Show me, don't tell me, You've figured out the score...Show me, don't tell me, I've heard it all before...Show me, don't tell me, I don't care what you say...Show me, don't tell me...You can twist perceptions, Reality won't budge...You can raise objections, I will be the judge...And the jury...I'll give it due reflection, Watching from the fence...Give the jury direction, Based on the evidence...I, the jury...Show, Don't tell

Jan 12, 2005

Monkey.... Mon-kay-eeeee

You know, there's just nothing more disturbing than seeing Leah Remini (co-star of King of Queens and my former fantasy girlfriend) go from "skinny little hottie" to "bloated portly dairy cow". Have you seen her lately? It pains me to say this, but she's in serious danger of becoming the new Kirstie Alley, who by the way, is in serious danger of becoming the largest land mammal this side of the Arctic Circle. If there truly is a God in heaven, why in the name of Himself is he allowing annoying beasts of burden like Roseanne Barr and Carnie Phillips to lose weight while a perfectly good peice of ass like Leah Remini suddenly lets herself go? It's all just a shame, really. And speaking of the obese, you know what else is a shame? It's a shame that Star Jones is, well, a star. It is my sincere belief that if you are fat and untalented, you should be working 9-5, wearing as much clothing as possible, and, most importantly, not on television. And while I'm on the topic, it's also a shame that Michael Moore hasn't mysteriously disappeared by now. It's a shame that Dr. Phil hasn't been attacked by a hive full of bees. It's a shame that I missed the Orange Bowl halftime show where Ashley Simpson (relation to Jessica, no relation to O.J. or Homer) got booed off the stage. It's a shame that I can't seem to figure out when Scrubs is on anymore. It's a shame that I only recently found out about Tumbleweed's all you-can-eat steak & potatoes for $12.99 deal on Sunday nights. It's a shame that sportscasters don't seem to use the word "flea-flicker" anymore. And it's also a shame that I may miss some of this weekend's NFL Playoff action.

That's right, due to some stealthly-made plans by the wife, I'm going to be out of the house and not near a tv for the better part of Saturday afternoon. Now, normally I'd just shrug it off & go wherever I feel the leash is pulling me, calming myself with the knowledge that my team isn't playing anyway (for the 15th straight postseason) and that catching the highlights later will sufficiently feed my football monkey. But this week is a little different. This week, my monkey wants to see some other monkeys, namely, the monkeys that are riding on the backs of three quarterbacks- Peyton Manning, Donovan McNabb, and Mike Vick. Truth be told, it's never good to have a monkey on your back. Unless, of course, the monkey happens to look anything like our latest Pigskin Palooza Cheerleaders of the Week (see link at top of page). I think Peter Gabriel said it best when he said, "Monkey....Don't you know you're going to....Shock the monkey......Yeah-heh..." Of course, he also said, "You could have a big dipper, going up and down, around the bends. You could have a bumper car, bumping...this amusement never ends", but, whatever. Trust me, monkeys on the back- not good times. First of all, monkey's are surprisingly heavy. Secondly, they're smelly. Then there's that ungodly poo-flinging habit. And finally, you've also got to contend with the occassional chubby-in-the-back problem. Nothing quite like getting spine-humped by a little, hairy, non-evolved man. And if you don't believe me, go ask Rhea Perlman. Three aforementioned quarterbacks currently have monkeys hanging from their shoulderpads, and they all want desperately to shake them loose, any which way they can.(sorry) For Manning, it's the "Can't Beat the Patriots" monkey. McNabb's is the "Can't Get to the Super Bowl" monkey. And Vick's is the "Can't Pass Well Enough to Win a Playoff Game" monkey. All good-sized monkeys that will either be shocked, shaken, or grow even larger and start swatting away airplanes.

Of all the playoff QBs, Manning is riding the highest. He's the league MVP, he just broke the single-season TD pass record, and most recently, his Colts just thrashed the Broncos last Sunday. However...... The Patriots are right where they want to be- at home, seemingly vulnerable, and completely in Manning's head. Plus, Belicheck's been preparing for the Indy offense for the last three weeks. (Yes, I know New England played Frisco two weeks ago, and No, I don't think they bothered preparing for them. That'd be like preparing for the GED) If Manning can go into Foxboro and finally knock out the Patriots, he'll go from "Great Quarterback" to "Horse-faced Superstar". If he can't, well, he'll suddenly take on the existential appearance of Mr. Ed being ridden by a gorilla as another great season once again ends in disappointment.
My hunch: Colts win, Dillion sulks, Patriot Empire begins its' collapse.

McNabb's plight is a little different than Manning's. During the Eagles run of four straight NFC Championship game losses, Donnie Mac has been hindered by a serious lack of offensive talent around him. Watching the Philly offense the last few years has been like watching the movie Suicide Kings. Decent story, good writing, Christopher Walken......and a bunch of crap as a supporting cast. A half hour into the movie, you can't help but wonder when another talented actor is going to come on screen and help Chris Walken out. In Suicide Kings, the help never comes. In Philly, T.O. came. And then he went. He's on the sidelines with a broken leg and now McNabb is left with yet another set of crappy wideouts and has to somehow find a way to make it work this time. If he does, he's the best thing in Philly since Ron Jaworski and cheesesteaks. If he doesn't, well, his monkey will start hitting him in the back of the head with cans of Chunky Banana and Poo Soup.
My hunch: Eagles lose, Mama McNabb consoles with some soup and lap dances, and two ferrets jump out of Randy Moss' hair during a postgame interview.

Then there's Michael, excuse me, Mike Vick. Mike apparently needs to throw the ball more. I hear that he needs to throw more effectively, more accurately, more efficiently, and more while in the pocket. Honestly, I don't know why. I mean, the man is as elusive as a chicken in a courtyard and he's as fast as a cheetah with a rocket firing out of its' ass. So I don't know why he really needs to throw at all. But if the Falcons lose and he doesn't throw the ball well, even if he runs for 300 yards, people are going to point to the lack of passing yards. And they will continue to do so until he can prove otherwise. This weekend, he's got Mrs. Doubtfire's Rams coming into the Georgia Dome. Not a powerhouse defense by any stretch of the imagination, so he's got a good chance to shake, I mean shock his monkey. If he does, he quickly becomes the hands-down best player in the league and the ultimate Create-a-Player in Madden 2005 without having to actually create him . But if he doesn't, his monkey's going to start some rythmic spine-humping that will systematically start wearing down his knees and his will to live.
My hunch: Vicks runs, Vick throws, Vick wins, Mrs. Doubtfire goes shopping for some more support hose.

Monkeys. We all got 'em. We all got at least one that we need to get off of our backs and out of our hair and to stop flinging poo at us. Mine? Mine is indeed heavy, smelly, and sex-starved. But it has long arms & often gives me a courtesy reach-around. I call her Mama Squints. What do you call yours?

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