2009 NFL Quarterbacks

It is a closely guarded secret at all levels of the glorious game of football that the quarterback is the most widely hated person in any organization (besides the head coach, owner, and 98% of all wide receivers). But you ask, “Professor, I thought everyone loved the quarterback. They’re heroes.” Wrong. FANS love quarterbacks. Sure, as a spectator, it is easy to grow fond – even lustful – of that striking, handsome Caucasian (usually) athlete guiding his team to victory by throwing pretty spirals and being the vocal leader (read: huge dick) on the sidelines. Why, I used to send Brady Quinn love sonnets and lewd text messages. Young boys dream of becoming quarterbacks. Fathers become alcoholics when their only sons choose queer jobs like accounting or event coordinating over quarterbacking. From a distance, the position is deified, beloved, and honorable. So who then hates quarterbacks? Teammates. That’s who.

At the risk of sounding cliché, dry, and Madden-ish – football is the ultimate team game. It invokes strong parallels to war and those painful corporate “team building” exercises that ultimately result in you hating your coworkers even more. In theory, no single player is larger than the sum of the team. Each player (backups included) work as a cog in a well-oiled conglomerate designed to win and pay for the team owner’s lap dances. In this aspect, it is much like an Asian sweatshop with the players as the small children with blistering fingers working 22 hour days (albeit with slight wage discrepancies) and the owner as himself – the cutthroat, greedy prick that he is. As I said – the ultimate team game or dictatorial regime.

Most players subserviently fill their roles as faithful servants (or soldiers in the case of Lieutenant Kellen Winslow), and the machine operates beautifully. In the machine, the quarterback gets the privilege of being bequeathed with all the accolades and riches associated as the primary front man of a winning enterprise. Yep, the quarterback is showered with media adoration, absurd fan loyalty, and a salary greater than the GDP of Canada. Quarterbacks have lived this life of luxury since Pop Warner football as young boys. They have never battled in the trenches like linemen, they never sacrificed scarce brain cells like a fullback, and they surely never jumped on the tuba playing dame in the high school band like the poor punter.

As coddled, adored legends, quarterbacks often earn the resentment of their teammates. While the quarterback is busy celebrating the win by sipping champagne off the small of Gisele’s back, you – the faithful left tackle – are tending to ailments and wounds while your wife (B-team girl you knocked up in high school) is feeding you Hamburger Helper. Who wouldn’t be overcome with envy? Everyone gets sick and tired of that stunning, dreamy, bronzed, chiseled Adonis getting all the perks (sorry, got caught up in another Quinn dream).

With perks, often comes an overwhelming sense of entitlement and utter lack of awareness to the needs of others. In short, you’re a selfish douchebag. The NFL is riddled with plenty of douchebag quarterbacks. For the 2009 season, I am going to list my Top 7 douchebag quarterbacks (7 in honor of John Elway. NOT a douche.) There is only one rule for the list: to make the list, the quarterback must currently be the starter on his team’s depth chart. This excludes obvious douchebags (Vince Young, Chris Simms), but it is hard to be super douchey when you’re holding a clipboard. I encourage you to voice your quarterback douchisms in the comments section. For now, onto the list…

7. Aaron Rodgers

Douche tactics: affinity for bro-ish facial hair, smug grin typically reserved for quarterbacks who have won something, brash predictions of success once Favre was on the way out, hails from California/played in the Pac 10.

What doesn’t suck about him: you have to feel sorry for the poor bastard who has to follow uber-douche Favre.

2009 outlook: Rodgers is a gifted quarterback with some serviceable parts surrounding him in the Packer offense. The Pack plays in a winnable division. Rodgers better play balls-out on November 1 when the archrival Vikings come to town with their new, stubbled douche quarterback in tow.

You’re going out for a drink. Where is the quarterback taking you? Rodgers is meeting you at a NoCal beach bar. You’re splitting a bucket of Coronas (douche juice) and fish tacos. Awkward conversation is only salvaged via Favre bashing.

6. Mark Sanchez*

Douche tactics: played for USC, first USC quarterback to leave early since Todd Marinovich (colossal idiot), posing for GQ before a mere start in the NFL, hails from California/played in the Pac 10, alleged sexual assault while in college.

What doesn’t suck about him: embraces his Latin heritage. Seems like a nice guy (unlike Rodgers).

2009 outlook: Dirty Sanchez is bound to earn the starting job over the feeble cripple he is battling in Kellen Clemens. Sanchy will fail to live up to the unrealistic expectations of the union-working Jets fans. Like Rodgers, Sanchez coincidentally is filling the faux work boots of Brett Favre. This actually lessens his douche quotient.

