A Browns Fan’s courageous breakup tale

 

Breakups are hard… Most of us will agree with that. I mean, you’d have to be some sort of robot devoid of human emotion to not feel SOMETHING, right? That’s exactly the case with my recent decision to discontinue my relationship with the Cleveland Browns at the beginning of the season. I’ve only given in and watched two games all season, and my life is noticeably less tragic as a result. All I needed after those two lapses in judgment was a friend to reassure me that I am, in fact, better off without them… And a couple shots of Tequila, using limes and the salt of my tears to choke them down.

 
Here’s the thing, It’s nearly impossible to avoid contact with an ex of this magnitude entirely. You’re constantly seeing them pop up on social media in the form of pathetic memes, Bleacher Report accounts of every god-damn failure and sad Browns fans moments set to an even sadder Adele soundtrack. How do you escape that? When I see it, I can’t help but feel a little tug at my heartstrings. It’s comparable to running into a pathetic ex at CVS while he’s shopping for toilet paper, wearing sweatpants and a mustard stained Guns N Roses tee. You can’t help but feel sorry for the poor bastard. You know he’s clearly not better off without you and still hanging on to hope for that GNR reunion tour. It’s fucking sad. The Browns are my pathetic, sweatpants wearing, slob of an ex-boyfriend. It’s entirely possible that they’ll one day get their shit together, but right now I’m not willing to put my life on hold until they figure it out.

 
I still have some unresolved feelings and question my choice at times, but some days are easier than others. Let’s use today as an example, shall we? Why, what happened today, you ask? Today, my hometown heroes and our 3rd string QB were absolutely murdered by “division rivals”, the Cincinnati Bengals by a score of 37-3. I realized just how bad things had gotten when it was no longer fun for my brother, who’s an avid Bengals fan to shit talk me before or after a Cleveland/Cincinnati matchup. At this point, that would just qualify as bullying. It is not even worth his time to taunt me. THAT’S how sad things have become. The Browns are the fat kid on the playground of the AFC North.

 
Some fans have taken exception and tried to protest the team’s unprecedented shittiness by wearing brown bags on their heads while at the games, kind of like the Unknown Comic from the gong show, which is wildly appropriate when you think about it. However, the glaring issue with this plan, aside from attempting to drink a $9.00 draft beer with a bag on your head… You’re STILL AT THE GAME. I envision a bunch of millionaires, sitting around lighting Cuban cigars with hundred dollar bills while laughing maniacally because they still got you there. You know what would be powerful? Stop fucking going to games. Feel free to continue wearing a brown bag on your head, if you’re so inclined, but do it while you’re NOT drinking $9.00 beers and NOT paying $30 to park. “Brown bag the Browns” at the zoo, at the movies, from your God-damned couch. That’s how you send a message. Have you ever gone out to dinner and had a terrible meal? Did you go back to that same restaurant the following week expecting a different result? “Hey, last time you guys really fucked up, but here’s some more of my money.” My guess is no. You probably left a bad Yelp review and moved on with your life. Stop accepting an Olive Garden quality organization at fine dining prices.

 
Since the breakup, my Sundays have been pretty amazing. I hardly ever cry anymore and I feel stronger every week I stay away. Don’t get me wrong, I still drive by the stadium on occasion to make sure they’re still there (that’s not a guarantee, as history has shown us) and gently stalk them on Facebook occasionally. When it’s all said and done, I’m not going to be sucked back in until they make some serious changes. On a side note, I’m free next Sunday.

Photo Credit- Jen Steer

Commissioner May I? NFL Rule Suggestions

Dear Commissioner Goodell,

It’s me again. My last letter must have been lost in the mail, as I have yet to receive a response. I forgive you. However, I would be remiss not to have an open discussion with you regarding the latest development in the NFL. I actually think I can be of some help on this one. Naturally, I’m speaking of the possibility of penalizing players 15 yards for using the offensive and despicable “n-word”. This isn’t language I would use myself, but for the argument’s sake, I’m a lady.

