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Febreeze posted:Goddamn insurance salesman QBs It's weird that 2 of the 3 featured QB's have nagging injuries. Or ironic. Or maybe just stupid.
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Jan 10, 2015 16:00
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I guess Febreeze is too young to remember Hans & Franz from SNL (the two wacko German weirdos).
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Jan 10, 2015 16:19
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cucka posted:It's weird that 2 of the 3 featured QB's have nagging injuries. There are...FOUR QBs!!! 
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Jan 10, 2015 17:27
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Luck looks worse somehow without his neckbeard. I think it distracts from his face.
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Jan 10, 2015 18:12
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Jan 11, 2015 04:09
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Oh my god
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Jan 11, 2015 05:29
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Allahu Ackbar
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Jan 11, 2015 05:37
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Febreeze posted:Goddamn insurance salesman QBs Rogers eyes in the 4th panel showing how high the forehead goes...
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Jan 11, 2015 06:07
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this is amazing
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Jan 11, 2015 06:07
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DO YALL WANT A HAM posted:I guess Febreeze is too young to remember Hans & Franz from SNL (the two wacko German weirdos). Hans and Franz own and this made me sad.
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Jan 11, 2015 06:17
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 you never fail to amaze.
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Jan 11, 2015 07:19
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I love you
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Jan 11, 2015 10:27
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Its beautiful, especially Tom's gloating face.
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Jan 11, 2015 12:16
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DO YALL WANT A HAM posted:I guess Febreeze is too young to remember Hans & Franz from SNL (the two wacko German weirdos). I looked them up, they were characters in like 1993. No, I can't say I watched SNL when I was 5, you old farts State farm resurrected 20 year old characters to try and look hip to old people
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Jan 11, 2015 19:04
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Febreeze posted:I looked them up, they were characters in like 1993. No, I can't say I watched SNL when I was 5, you old farts Comedy Central would also show old replays of SNL all the time in the late 90s/early 00's, so there's more than just an appeal to older audiences who watched in the early 90s.
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Jan 11, 2015 19:08
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Febreeze posted:I looked them up, they were characters in like 1993. No, I can't say I watched SNL when I was 5, you old farts With all these kids living with their parents until they're 30, it's not shocking that State Farm is going after people who remember SNL when it was still good.
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Jan 11, 2015 19:17
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If the Ravens had won, would the picture have just been the thought bubble? If so, that's a great use of resources.
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Jan 11, 2015 19:24
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Febreeze posted:I looked them up, they were characters in like 1993. No, I can't say I watched SNL when I was 5, you old farts Well, I knew who they were, and I would've been 4 back then. 
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Jan 11, 2015 19:26
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Febreeze posted:I looked them up, they were characters in like 1993. No, I can't say I watched SNL when I was 5, you old farts
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Jan 11, 2015 19:39
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They also resurrected Rob Schneider's makin' copies guy but he was not really well received.
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Jan 11, 2015 19:53
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Spoeank posted:They also resurrected Rob Schneider's makin' copies guy but he was not really well received.
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Jan 11, 2015 20:06
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Febreeze posted:I looked them up, they were characters in like 1993. No, I can't say I watched SNL when I was 5, you old farts Hell, I had stopped watching SNL by the time Hans and Franz showed up. BassOmatic forever.
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Jan 11, 2015 20:08
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SNL hasn't been any good since (When I was in my early twenties) .
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Jan 11, 2015 20:27
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Kalli posted:If the Ravens had won, would the picture have just been the thought bubble? If so, that's a great use of resources. Yeah I was originally just going to have elite flacco but then they lost and I had to update it
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Jan 11, 2015 21:35
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I need Romo farts
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Jan 11, 2015 22:25
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Spoeank posted:They also resurrected Rob Schneider's makin' copies guy but he was not really well received. They fired him because he's anti vaccine.
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Jan 11, 2015 22:31
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Febreeze posted:I looked them up, they were characters in like 1993. No, I can't say I watched SNL when I was 5, you old farts I'm 36, not old.  oh God 36 is old
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Jan 11, 2015 22:46
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JPrime posted:I'm 36, not old. Just turned 37 on Friday. Let me PM you my favorite Metamucil and prune smoothie recipe.