You’re going out for a drink. Where is the quarterback taking you? Mark is taking you to a salsa bar on the Lower East Side. You’re sipping mojitos. You’re dancing. It’s getting a little racy. You leave for the restroom, but out of the corner of your eye you see Mark drop something in your drink. You wake up in a New Jersey dumpster and remember nothing. Annnnnnd SCENE!

*I know Mark isn’t technically the starter yet, but I’m hedging my Week 1 bet that he will be.

5. Tom Brady

Douche tactics: hails from California (noticing a trend?), knocked up a gal and dated another (or something like that), plays for the most annoying city of fans in all of sports – Boston (not really his fault), models, played for Michigan.

What doesn’t suck about him: he is kind of good at football. Not nearly the dick of his head coach.

2009 outlook: Tom Brady is coming off a devastating 2008 in which he got to spend the season recovering from knee surgery, pleasuring Gisele, and collecting his massive pay check. The recession hit us all.

You’re going out for a drink. Where is the quarterback taking you? You, Tom, and Gisele are going to a posh patio bar in Hollywood. Tom is drinking a Stella Artois – a diversified, cultured bro pick. Gisele is drinking a martini. You’re spilling all over yourself as you ogle Gisele and listen to Tom’s lame jokes.

4. Jay Cutler

Douche tactics: where to begin? Perpetual state of pouting, forced his way out of a quarterback’s dream job, doesn’t return employer’s phone calls, makes fun of his old fan base in a lousy attempt to gain affection from his new fan base, whines.

What doesn’t suck about him: I loved the dude until about six months ago. Superb talent. You view his pouting as a cool “I don’t give a f*ck” attitude when he is winning ball games. You wish you had that attitude.

2009 outlook: Cutler whined his way into a trade to the place where quarterbacks go to die – Chicago. Bland offense, bad weather. I can’t pen this without bias. I hope A.J. Hawk knocks his helmet hair back to Pissville, Indiana and dumps pure cane sugar into his diabetic blood stream.

You’re going out for a drink. Where is the quarterback taking you? A good underage bar in Chicago. Not going to lie here. Big Cut can drank. He’s buying shots and tossing diabetes to the wind. You’re making out with the scraps of his A-list hookup. All is well until he ditches you at the bar and you’re left picking up the tab. The scrap you were mugging out with is now stuck to you (Kyle Orton). Try to stay positive.

3. Tony Romo

Douche tactics: baseball hat is in a everlasting reversed fashion, when not wearing a baseball hat he wears cabbie hats, more interested in celeb status than winning football games, tries to sound smart and articulate during interviews yet fails miserably, wears dog tags, sought sympathy in the T.O. situation despite T.O. furthering Romo’s career immeasurably.

What doesn’t suck about him: doesn’t seem like a huge dick. Plays golf.

2009 outlook: Cowboys miss playoffs, Romo addresses media in retarded platitudes, Jerry Jones signs Michael Irvin at receiver. I love this city.

You’re going out for a drink. Where is the quarterback taking you? Ghost Bar in Dallas. You’re stuck in a wardrobe pinch (you’re dressed normally), so Romo lets you borrow a v-neck shirt and a spare set of dog tags. Women flock to Tony, but he can’t close the deal. You, appalled with humanity, thrust yourself from the 33^rd floor Ghost Bar balcony to a Dante’s Mullet martyr-esque death.

2. Philip Rivers

Douche tactics: endless. Antagonizes fans on the road, picks verbal fights with opposing quarterbacks, pushes the football instead of throwing it, doucheist smirk in football history, drove the loveable (and better) Drew Brees out of town.

What doesn’t suck about him: Nothing. Huge ass. I pray for training camp ACL tears.

2009 outlook: Chargers win a weak division much to this author’s chagrin. Rivers talks UFC trash to all fans – home and away. Chargers get burned in first week of the playoffs with Rivers throwing 4 INTs and getting throat stomped by a throng of white trash fans (home game in San Diego).

You’re going out for a drink. Where is the quarterback taking you? A meathead bar in San Diego. Phil is firing up card drinking games. Keystone and Jager runneth over. Philip is tossed for brawling after he sees a fan in a Cutler jersey.

1. Brett Favre

Douche tactics: thinks he is above the game of football, couldn’t define “retirement” on an exam, totally screws over incumbent quarterbacks trying to make a living (Rodgers, Pennington, Rosenfels, Jackson) by showing up whenever the hell he wants, vindictive against a franchise that treated him as a demigod for nearly two decades, he is the most faux blue collar man since Toby Keith, throws interceptions the way Pete Rose threw games, craves attention, (could go on for ages). OH YEAH and he faked a retirement because he is a lazy, old bastard who didn’t want to go through training camp while knowing all along he’d become a member of the Vikings.

