The NFL draft this year was even better than the draft last year, which is saying not very much at all, actually. You see, what's great about drafts is that the fans are given an opportunity to take a look at the future of their teams by considering the previous year of college athletics. What sucks about drafts is that no matter who your team takes or how long this year's pretty-boy QB takes to be picked, the draft is still essentially a bunch of over-hyped morons reading the names of other over-hyped morons. Speaking of which, wasn't it great seeing Keyshawn Johnson help out with the draft this year? I kept hoping that he would interrupt Chris Berman with a line like, “Shut up and pass me the damn microphone.” That would have been awesome.
My old college roommate, Doug (who I once wrote a column about), decided that it wasn't enough just to beat cancer, but that he would compete in and complete a triathlon to raise money for cancer patients in St. Petersburg, Florida, just south of my home. Just so you know, Doug and I graduated from USF with the same GPA. He has a daughter, he owns a house, he beat cancer and he completed a triathlon. Meanwhile, I had sex with a Budweiser girl four times this weekend. I think we both know who you'd rather be.
I know it's probably been beaten to death in the sports media, but the most hilarious thing from this year's NFL draft was interviewer Suzy Kolber continuously asking Brady Quinn what his game plan was as his draft stock kept plummeting. The problem here is that Quinn was dumb enough to answer this question as if a guy sitting and waiting to be picked by a team could possibly have a plan for getting picked. I believe, if Quinn had responded to this stupid question the first time with the words, “Ahh, my plan is to sit here and wait until some team picks me, Suzy. What the hell else can I do?” then he would have gone a lot higher in the draft. But what do I know?
You haven't really been looked at like you're 100% through-and-through jackass until you've lit up a cigarette at a cancer awareness rally. Fortunately for me, I'm used to it. Also, fortunately for me, my buddy Fish was there to explain to these people that Hodgkin's Lymphoma and Leukemia (the two cancers being battled against at this particular rally) are not caused by smoking. So take that, repugnant looking woman with a three legged dog who had the audacity to tell me to quit.
Oh yeah, this weekend I saw some woman leading a three legged dog on a leash. Whenever I see a three legged dog, I literally have to fight the urge to ask the owner what happened to the dog's other leg. I mean, inquiring minds and all that.
The St. Louis Cardinals lost right-handed reliever Josh Hancock when he died in a car accident a few nights ago. In addition to being an impromptu set-up man last year, and a quality middle-inning reliever for the bulk of his career, Hancock was also referred to once by me on The Nate Way as “What's His First Name Hancock.” What can I say? I'm a jerk. Anyway, condolences to the friends and family of Josh Hancock. And to every reporter who has to beat the “former Cardinal Darryl Kile also died young five years ago” angle into the ground, I'd like to borrow a phrase from Larry Ferlinghetti and proudly raise my middle finger in the only proper salute.
And finally, because logic and fluidity have to fly to Vegas and put some money on the Patriots to win the Super Bowl, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at a party Sunday night:
“The great thing about being married, is you can still fuck other women, just as long as they're married, too.”