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Jan 11, 2015 23:22
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You can't even imagine the recap that's coming in a couple days
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Jan 11, 2015 23:49
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Let us know which newspaper will be running your obituary
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Jan 11, 2015 23:53
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I'm requesting a Kam Chancellor avatar, cartoon or otherwise. If it owns and you don't have platinum, I will buy it for you as commission.
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Jan 12, 2015 01:17
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Febreeze posted:Goddamn insurance salesman QBs Lil' Russ is so cute
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Jan 12, 2015 01:51
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seiferguy posted:I'm requesting a Kam Chancellor avatar, cartoon or otherwise. If it owns and you don't have platinum, I will buy it for you as commission. I'm bored. You want it as one of these? https://www.flickr.com/photos/85438266@N06
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Jan 12, 2015 02:14
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I was told to take my time after the last one, and so I have. (With further apologies to T.S. Eliot) Close At Hand --- ...If I stay here and fight beside the city of the Trojans, my return home is gone, but my glory shall be everlasting; --- For Ham il miglior affiso I. The Covering of the Spread August is the cruellest month, bringing Pigskin into the dead air, mixing Naivete and hunger, stirring Old fields with new cleats. Summer kept us warm, covering last season in a haze, feeding A fragile hope with highlight reels. Preseason stunned us, vaulting over the Mile High walls, With a shower of truths; we stopped in the locker room, And went on in twilight, into the corner bar, And drank our beer, and talked for an hour. It is not just his routes, It's fundamental. He goes. And when we were children, staying with our father, My brother, he took me out on a raft, And I was frightened. He said, Okay, Okay, hold on tight. And off we went. In the mountains, here you feel free. I think, much of the night, and I dream in the winter. What are the songs that clutch, what statues grow Out of these hundred grim yards? Son of man, You wish to say, or guess, but you know only two rows of battered warriors, where the sun beats, And the whistle gives no shelter, the huddle no relief, And the bruised flesh no flash of glory. Only There is shadow under these uprights, (Come in under the shadow of these uprights), And I will show you something different from either Your fans in defeat screaming how they abhor you Or your fans in victory rushing to greet you; I will show you fear in a handful of turf. Nicht eine Träne weintest du Vater und Mutter; kaum einen Gruss den Bleibenden botest du. “You showed me the film room first so long ago; “They called me the film room boy.” —Yet when we came back, late, through the film room hallway, Your eyes dull, and your hair thin, I could not Speak, and my ears rang, I was neither Craven nor bold, and I knew nothing, Looking up at the rows of seats, the silence. Wer gliche dem Mann? The OC, Turner, famous tactician, Had a coward's heart, nevertheless Is known to be a premier schemer in the league, With a wicked book of plays. Here, said he, your first read, the lanky, stumbling Irish, (Of his brain are studies made. Look!) Here is Hail Mary, the Lady of the Long Shots, The lady of improbability. Here is the zone with three wide, and here the Kneel, And here is the one-legged Jennings, and this play, Which is his, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to call. I do not find The Designed Keep. Fear death by pass rush. I see walls of muscle, closing round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mr. Patterson, Tell him I'll bring him the playbook myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal practice, Under the hot glare of a white floodlight, A crowd shuffled back to their homes, so many, I had not thought cuts had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed out of sight, a path to ruin beat, Where smiling beasts and wolves would give them comfort, While sly paws slid slowly into their pockets. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Thomas! “You who watched me from the bench at Arlington! “That fund you planted last year with your broker, “Has it begun to yield? Will it pay this year? “Or has the need for cash torn out its roots? “Oh! Keep those friends far hence, that come for alms, “Or with their cries they’ll dig it out again! “You! Luckless old tackleur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!” II. A Game Meant Less The bench we sat on, like a hammered trough, Perched on the sideline, where the grass Was kept to heights known only to ground crews That had never been seen by eyes of men (At least no eyes that would lay such a claim) Bore with some protest the weight of sevenfold linesmen Reflecting voice upon our ears as The crackle of a squabble came toward us, From two men in their gameday livery; In jerseys of lightweight and garish weave Unstoppered, sprang their one-sided brash discourse, Urgent, breathless and heated—troubled, contused And drowned our talk in passing; stirred by the air That poured down from the rows, few assisted In sharpening the dim esprit du corps, Flung their words into the autumn evening, Needling a group that sat, their bodies reeling. Huge coolers fed with sports drinks Burned green and orange, framed by the swarming staff, That wore as one a mourner's countenance. Above the war-torn acre was displayed A just and lifeless scribe to tell the sordid tale The board of Scoring, the mighty Jumbotron So rudely peered; yet there our fruitless work Was carved in numbers taller than a man And still it hung, and still it gave its cry, “D-FENSE” to stony ears. And other grim facades of cheer Lay cast among the stands; trampled signs cried out, muffled, speaking their painted message. Footsteps shuffled in bleachers. Leaving to “head home, beat the traffic”, the crowd Spread out in parking lots Which swelled with noise, then would be savagely still. “My arm feels bad tonight. Yes, bad. Huddle up. “Huddle up. Why do you never speak. Speak. “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.” I think we are in garbage time Where the washouts play their game. “Are you listening?” None of this matters now. “Are you listening now? Get your head in the game.” None of this matters none. “Do “You not care, here? Do you want to win? Do you remember “playoffs?” I remember Of his brain are studies made. “Are you awake, or not? Do you want to win this game?” But O O O O that man can zig and zag— he's so elegant So intelligent “What shall we do now? What shall we do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and take the field “With my head down, so. What shall we do on this drive? “What shall we ever do?” I'll ice my foot tonight. And if it sprains, a closed set of lips And we shall know a game meant less, Chasing hopeless odds and waiting for a run upon the score. When Brian got the starting gig, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to him myself, SMARTEN UP, GUYS, CRUNCH TIME Now Mike is coming back, make yourself a bit sharp. He’ll want to know what you done with that playbook he gave you To get yourself ready. He did, I was there. You think them all through, Bri, and get some good looks, He said, I swear, I can’t believe he's our guy. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor ol' Mike, He’s dangling by a thread here, he needs a good run. And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, he said. You're goddamn right, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, he said, and give me a straight look. SMARTEN UP GUYS, CRUNCH TIME If you don’t like it you can just quit right now, I said. Others can run the plays if you can’t. But if ol' Mike drops you, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so drat weak. (And him only twenty-eight.) I can’t help it, he said, pulling a long face, It’s them drills I tried, for my footwork, he said. (He gets sacked so often, and nearly dies on the run.) The trainer said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if ol' Mike won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you play football for if you don’t want new drills? SMARTEN UP GUYS, CRUNCH TIME Well, that Sunday Mike was glum, they had a mess of it, And they asked me to play some downs, to get the feel of the big leagues — SMARTEN UP GUYS, CRUNCH TIME SMARTEN UP GUYS, CRUNCH TIME Let's go, John. Let's go, Josh. Let's go, Ben. Let's go. Come on. Let's go. Let's go. Let's go, offense, let's go, you bastards, let's go, let's go. III. The Liar's Sermon The cowboy sits, soft spoken: the last fingers of grief Clutch and sink into his still mind. The wind Sweeps the stadium, unheard. The fans are departed. Old shames, wait softly, till I end my song. The cowboy bears no thoughts of winning, neither of joy, Clever play-actions, shining trophies, Candice's hands, Or other testimony of the bright lights. The fans are departed. And their lords, the loitering hosts of city journalists; Are waiting, this needs no guesses. By the waters of Clear Fork I sat down and wept . . . Old shames, wait softly till I end my song, Old shames, wait softly, for I sit not proud or strong. