A Small, White, Hydrocodonian Sporting Delight

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from bathroom stall A at his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. In this edition, he answers some fan mail and warns the children: definitely do stay away from drugs!

Hey, hey, hey. Sportsnation, loyal readers, last week I gave you some insights into why the NFL no longer greases my flanks like she used to. Maybe you thought it was funny. Maybe you thought it was offensive. Probably you didn’t read it.

I understand. Reading someone’s hate speech about the NFL most likely makes you feel uncomfortable, awkward, shattered, alone…I felt that way once. Junior year of high school, during an otherwise innocent lunch, Arvitas glanced up from his popcorn and lemonade to confide in me: he had used the previous night’s family reunion to overrun second base with his liquored-up cousin. He was sober at the time. I felt ill.

No one wants to hear about that stuff, even if it is true. Keep it to yourself. And so it is with my thoughts on the NFL.

However, there was one reader who giddily received my NFL tirade. John in SLO who writes: “Dear locomotive, I have been feeling a bit 'down' recently. I feel misunderstood, alone, like the world is against me. You're right, the NFL is boring…and now with my brother changing all his porno website subscription passwords, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been drinking peppermint schnapps and listening to Radiohead for the last two weeks but nothing seems to work. Is there anything in the sports world to cheer me?”

Dear John in SLO,

There’s only one thing in the sports world currently guaranteed to give you wood with the consistency we young males have learned to expect from new dawns…the Rugby World Cup. If you need something to break the modern melancholy, rugby is just what the shrink ordered. Cheaper than Prozac and much easier to slip into cocktail conversation, rugby-watching could be just the healthy outlet you’ve been longing for.

For our readers who have yet to witness an international rugby game, you’re probably thinking to yourself: “…hmm, was Tom Hanks more brilliant in Sleepless in Seattle or You’ve Got Mail? Golly, it’s gotta be a tie. He’s brilliant in all his work, dynamic even. Tehehehehehe.”

Or: “Rugby, isn’t that like football with no pads…?” Sort of. Think of football as a bottle of Flintstone vitamins: they taste ok, remind you of your childhood, and in some way resemble candy. Now, is rugby like a big bottle of Flintstone vitamins? Not really. It’s more like a bottle of Vicodin, which could still be considered a vitamin but the definition would leave much to be desired.

Think of football like a ho-hum Wednesday afternoon prophylactic session with your girlfriend. And rugby like waking up with a leather high heel on your throat that leads up the taut legs of a silicon-enhanced exotic dancer named Destiny, followed by a wildly violent and primal eighty minutes of skin slapping fun and hazard. No rubbers allowed. So keep the faith sports fans, entertainment doesn’t always require a digital subscription.

Of Gods and the Gridiron

Evin "The Locomotive" Murphy finds time to belt out taint-tingling prose for LBMS from his real estate office in Santa Cruz, CA. Lock up your women and children in a dungeon for this one, as we present to you the 'Motives NFL history lesson. It's as optimistic as it is docile:

Ho, ho, ho and what is there to say about the NFL? I can’t say that I can stand it any more. Too much parity. Everyone’s the same and what’s the point? Ed. Note: Don't worry Murph, the WNBA will be back in full swing before you know it!

Sunday used to mean a day of rest, pigskin and fan hatred. I watched to see the Cowboys lose but they rarely did. Behind their water buffalo offensive line they showcased the skills of Smith, Aikman, Irvin and the Moose, snatching the trophy in ’92, ’93 and ’95. Times were different then, they were better…for entertainment and for America.

But who cares about the bygones? Not you, no not you. You grew up “postmodern.” They taught you to be the judge, it’s all relative man. History? That’s just about dead white guys, oppressors, greed mongers…history won’t enlighten you onto the ways of personal happiness…the past is behind us man you have to move on, expand your mind, take a hit man…isn’t “Space Jam” an awe some movie? You know who hates “Space Jam”?...The government…the government totally sucks…man, they don’t want you to get high. Fuck the gov-ERN-ment.

Indeed, even Clinton hates the government but let’s get back to football. To fully understand NFL 2007 we need a pop-culture refresher:

America, 1980’s: The Soviet Union was irreversibly crumbling, the 49er dynasty was in full swing, the “Cosby Show” finally replaced “Dynasty” as the most watched television program in America and Mike Tyson was allowed to mingle freely with the citizenry. Politics and entertainment were entering a new age. Americans were looking for a way to forget the Vietnam War, JFK and Watergate and switching on their TVs, cracking a Budweiser and beholding the American machine proved a superb elixir. A steady diet of Cosby comedy, the violently competitive NFL, federal tax cuts, and might-makes-right foreign policy helped every working American with their evening relaxation routine. Things were simpler, more American.

Good ole USA and the NFC (SB champs ’85-’97) savagely and thoroughly crushed anything in their path in a made-for-TV showcase of free market capitalism and brute force. Yes sir, Uncle Sam was waving his flesh pistol in the face of anyone who cared to look up, and times were good. Football and world domination were complemented nicely by a steady diet of His Airness and Iron Mike, which brought the world of legal entertainment to a face-melting zenith.

But everyone knows Americans won’t settle for the good when they can have the weird…and in 1998, thanks to the lusty lips of horse-faced Lewinsky, it got weird in a hurry. The Razorback was out of its bag and the fat was in the fire. A practice, which as late as the 1970s had been considered unseemly and even immoral, had the official seal of approval. The supermarket check-out line was suddenly the entertainment hot spot of America. Trash magazine, chewing gum, razor blade and tampon sales went through the roof and Americans were finally free to express their postmodern entertainment desires. The innocent and young were trampled. America cared only for Clinton’s snapper stabber and the fun was over. Iron Mike tried to eat Evander Holyfield, Clinton became a lame duck president, the NFC lost its Super Bowl reign, Seinfeld was supplanted by ER as the highest rated show in America, Air Jordan retired (again) and the NFL “reworked” its collective bargaining agreement…cursing our generation to a joyless tyrannical oppression of league parity.

The NFL now churns out Super Bowl contenders with the predictability of bouncing lotto balls and brutalizes its quarterbacks faster than colleges, NFL Europe, and the supermarket chains can produce them. The QB slaughter has become the spectacle, the score no longer matters. Sundays are a time to drink heavily and witness race-horse fast 320 lb defensive linemen crashing through front fives across the country like apes in heat. They’re fueled on the blood of young boys and only satisfied by the crunch of a promising young quarterback’s bones, or the snap of a running back’s femur. Ratings are dropping almost as fast as starting QBs and the NFL feels more like a skeet shooting match than a football contest. So get out your favorite pair of sweatpants, put your slippers on, grab a silver bullet and settle in for this week’s orgy of violence brought to you by General Motors, Anheuser Busch (reminding you to drink responsibly), Propecia and the American Heart Association. Because you’re supposed to be a fat, bald, drunk, destined for cardiac arrest. Your country is run by a goofy child President and soon it will be taken over by the mother of Bill Clinton’s baby.

Think on that as you lay scratching yourself on the couch, texting in front of your TV, getting up only occasionally for work, to eat, urinate and watch horny young blondes whip each other on the screen of your parents’ basement computer. Welcome to the digital age and remember: when everyone’s the same there’s no one to hate except yourself. Sayonara and bai-bai.

Locomotive's Recommended Listening: the German national anthem.