Scrabble tourneys) on either side of the gridiron. Observe the prayer of the folks on one side of the field, here quoted in its entirety; Da-da's changed the names of the teams and spiritual advisors to help them avoid embarrassment and prosecution. Take warning that the following contains questionable language, and note that this was the BLESSING on one side of the field, cast from the one-eyed, one-legged, Right Reverend "Hacksaw" Boilermaker himself:

“Please God, let the Tortuga Behemoths beat the HOLY BEJESUS out of those g*ddamn Hamburg Warthogs on this, our night of Holy Redemption and Ultimate Revenge. And Lord, please have their QB Billy Bob Whackenfacker SUCK BIG TIME in the Red Zone, as he has in his last five appearances. Oh... AND COVER THE POINT SPREAD THIS TIME YOU SCUMBAGS!”

Such heartfelt sentiments echo about the head- and limb-festooned halls of history. Remember the Crusades? Back then, after sticking your sword in the ground, you knelt and asked your personal Diety for your enemy’s quick demise, THEN you stuck your sword in your enemy. Play ball! It’s still vogue in most armies to check with the Almighty prior to handing your opponent his head on a platter, not to mention enjoying all the later Edenic fruits rightly belonging to the victor’s art of Pillaging Proper. You get all that?

In light of this, Ambrose Bierce once gave the definition of “prayer” as: “Asking that the laws of the Universe be annulled on behalf of a single petitioner confessedly unworthy.” Ambrose had obviously been to a few Home games.

Mix with that the words of venerated Notre Dame football legend Knute Rockne: “Football has been rousing emotions for hundreds of years in a variety of forms, all having in common the idea of whacking a ball from one place to another with varying degrees of violence as the means of propulsion.”

Put the two together and you have a conflict that would take armies to suppress; the franchise rights alone could make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.

Anyway, later that night, after the police cleared the field, Da-da uncovered a copy of the beseeching, visceral prayer to The Big Kahuna from the virtuous chosen ones screaming in the VISITOR bleachers. This from Father Vlad the Impaler:

“Please, Dear Lord, have Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration WHOMP the living CRAP out of those Godless ONE-EYED PIG F*CKERS! KILL THE F*CKING SOCIALIST BASTARDS! DIE DIE!!”

Amen. Pass the Manifest Destiny, brother.