I have some suggestions that may help. I’m sure we can agree that the offensiveness of this word is largely based on connotation and who utters it. An African American saying it to another African American would be a lot different than a Caucasian player using the term. Where do we draw the line? You need to be able to insult people during a tough guy game like football, right? I can’t imagine getting through a week of FANTASY football without insulting someone. To be fair, I’m usually saying something awful about my opponent’s mother, but that’s neither here nor there.

Have you ever played “Mother May I”? I have the feeling you have, since the NFL’s rule structure is becoming terribly similar. Maybe you can change it to “Commissioner May I”! How awesome would that be? Every time there’s a play, they have to ask YOU for permission! “Commissioner may I advance 20 yards?” Bear with me because this is where it gets fun! “No you may not, but you can spin three times like a music box ballerina!” I have a feeling the fans would get a real kick out of it! No?

As far as the players go, I’ve come up with a few acceptable on-field insults. 1) Doody Head: That one will hurt some feelings. How can you possibly have your head in the game after that one? 2) Jerk Face: That’s pretty damn hurtful. If you want someone to fumble, that’s the way to go. 3) Snack Wafer: This one is clearly meant for Peyton Manning. I’m assuming we’re going to avoid ALL racist comments, but I’m pretty sure he knows he’s a cracker so I found a nicer way to say it. You’re welcome, NFL! Last but not least, the guys are going to need a replacement for the N-word when it’s said between two African American players in a non-racist manner. I suggest “kind sir”. Perhaps they could curtsy after saying it.

Listen, racism is reprehensible and I think most of civilized society will agree with you there. I just take exception to anyone thinking they can fix that issue by policing speech on the football field. There are a LOT of things you shouldn’t say to people. It’s not possible to regulate in this manner. Speech becomes almost automatic after a period of time. I’m sure there are black players that use it so frequently that it would be pretty difficult to chamber that reaction. Do we penalize them? The reality of it is that these are grown ass men playing a violently aggressive sport. They put their physical safety on the line every week and all of a sudden we’re concerned with hurting feelings? This isn’t a tea party, it’s football. If you insist on going this route, I have a few other ideas you may want to consider…

1- After every tackle, the players must hug for three seconds. We don’t want anyone to take said tackling personally.
2- All touchdown celebrations must now be a square dance move. Do-si-do in the endzone, my friends!
3- Half-time will now be time for everyone to talk about their feelings while in a circle holding hands. You are required to say something nice to the player on your left and pass it on until the circle of happy thoughts is complete.
4- No more beer at NFL stadiums. The fans should be made to suffer through all games, especially us Browns fans. We should be required to see every painful play of the season with a clear head.
Hopefully, I’ve been a huge help here. If you need any more assistance, I’d be happy to sit on the committee. Go Browns!

XOXO,
Your friend, Jen

A Quarterback for Christmas

Dear Santa,

You like football, right? I mean… Doesn’t everyone? I have a feeling you probably dabbled back in the day. Am I right? You have punt returner written all over you, my good man. Go special teams! Well, the reason for this letter is relatively simple. I wanted to get my Christmas gift request in fairly early this year so you’d have ample time to make good on it. You see, I would like a new Quarterback for the Cleveland Browns organization. Before you get ahead of yourself and remind me how selfish it is to want yet another QB seeing as we’ve already burned through a few this season and an unfathomable 20 since the team returned in 1999, let me clarify. I would like a GOOD QB. A franchise QB like Brady, Brees or Manning (not the shitty Manning… The good one). I want one who plays every Sunday and throws passes for receptions (and ideally TDs) … Repeatedly. Sounds reasonable, right?