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the Jones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A thought crept softly through my trepidation Dragging its rugged belly through the dank While I was wishing in the dim office On an autumn evening round behind the MetLife Musing upon a ring; my brother’s wreck And whose ring? My father, gone before him. An offense, naked for their helpless play And zones spread in a broad and sturdy grid, Rattled by this thought’s touch only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Myself to my betrothed in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Ryan And on her trotter She washes her feet in still water. En robe d'or il adore, gloire et symbole! Stomp stomp stomp D-FENSE D-FENSE D-FENSE So rudely forc’d. Adieu. Unreal practice Under the cold gaze of an autumn moon A defensive lineman, San Francisco boy Grinning eyes, with a brain wound up like a toy come from the South: and warrants rumored, Asked me with mischievous twang To party at the new club down the block Followed by a weekend bumming 'round the bay. At the violet hour, when the eyes and hands Rest long upon the desk, when the human engine waits A gut-shot hound, knowing waiting, I, Commissioner, though blind, throbbing with mental hives, Old man with starched and tailored suits, can see At the violet hour, the calcified power that strives Downward, and aims the buck wayward with glee, The owner, out at lunchtime, finds his poison, takes His seat, and orders food like sins. Out in the cold street, destitute, near dead A now-forgotten all-pro touched by the sun’s last rays, On the heat grate are piled (at night his bed) Newspapers, bottles, but no trace of those days. I Commissioner, old man with Persian rugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. She, the young girl spectacular, arrives, A former Milan magnate’s pride, with one bold stare, One of the high on whom the heavens shine As a silk dress on the runway, in the glare. The time is now imminent, as she guesses, The meal begun, the owner is drunk and eager, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved (and aged, and meager). Flushed and without shame, he forgets at once; Paparazzi encounter no defence; His vanity soon proves him a dunce, And makes a welcome of exuberance. (And I Commissioner live beneath it all A fitting weight for my spoiled shoulders; I who have sat with legends of the Ball And sat mute while my charge slowly smoulders.) Bestows one final oblivious kiss, And shuffles away, finding the men's room hence. . . She turns and looks a moment at her phone, Hardly aware of her departed lover; She dusts her cheek with powder, white as bone: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Sighs softly at the table now, alas, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And wears a smile and waits for this to pass. “Remember I have done thee worthy service” And inside the box, next to old money and new. O league, league, I can sometimes hear Among the bigwigs grouped in their seats, all new, The distant clack of camera shutter And a clatter and cursing from the gutter Where the fans pool and mass: where the walls Of Soldier Field doth hold Inexplicable throngs of Bears fans, young and old. The taps pour out Beer and sweat The jerseys drift With the churning crowd Nameplates Proud To the stands, there toward narrow chairs. The people wash Drifting hogs Gripping nacho trays And mustard-soaked Dogs. We will we will rock you We will we will rock you-u Mr. York and Harbaugh Closing doors The move was formed A disgraced lord Scarlet, gold Words, untoward Up from the shores Idiot wind Carried back east The sound of yells Clasped clipboard We will we will rock you We will we will rock you-u “Docks and ocean breeze. Ashbury bore me. Glen and Bayview Undid me. By Anza I raised my voice A brand for the cowards who let such talk stew.” “My feet were at Parkside, and my heart Under my feet. After the news broke I turned. I would set out. A new start. I made for Ann Arbor. Whither thou, old yoke?” “On Pinckney Sands. I can connect New schemes with old dreams. The polished diagrams from West Coast lands. My people humble people who expect a team.” you-u From Stanford, whence I came Yearning yearning yearning yearning O York Thou curseth me out O York Thou curseth yearning IV. Dura Mater Finley the old Longhorn, a season gone Forgot the roar of crowds, and the rings he kept And the triumph, and the loss. A memory, through the fog Pricked his mind with needles. As he woke and slept He lost the details of his years gone bye Crossing o'er that final grey. First-stringer or third O you who wear the pads and fight for playoffs Consider Finley, whose eyes once shone bright, and “win” his word. V. What the Lombardi Said After the spotlights burned on sweaty faces After the tightrope battles at the goal line After the agony in hidden places The cheering and the sighing Pregame and practice and grim sensation Of bottles of pills over distant decades He who was playing is now gone We who were playing are now going With a little patience Here is no succor but only talk Talk and no succor and the gritty turf The turf mooring the mind between the meetings Which are meetings of talk without succor If there were succor we should stop and think Amongst such talk one cannot stop or blink Tensions high, and feet are in the turf If there were only succor amongst the talk Old profit wheel of venomous spokes that cannot slow Here one can neither voice concerns nor know There is not even frankness in the meetings But cold, austere echoes without truth There is not even candor in the meetings But wolves in sheepskin placate and smile From behind glossed podiums If there were succor And no talk If there were talk And also succor And succor A truth Glasnost among the talk If there were the touch of succor only Not the PR reps And hollow smiling But touch of succor, through the talk Where the veteran smiles in his knowing “I know I know that it's hard” But there is no succor. Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead, far from these doors There is always another one walking beside you Moving cloaked in a slate three-piece, watching I do not know whether owner or player —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of decreased participation Where are those peewee hordes swarming Over endless fields, learning on baked turf Watched by the yellow uprights only? What is the story, deep in the meetings Cracks and reforms and bursts in the noonday sun Thin excuses Charlotte Nashville Landover Glendale Minneapolis Unreal A trainer tapped the pills out on his palm And promised no one's judgment on such things The league, with hidden fangs in the violet light Screeched, and raked its claws And crawled head downward, took a hastened fall And waiting for them there were doctors Stumping reminiscent charts that gave us pause And papers, falling down on stony ears and bored reporters. In this dark building, behind the meetings In the fluorescent, the man is waiting Across from dusty chairs, about the office There is the empty office, only the shadow's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Mute phones can harm no one. Only a clock stood on the table Tick tick tock tick tick tick tock tock In a tap of lighting. Then a hope For the brain The season ended, and the sweet balm Touched not the brain, while the young men Gathered for the draft, new eyes shining bright. The league looked out, and fell to silence. Then spoke the Lombardi YOU Players: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a leap to a high pass Which the rage of a panel can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our statistics Or in dollar signs eyed by the avaricious spiders Or inside our lockers, gathering dust with our gear In our empty rooms YOU Referees: I have heard the call Blown the play dead and changed the story We think of the call, each with his vision Thinking of the call, each confirms a vision Only at daybreak, only-just born rumours Revive for a lifetime a broken almost-history. YOU Ticket Holders: The fans responded Slowly, to the need to keep their conscience clear The seas were rough, your heart should have responded Truly, when challenged, beating obedient To controlling hands I stood to face the store Thinking, with the soured league before me Shall I at last set my thoughts in order? Mary had a little lamb little lamb little lamb ché la diritta via era smarrita. affinché cessi il mio silenzio—O silent, silent La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé This dissonance I must grapple with ere long "Under feigned jest, are things concealed that else would breed unrest." Players, Referees, Ticket Holders. Silent silent silent ---- Pancakes by Mail fucked around with this message at 15:06 on Jan 12, 2015 |
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Jan 12, 2015 02:20
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wow
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Jan 12, 2015 02:30
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wrong thread
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Jan 12, 2015 02:33
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Thank you. It took about four months on and off. I wanted to keep the rhyming scheme intact at all times, and rhyme with the original words where possible. Direct quotes from works (like "The Spanish Tragedy" and Dante's Inferno) were replaced with other quotes from the same work that better matched the theme I was shooting for. I really really wanted to find the original Greek text from the Iliad for the opening quote, but couldn't find a source that made me sure I was getting the right lines - so I just went with the English translation. As far as I remember, the Iliad is the only work quoted which isn't quoted in the original. I would remind people not overly familiar with the original that the narrator often changes without warning, in case it seems a little disjointed or inconsistent with regards to teammates and details like that. Hope y'all enjoyed it. Pancakes by Mail fucked around with this message at 03:07 on Jan 12, 2015 |
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Jan 12, 2015 02:52
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I thought I did too much when I made a season recap parody of Ode to Freud and then translated said parody to the original language one or two threads ago  That's awesome and impressive, Pancakes
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Jan 12, 2015 03:19
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Pancakes by Mail posted:I. The Covering of the Spread I can't even laugh because I'm too in awe, good lord Also suck it Peyton 
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Jan 12, 2015 03:31
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Pancakes does it again, holy poo poo
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Jan 12, 2015 03:57
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