Upon Further Review | HoustonProFootball.com
August 27, 2007
by Bob Hulsey
I had a dream.
I was in a bar watching a game. It was during that life-sapping commercial break that comes after your team scores the go-ahead touchdown, kicks the extra point, stands around for two minutes during the commercial time out, kicks off for a net seven seconds of actual NFL action and then goes back to commercial again for another two minutes.
I’m watching the big screen. A skinny white dude is at an amusement park where he steps into a building that has "The Michael Vick Experience" on the marquee. The attendants slap a Falcons helmet on the dude and strap him into this harness contraption. Next thing he knows, he’s on a football field, calling signals. He takes the snap and drops back but the rush comes at him so the contraption starts to move him through the defenders. He jukes past one flying tackler then slips away from another trying to pin him on the sidelines. He slashes upfield, avoiding another would-be tackler. Then he’s met by two nasty-looking linebackers. The contraption jerks him skyward and he somersaults into the end zone, landing on his feet as the crowd goes wild. Before any teammates can come to congratulate him, a SWAT team races out from the stadium tunnel, rifles aimed.
"Freeze Motherf ***er!," they yell. "Drop the weapon. Get down on the ground!" The contraption slams him face first into the turf. One cop buries his knee into the small of the dude’s back and slaps some handcuffs on him.
The contraption then jerks him up and whisks him to a holding cell as a chorus of dogs noisily bark off camera. Next, the contraption carries him through the jail directly into a courtroom where the words "having been found guilty by a jury of your peers, you are hearby sentenced" is uttered as you see a closeup of the dude’s face in total stunned disbelief.
Now the contraption has moved him off to prison where he is seen from behind in a bright orange jumpsuit with "VICK 7" stenciled in black on the back. Nike swooshtikas adorn the sleeves. Then a final swoosh is shown as the screen goes to black with the words "Just Don’t Do it".
Before I can recover, the next commercial shows a bunch of middle-aged men in a cabin playing instruments and singing "Viva Viagra" (a rip-off of the old "Viva Las Vegas" Elvis Presley tune, for you guys too young to understand). They appear to be having a good time. Then I noticed each of them is "sporting wood" underneath their pants. And there are no women in the room.
(As a middle-aged man, may I apologize for my generation’s seeming obsession with boner drugs, or so you’d think if you watched any sports on television. I remember when the most a father had to fear when watching sports with his son was to be asked what "jock itch" was. Ever since Bob Dole became Viagra’s first pitchman, proving that the 1996 election for Leader Of The Free World came down to a choice between a man who couldn’t get it up and a man who couldn’t keep it down, I’ve wondered how many dads have had to deal with the awkward question during any number of official timeouts. I’m sorry. I promise I’m not that Bob from the Enzyte commercials. Had it been my choice, Dole would have been too busy hunting and capturing Osama bin Laden to be wasting time promoting new pharmaceuticals.)
Now the big screen is showing Peyton Manning seemingly in the middle of dissecting the Titans for another rub-it-in touchdown. He’s pitching satellite programming as he drops back to throw. Then he mentions to the viewers that he has to run. Oh wait. It looks like he’ll pass instead. Manning zings a touchdown toss to a wide-open Marvin Harrison but, as I watched the ball fly, on the edge of the screen, Randy Starks and Travis LaBoy are beating the crap out of Manning, knocking off his helmet. Then Albert Haynesworth comes by and stomps him in the head. Next Fat Albert turns to the camera as he stands over a profusely bleeding Peyton writhing in pain and says "You wouldn’t want to miss seeing any of this in glorious high definition. It’s almost like being right there on the field."
Returning to the game, the color analyst is replaying the third touchdown of the day by Jacoby Jones remarking, "He used to be one of the Hogs. I never understood why the Redskins let him go."
About this time, Melissa the hot blonde bartender asks me if I could drive her home after the game.
Like I said, I was dreaming.
Bob Hulsey has been in therapy ever since watching Cheryl Ladd, the hottest Charlie’s Angel of all time, pitching menopause medicine. No animals (or quarterbacks) were harmed in the production of this column.
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