Consider this on the same tier as one of those requests from darling children asking for world peace for Christmas instead of presents. Santa, this really is a gift for the entire city of Cleveland. Damn, I’m such a humanitarian. I’m not really sure where you should start your search, and evidently neither is the Browns front office. Let’s just keep them out of this altogether, shall we? Since I’m all but certain your workshop is incapable of handling such a huge undertaking, I’ll try to help. I’d start by hunting down women that Bernie Kosar slept with in the late 80s- early 90s. There’s bound to be some illigitimate sons out there somewhere. What a heart warming story that would be! They’d probably even make a Lifetime movie out of it starring Valerie Bertinelli as the misunderstood groupie working at Hooters. Seriously, I just teared up a bit.

Also, I’m not entirely opposed to having a robot QB, although I’m not really sure what league regulations are on that. Mr. Goodell won’t even let me bring my purse to a game, so I’m sure there’s some sort of robot ordinance as well. Another option would be to bring back performance enhancing drugs so that when we actually have a promising prospect, he doesn’t fold like a paper doll after two starts. C’mon Santa… Don’t tell me you don’t miss steroids! My request might sound unreasonable, but I have faith in you even though I asked for the Michael Jackson Thriller doll when I was 10 and didn’t get it until four years later when my grandma found it at a garage sale. Bush league, Santa. Bygones, though. You’re working with a clean slate here. If anyone can make this happen, I believe it’s you.

In closing, Santa… I’m not going to pretend I’ve been good this year. We all know that’s just not true, but this is actually HUGE for you too. Just think how much easier life would be for you if little Timmy Johnson asked for a jersey with his Browns QB’s name on the back and it actually lasted an entire season! Or MORE! What?? That would be awesome! It saves you and the elves the man power and Timbo’s mom a trip down to the Goodwill when the wheels fall off the QB’s ill fated bus. Everybody wins, big guy.

Maybe next year? Well, I think that’s up to you, Santa.

P.S. Whatever you do, avoid Jeff Garcia’s house when you’re establishing your flight plan.

The Broad’s Side of…Tailgating

Oh yes! Football season has arrived. There is not much I enjoy more than the pre-game tailgate experience. The Browns home opener is consistently my favorite day of the year. Say what you want about Cleveland sports teams and their inability to bring home a championship. One thing’s for sure…we know how to tailgate in this town! One argument could be that we purposely send ourselves into a booze induced state in order to ease the pain just a little bit. The 2009 kickoff of the tailgating season was nothing short of exceptional. My friend ‘Lola’ (she’ll get pissy if I use her real name) provided me with the opportunity to attend the game when her boyfriend was sentenced to house arrest. Yeah Crime! Who says it doesn’t pay? He was sitting at home on the couch while my ass was in his seat. I wonder if that ankle monitoring device interferes with the Direct TV reception at all.

We began our day at about 7:30 am. Why wouldn’t that be a great idea? People really go all out. There are various RVs which are painted brown and orange and are undoubtedly captained by some douchebag that sold his house in order to tailgate ‘in style’. More often than not, the douchemobiles have a resident DJ that plays requests in exchange for beer or gratuitous boob shots. The majority of them also have a hot commodity called a bathroom on board. If you’ve never been in a port-a-potty in a tailgate parking lot, you’re a very fortunate individual. Needless to say, I felt the need to charm my way into one of these shitters on wheels. You’d be surprised how receptive people can be when you’re opening line is, “So…who do I have to let motorboat me in exchange for use of your mobile pisser?” Works every time! The best part is that they’re too shocked to attempt to cash in.