What doesn’t suck about him: I used to like this guy. I liked his old school attitude. All is gone. Ethics and integrity mean nothing to this guy. I feel horrible for Vikings fans.

2009 outlook: Favre goes for his standard 20 TD, 22 INT season. The fanbase begins to hate him. The locker room begins a three way split between Favre, Sage Rosenfels, and Tarvaris Jackson. Vikes miss the playoffs. Favre re-re-retires. Peter King weeps. The rest of the world rejoices.

You’re going out for a drink. Where is the quarterback taking you? The night starts great. You and Brett go to an old fashioned drankin’ bar. Whiskey shots and Budweiser. This is man time. Brett playfully tosses a football across the bar to an adoring Packers/Jets/Vikings fan. You turn your head for a moment. All of the sudden – Brett is gone. You eventually saunter home only to find him making love to your wife. He has two middle fingers raised and is wearing your middle school jersey. You enter your backyard for a gentleman’s execution courtesy of Roger Goodell.

College football can’t come soon enough.

The Immortal Bro

DM’s resident renaissance man, Dr. Campies, has been summoned to lecture on an alarming pandemic sweeping the country one Ed Hardy sale at a time. Dr. Campies' lecturing audience is typically comprised of Pulitzer Prize winners, renowned physicists, and Asians. As the majority of the content delivered in this forum is directed to the drunk and destitute, the following lecture from Dr. Campies may be above the GED educational level of most of the readership. Read anyway and seek immediate assistance if you or a loved one has fallen victim to the BRO pandemic. – Ed. in Chief T. Webb.

Without further adieu, Dr. Campies...

This is 2009. We should have seen this coming. With the rise of global standards of living and proliferation of the AXE Effect (def: here), the inflated male self-concept was an unavoidable conclusion. However, what was once the stuff of George Orwell meanderings and Buddhist monks' prophesy has now come to fruition: The Broliphic Age.

Perhaps a Clint Eastwood pitolwhipping should be mandatory for "men" born after 1970.

Much like the dinosaurs or Neanderthal before them, the Rise of the Bro was birthed by a niche adaptation to surroundings which allows the species to survive, flourish, and in many cases, frost tips (def: here).

By now, identifying full-blown bros across countries and cultures is one of the most salient responses a human being can have. Even Ugandans should be able to quickly recognize the characteristics of the modern day bro: Typically an 18-24 year old male in the infancy stages of bromosapiens. Graphic t-shirts, flagrantly neon and pastel colored garments, and affluence for octagonally-contained street fighting and liquorish-flavored spirits are the traditional tribal markings of the Bromeithian culture. Some say the origins of the modern day bro coincided with the rise of bands such as Dave Matthews and System of A Down. Other theories suggest global warming and the lunar gravity cycles may be responsible for normal, ambitious young males losing their F-ing minds, and consequently, shedding any traits of detectable manhood. However, in recent years, there has been a stark and alarming change in the life cycle of the modern-day bro: he is incapable of what we typically think of as social evolution and hence death of broseph adolescence. The modern-day bro however will continue his rituals of brotosynthesis well into later life until the supply of slutty, quasi-ethnic chicks or the batteries in his PSP, are finally exhausted.

You see, in pre-contemporary life cycles of the bromosapiens, depending on the individual, at the around the age of 26 when the cordiality of surrounding attendees of frat parties would no longer welcome this unique individual's presence, a metamorphbrosis of sorts would typically ensue that re-assimilates the Brodie from his 4 am weekday ragers back into the life of an everyday citizen. The delusion of acting rich when you're $30k in debt, or thinking that the smell of stale sex (AXE body spray) when paired with the LiveStrong bracelet on your arm is an unstoppable combination for any female to resist finally wears off, and the Zombie-state of the Bro is snapped back awake to the reality (and opportunities) that come from being a perfectly reasonably well-groomed and responsible young adult. However, this derivation from the Status Bro is becoming increasingly prevalent; where instead of the Bro population diminishing after the age of 26, the population pool is actually increasing, and even recruiting older individuals to join the community. What was once a paradoxical anomaly, the modern-day 40+ year old Bro is now unmistakably commonplace.

"Hey, Jess! How about a jacuzzi session?"

