A few days into free agency, and I'm already feeling a little dirty inside.
I admit it. I was lusting for Brandon Mebane. Had myself a small man crush. Got a wee typsy on the YouTube highlights.
In fact, I got a little out of control, like the time I took off my top at the senior center and let the ladies from the bridge club do body shots off me--without their dentures. I stalked Mebane on Twitter for about 48 hours, along with some other deranged Seahawks, Rams, and (yes) Broncos fans. In the end, neither the power of the internet, nor Mebane's relatively cheap price ($25 million) was enough to bring him to Denver.
Was I Desperate? Absolutely. All I wanted for free agent X-Mas was my two front linemen to be names other than Vickerson or McBean. It could have easily happened at the price Mebane finally took from the Seahawks.
Cullen Jenkins is still out there on the market. Maybe I'll stalk him until he signs.
Nah, it's not worth it. If EFX is going to take a Wreckx-n-Effect approach to free agency, why bother getting too worked up?
Instead, I'll try and content myself with this lesson: the biggest free agent the Broncos brought in this year is Dennis Allen and his scheme.
By this time tomorrow, it's likely Kyle Orton will no longer be the property of the Denver Broncos.
How did we get here? How did a quarterback, who, by all accounts, has been better than average, and by many other accounts, has been better than the guy he replaced, Jay Cutler, get put on the trading block?
The story is fairly straightforward. John McDaniels liked, but wasn't completely satisfied with Orton. So he traded for Brady Quinn. Then McDaniels fell in love with Tim Tebow's potential. So he drafted the kid.
In many ways this has been the story (unfair or not) of Kyle Orton's career--good, but leaving people wanting just a bit more.
As the debate rages even now about whether Orton is a better option than Tebow, I find myself realizing it doesn't really matter.
That's right. Who is better means nothing. Assuming Tebow wasn't the second coming of Ryan Leaf, it never did.
Orton was probably destined for this outcome all along.
The lockout has come to an end.
I find myself filled with terror--more terror than that time I woke up in downtown Oakland with an orange and blue butterfly tattoo and wearing only a Broncos thong.
Am I going to have Roger Goodell to pick on any more?
Probably. As long as Goodell makes a ridiculous $10 million for being Jerry Jones' lapdog and imposing inconsistent fines, he'll remain a comedic gold mine. If not, I thought I'd get my licks in one last time.
If the NFL was a game of Monopoly, yesterday Perrish Cox pulled the Go To Jail card.
Do not pass Dove Valley. Do not collect $405,000.
In this game, you can't roll doubles, nor can you purchase (for any amount of money) a Get Out Of Jail Free card from Demaryius Thomas or Cassius Vaughn. They are too busy looking for cover.
Cox is easy pickins, Broncos fans. You'll see dozens of columns over the next month criticizing his character and his integrity. Further, you'll hear a lot of pundits play the I told you so card. And that's just fine. Fans aren't required to withhold judgement until all the facts are in. While Cox is innocent until proven guilty in the court of law, as a member of the Denver Broncos, the story told in the arrest warrent is easily enough for the fans and the Broncos to run him out of town.
Roger Goodell won't be distracted by the law. If Cox is guilty, he's in jail; if he's not, Goodell is likely to suspend him for at least six games (Roethlisberger style).
I'm guessing that right now, John Elway could care less how well Perrish Cox plays man coverage.
He can't cover it as a member of the Denver Broncos.
Fat Man writer TJ “The Dude” Johnson posts The Dude’s Mail Revue on
Thursdays whenever the hell he gets around to it. He takes your questions and gets your opinion about the state of the Broncos and the NFL. You wanna tie the room together? Or say what you'd like about the tenets of national socialism? Drop TJ a question: email@example.com.
(NOTE: Marmots were harmed in the writing of this Revue)
Dude, we've been missing your Mail Revue out here in Sin City. Don't tell me you've stopped. It will bring me to tears. At least give us your thoughts on the end to the lockout, won't you?
-- Bambi, Las Vegas, Nevada
Bambi: First, let me say that I'm glad to see that some parents still have the decency to name their children after porn stars.
Like a Raiders fan without a job, I've been sitting in my parents' basement playing Call of Duty: Black Ops.
Drew Brees says the lockout will be over soon.
Since you can always trust a guy from New Orleans to give you a calm and reasonable assessment of any situation, I'd say Brees is on to something.
We're about to get NFL football again.
I'm ready to stop fantasizing about Hope Solo; Tim Tebow is ready to stop wearing purple; Roger Goodell is ready to begin fining James Harrison for theoretically not peeing on him while being (theoretically) on fire.
The signs are there. Here are ten for you:
As I was navigating traffic between downtown Denver and the Tech Center the other day, I found myself with some time to kill.
That is to say I was stuck in traffic.
Rather than complain--or worse, tune in to 104.3 The Fan--I decided to do what any Broncos fan would do when faced with a similar crisis.
I started reading bumper stickers.
Here are five that I saw.
I'm quite sure I'll have more for you in the future.
The 4th of July is only a few days away. I am feeling patriotic. Rather than give you a lecture on the Boston Tea Party, however, I'm just going to make the following assumptions:
What's more American than getting drunk, blowing stuff up, baking in the ozone, and having your relatives steal your alcohol?
Nothing, my man, there ain't nothing.
In your drunken stupor, you're going to want to mix football and patriotism. You should probably resist that urge. Leave that to the professionals like Roger Goodell.
Instead, impress your father-in-law with some of these little known facts about the Founding Fathers...if they had had football back in 1776.
These days, tattoos are so common that not getting one almost makes you en vogue.
What once was the pride of pre-colonial Filipino warriors is now a few hours of work on the lower back of a half-buzzed sorority girl who happens to be feeling a little dangerous.
I guess it all depends on the color of that butterfly, girlfriend.
I've personally avoided the tribal armband. Instead, I've considered getting a teardrop for every Raiders fan I've verbally smoked over the years. But the human face can only handle so much crying; there are a lot of Raiders fans out there, unfortunately.
I long ago lost my faith in the quality of Bon Jovi's work.
Yet I can't recall the exact game I stopped believing in NFL statistics. Perhaps it's best if I tell you when I began to lose my faith.
It was last year's game when the Broncos were pulverized (yet again) by the Baltimore Ravens. You probably remember the statistical headlines from the game. Kyle Orton threw for over 300 yards and Brandon Lloyd went for more than 100 yards receiving. I had already posted my Gut Reaction to the game, which like all Gut Reactions, are usually posted within fifteen minutes of a game's finish. It was well-written, yet there was something that still haunted me.
So I hit the game tape over and over again. It didn't take more than a few series to see the horror that was Haloti Ngata.
Ngata was dominant that day, even though he finished with only three tackles. Play after play he dominated the Broncos' offensive line. Ngata got gap penetration; he used the same swim move what seemed like half a dozen times (which I promptly taught to a pee-wee football team the following week); he pushed the line back into the backfield two or three yards; he was a nightmare that, to this day, probably causes Ryan Harris to wake at night in cold sweats.