Lola and I came across an acquaintance who graciously offered us the chance to partake in a beer bong. As tempting as it is to suck off of some gross tube that forty other people recently had in their mouths, I had to take a raincheck on that one. The acquaintance (we’ll call him Asshat) regretfully did not follow my lead. This next part could make me appear to be an insensitive asshole, but in order to establish a proper visual I feel the need to provide you with all of the appropriate information. Asshat happens to suffer from what could be a series of disabilities. As he so eloquently stated after four cracks at the beer bong, “I’m a god-damned cripple.” Curious battle cry, if you ask me. I’m not sure if poor judgment is recognized as a disability in the state of Ohio, but this moron might just change the way the rules are written. He thought it was advisable to yell angrily at a passing security officer, calling him a ‘wanna -be cop fag’. By the reaction of the security officer, that was not the first time he’d heard that sweet-nothing. Asshat continued with his perplexing tirade by asking this nice gentleman to pass along the following message. “Tell Mayor Campbell to fuck off”. One major problem with that statement, besides the obvious… Mayor Campbell hasn’t been the mayor of Cleveland since January 2006. At least I’m fairly confident that the only polls this guy is familiar with are in Juggs Magazine. As his swan song, he used one of his crutches to swing at a fan wearing a Vikings jersey and horn adorned helmet. Lola’s brother had to throw Asshat over his shoulder and haul him away before Po-po got a hold of him. If you’re an asshole…you’re an asshole. It shouldn’t be contingent on whether you can walk or not. I can tell you that I had not one ounce of sympathy. I actually debated beating him with his own crutches. Wrong?

At one point, we were on a futile mission to locate a friend when we were given this useful piece of information. “We’re South of you.” WTF? THAT’S how you try to direct someone to your tailgate location? Wait, are you wearing brown and orange and standing near a cornhole board? Perhaps you’re eating a hotdog and drinking a beer? Jesus, you have got to be kidding me. How about providing some useful information? We never did find them. Maybe it was because there were plenty of distractions. At some point, we stumbled upon a set-up which included an assortment of greenery on the six foot banquet tables (which also had table cloths, I might add). In my opinion, you should have to turn in your man card if you allow such a thing to occur. Your penis better be velcro’d on, because you’ll need to give it back. There should also NEVER under any circumstances be cupcakes, salad or any other pussy foods present at the tailgate. It’s all about the numerous meat products and how much can be consumed in a day. Only meatetarians need apply. I was fairly surprised that I managed to get through the day without being violently pegged in the face with a cornhole bag, football or flying feces. There was almost an incident involving a mini Spongebob football. That six year old should consider himself lucky that near disaster was narrowly averted. Who brings a kid into that type of environment? Judging by his parents, I hope he was driving.

Once inside Cleveland Browns Stadium, we decided to swing by the bar before heading to our seats. We wanted to find the quickest way, so we stopped to ask an employee directions. The response I received was, “I don’t know where the bar is. I’m not from around here.” Huh? WTF are you talking about? ‘Here’ is the place that’s paying you 8 bills per hour to answer questions such as these. Could you possibly glance at that little pocket map for some insight? I can actually see the map from here. It’s in a lanyard hanging around your neck for Christ’s sake. I’ll tell you what….Give me two dollars and I’ll read the map myself since you seem to be so confused. My smartass persona had officially been kicked into high gear at this point. We finally found the bar with some encouragement from a non-retarded staff member. Once inside, we had to find a loophole in the ‘no shooters’ policy. Evidently, two ice cubes and a swizzle stick elevate your shot into the drink category. That was unfortunate for the turd next to us who had been looking for the perfect opening line. He determines that “do you have any mosquito repellant” is the way to go. Naturally, my response went a little something like this…”Well, if I do have some on, it doesn’t appear to be working very well since you broke the barrier.” I think Lola had a pretty good time and will probably invite me back next time there’s an available ticket. Hmm… I’m thinking trumped up rape charges against her boyfriend might be in order. Can you do that anonymously? There must be a way to keep him off the streets until January.

The Broad’s Side of…Football

Football season has finally arrived. It’s time to start reviewing my draft strategy for my fantasy leagues. It’s not an easy task, since these days you need to factor in the probability that some sort of crime spree may affect your roster on any given day. “Oh great… my QB tore his rotator cuff and my stud RB got hammered and drove his Escalade through a Chuck E Cheese, maiming a bevy of six year olds and a pimply adolescent in a rat suit.” That’s how I envision my waiver wire scrambles beginning this season. I’m fairly certain that I’ll experience a handful of DUI benchings and at least one player who beats his wife and/or girlfriend without any consideration for the fact that he’s my number one wide-out. Selfish bastard.