So what do we know about the state of bro-dom? Well, for one, it’s spreading like H1N1. No matter how hard you try to avoid, or what venues you go to, you've seen them- and they're growing by the day. The allure of this group is strong - never lose your over-sexualized, adolescent self concept from high school and the only rules to live by are Do Not Waste Beer and never sign-in late for a fantasy football draft. And these New Batch Bros have permeated every layer of our civil society; I don't care if we're talking about a Farmer's Market on a Saturday morning or a re-showing of The Island of Dr.Moreau at the local antique movie house, the loud stitching of $300 jeans and barb-wire tattoos over a fresh, mystic tan is never far from reach. More often now than ever before however, the pungent aroma of AXE Dark Temptation has been acutely tainted by detectable traces of Ben Gay wafting in from the tattered pits of an SSB (Social Security Bro). He maintains this Bro Survival kit to continue his natural selection-defying, Immortal Bro ways as he picks up yet another case of Natty Ice and a take-home prostate exam kit from the local market.

Speechless

So what are the trademark characteristics of this "grandfather Broseph?" To this point, most data points to the exact same grazing patterns and mating rituals of traditional brodies: frequent patio bars appearance with a fresh pack of Parliament cigarettes and a wind-proof, camping lighter, oversized, under tucked Express for Men button downs or Affliction/Ed Hardy T-shirts, requisite 16 year-old haircut with plenty of product, as well as the trademark chinstrap facial hair. Excessively cheap-but-flashy jewelry (I think he went to Jared), and fake-ass, supremely unconvincing California accent (BroSpeak) are often observed as well. To this point, however, no one has actually been able to conduct an intelligent conversation with these individuals to identify why the hell one would do this to themselves. The answer remains one of the great mysteries of the scientific community, much like the Broto-electric Effect. (Ref: here)

We need a Distraction in Badassery immediately.

With all this talk of how to identify one of these individuals and their super-inflated self ego and awkward sexual advances, how might one go about protecting themselves if they should ever encounter a bronivore on the prowl? First and foremost, the common sense example of having a trusted, respectable male buddy to escort you and your friends for a night on the town is the safest precaution. Although catching a feeding bro in broad daylight is less likely, though certainly probable, bro feeding patterns typically concentrate on night life areas where the time is late, the light is dark, and the alcohol is prevalent - all useful in assisting the bro with the "surprise attack" (def: cornering a prospective young lady and/or her friends where the low light levels help conceal the bro's ProActiv-resistant skin and minimize the shine of their spray-on tan, all the while increasing the chance that some liquid courage and a line from Swingers will get the job done). This is where a male buddy can be exceptionally useful in fending off a bro attack before it occurs. You see, the fact remains that bros, by definition, are pussies, generally lacking the self-confidence to approach a new girl at anytime without a pack of brosephs at their side, much less a girl that is clearly intelligent and moralistic enough to have a respectable, well-groomed guy friend at her side.

Beyond that precaution, conditioning one's self to never be drawn into a conversation that begins with "Hey, did you know I own my own ski boat?" or "Excuse me, but can I get you a re-fill on that Appletini so that we can go home and f*ck?" is a powerful defense in deflecting prospective bro surprise attacks.

Five scents for your date rape work week.

When in doubt, however, if these aforementioned steps have failed, and you find yourself face to face with a persistent AlphaBro who's sense of decency is only undercut by his bank account balance, particularly one of the elder variety, consider the following action (note: older, SilverBack Bros can actually behave more aggressively than Bro Cubs because they are more aware of their own Bro "mortality" and seek to act while there's still time (2nd note: the concept of bro death is strictly myth at this point and seems relegated to the bro's own delusions of himself as no bro deaths have yet to be confirmed in modern anthropological studies)). A physical plan of self-defense should be the preferred choice of a cornered broette. Remember, bros are some of the biggest pansies the human race has ever produced and will flee from any potentially physical confrontation, even if that confrontation comes at the hands of a girl. This phenomena of the bro's over inflated "Flight" response to danger that is only outweighed by his quantity of cheap cologne makes the bromosapiens' seemingly unlimited environmental fitness that much more incredible. The only way to describe adaptation is immortal.

(P.S.-as a strategic note, the best way to physically engage an approaching bro is to attack the areas they are most vulnerable to. These areas include but are not limited to: messing up meticulously styled hair, which was the focus of hours of attention so that it appears it took no time at all, intellectual insults for which the bro inevidtably cannot muster any rational comeback, kicking/punching to the groin/ hip area. The hips in particular are a prime source of locomotion for the bro in terms of their strut-walking into clubs at a 45 degree angle, or their excessively white-man dance moves which unknownst to the bro, produce no amorous attractions from the opposite sex. NOTA BENE/BE ADVISED, if you do happen to target the hip of an older, uber-bro: the hip disablement may not be effective, as in most cases, the older bro's hip as already been replaced with a synthetic version. For more information on how you or your friends can prevent bro-tacks, or understand the psychology behind the bromosapien, visit here.)

"I need to be taint punched"