"Inconceivable!"  "I do not think that word means wha' you think it means."

NFL Cork-Soakers Nearly Ruin The Matriculator

            The Matriculator recently applied for press credentials to attend the NFL Scouting Combine.   The NFL contemplated dropping Fat Boy on all of his hard work and treating him like some Japanese civilian.  It was a tense and anxious week before Goodell and Co.  finally answered The Matriculator’s request.

            The Combine really is one of the great weekends.  All of the top players in the nation stripped down to their skivvies and walking up to the scales to be weighed.  The sole reason I wanted to be there was because I know what the NFL says off camera and I wanted to hear it myself.  “Now this Carimi kid is of I-talian descent.  He can lift ten bales of cotton twelve times, while running through a creek, and he can drop down and shoot a strip club bouncer from fifty yards.  Let’s start the bidding.”   The entire cattle call is now broadcast in high def.   The players run the forty yard dash in tank tops and skin tight Richard Simmons’ pants.  Left, left, left right, left right, my boots are fallin’, my pants are tight, my yarbles are swingin’ from left to right.  My first wife never seems interested in football during the regular season, but she always moseys into the man cave during the forty yard dash making astute comments like, “He looks fast,”  or “He’s fat,” or “What’s his name?  Is he any good?”  She’s a scout with her own set of qualifications, and I always let her know how much I appreciate her enthusiasm.  She duly noted last year that offensive tackle Andre Smith needed a bra which was woman code for, “Unless this is a sport where they need a human cow to milk, that guy is not going to be any good.”  She was right.

            I received an interesting call from someone in the NFL press office the day after I submitted my request.  He said his name was Juan Valdez, but I knew he was using a pseudonym.  He said he was calling from the basement of NFL headquarters using a pre-paid cell phone and he wanted to let me know that he was a hopeless Matriculator.  He indicated that we were the best NFL football site he had ever seen and he was apoplectic as he told us that the NFL was actually considering granting us a press pass.  “This is ghastly,” I said to the frightened young proletariat.  “You tell those farging cork-soakers that they are trying to violate my farging rights.  Dis somanumbatching country was founded so that the liberties of common patriotic citizens like me could not be taken away by a bunch of farging iceholes…like those cork-soakers!”  He asked me to lower my voice because someone was entering the basement.  I listened carefully as I heard Roger Goodell and Demaurice Smith doing some off the record collective bargaining.  I turned on my recorder and have transcribed what I heard:

            Roger Goodell:  “Big D, what’s the word?”

            Demaurice Smith:  “Johannesburg.”

            Goodell:  “You always get me with that one.”

            Demaurice: “Yes I do.”

            Goodell;  “Listen, I was supposed to go clubbin’ tonight.  You know, get my swag on.”

            Demaurice:  “For crying out loud Goody, again?”

            Goddell:  “You know I got me a little shawty and I like to boogie oogie oogie till I just can’t boogie no more.”

            Demaurice:  “What is a shawty anyway?”

            Goodell:  “Well it’s a very versatile word that can mean a lot of things. Listen, let’s do the, ‘The NFL has called off labor negotiations for tomorrow because…”

            Demaurice:  “you didn’t like the food? The bread was stale?”

            Goodell:  “You are too much Big D.  Hey who’s there?”

            Juan Valdez: “Sorry boss man.  I lost my wallet down here yesterday.”

            Demaurice:  “Mikey P.  We need to talk about this season.”

            Goodell:  “Who did we decide was going to win in 2012 again?”

            Demaurice:  “The Broncos.  We need Tebow on TIVO.”

            Juan Valdez:  “That rhymes man.  That’s some good shit.”

            Demaurice:   “It was just a lucky moment.”

            Goodell:  “Don’t let him kid you, he’s a lyrical poet and a genius.  He writes for Kanye West.”

            When Juan Valdez called me later, he said it was inconceivable that a legitimate journalist might be granted a press pass to a sanctioned NFL event.  He said the only time it had ever happened was when Hunter S. Thompson got credentialed for Super Bowl VI.  Hunter dropped some high powered blotter acid a few minutes before kick-off and when Garo Yepremian threw the ball into the air with the aplomb of a five year old ballerina, Hunter started raving about aliens and fuzzy foreigners and bats.   No journalist has been seen at an NFL event since then, unless they bought a ticket and dressed up like a Fireman or a Cheesehead or a Black Holer.  It is very dangerous for the Matriculator to attempt an appearance, even in disguise, as the NFL now has an army of former CIA agents who follow him around.  One sits outside of my office as I write this.  Please note how I seamlessly move from third person to first person in the great tradition of Keyshawn Johnson, Pacman Jones and Mike Vick.

            Fortunately, Juan Valdez came up with a plan.  He called Belicheat who copied my prior articles and sent them to the appropriate parties.  Daniel Snyder got the one where I called his team, “a bunch of bad asses.” Goody got the one where I said, “Brett Favre told Roger to go to hell.”  Not surprisingly, he didn’t appreciate the pun and we understand, though Roger didn’t.  There is a high level of intelligence required to Matriculate, and our target audience is therefore very small and does not include His Imminency.   He sent the one to Peyton Manning where I said, “Peyton is a woman scorned.  She’s a Diva.  And she’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold too.”  Peyton said if they let me into Lucas Oil Field he would challenge me to a cat fight and that it could get ugly with all the slapping and scratching. 

            In the end, disaster was averted thanks to Juan Valdez and his quick thinking.  For the few and the proud Matriculatees, those blessed with the capacity for abstract thought, fear not.  The Matriculator was not granted his credentials for the NFL Cattle Call and we can now all live happily ever after.

               February 25, 2011