I have to say that there appears to be a very unbalanced justice system out there when you look at several of the highly publicized crimes in the NFL recently. Michael Vick was sentenced to 23 months in prison after his guilty plea stemming from the dog fighting spectacle, while Donte Stallworth served 24 days of a 30 day sentence for inadvertently hitting a human being with his car and killing him. Hmm… there seems to be some confusion on the value of human life. Stallworth ‘cooperated’ with authorities and received a lot of credit for dialing 911 instead of fleeing the scene. Are you kidding me? If you find yourself in a situation where you’re loaded on the side of a Florida highway, scraping a day laborer off the grill of your vehicle, a call to 911 is pretty much expected. He’s just lucky the scene of the crime wasn’t New York. Ask Plaxico Burress. This idiot came within inches of blowing his own nuts off with his Glock pistol. It’s not exactly a Mensa move to tuck a gun into the waistband of your sweatpants, but the dude shot HIMSELF. I’ve ‘accidentally’ done shots in a bar, but thus far have managed to avoid getting shot. Plexi-glass will receive a prison sentence of two years for criminal possession of a weapon and reckless endangerment. He could have killed someone…but he didn’t.

I’ve come a long way in the five seasons I’ve been drafting fantasy teams, but I still have a disadvantage that is directly related to the fact that I don’t have a penis. If a player disappoints me in any given week, I am very likely to bench his ass regardless of whether it makes sense. My emotions get the better of me and I somehow feel like I’m punishing said player by not allowing him to participate in my squad. To my credit, I have stopped attempting to draft all attractive players. There’s not really much eye candy once you get past that scrumptious Tom Brady. I play in several leagues, one being an all female league. This league produces the harshest ‘smack’ talk I’ve been exposed to. Broads can be vicious when thrust into the ultra-competitive world of FFB. It’s a no holds barred approach with some of the cruelest attacks on the planet. The difference is that, the estrogen actually makes us feel guilty and we end up apologizing and begging for forgiveness within ten minutes.

Most of the girls are pretty intense and have impressive knowledge of the game of football. With that being said, there’s always the chick that wants to play and finds herself in over her head. Coincidentally, this is usually the same person who auto-drafts and manages to win the league while all of us strategists MF her up and down. One of my best friends, Michelle is one of these FFB idiot savants. When she was sent the league invite for the online draft, she responded with questions on where she should meet us on draft day. I explained that we would be on the Worldwide Web, and the confusion compounded. She couldn’t comprehend how it could be considered ‘live’ if it weren’t face to face communication. The next inquiry was “Is it multiple choice?” The second week of the season I received a frantic call from her because she needed advice. “I have six players on a B N! I don’t know what to do!” As it turns out, a “B N” is in fact the dudes on your bench, genius. I have to give her credit for eventually learning, or at least making a convincing statement out of pretending she knew what she was doing. Now that I think about it, she’s the same girl I caught singing ‘Hang on Snoopy’ which resulted in many ‘It’s a tailgate party, Charlie Brown’ references from yours truly. The look of utter confusion on her face when I asked her what the S in ‘O-S-I-O’ meant was absolutely priceless. For all of her adult life, she was confident that the ‘S’ represented ‘State’. “Well then, princess, what does I-O stand for?” There it was…the lightbulb. We were actually spelling a WORD! In fact, it was the very state she was born in and resided in her entire lifetime. I now know how Charlie Babbitt felt when Rainman seemed to grasp a particular concept. It was a very special moment, indeed.

Oh well, I’m drafting three teams this year. I’m fairly confident that I’ll over prepare and under perform. My lack of delivery in most leagues makes me the Digiorno of fantasy football, and I’m alright with that. At least I’ll have the opportunity to insult some friends with little or no repercussions. It also takes my mind off the fate of my beloved Cleveland Browns.