Not-So-Historic Moments in NFL Penis
With the world rushing to bask in the glow of the the true powers of the internet, congregating at the mother of all sports blogs to check out cell-phone quality pics of Brett Favre’s pecker, our focus was thrown back to days of yore and a realization that plagues all of mankind.
The realization… many events in history are often set in motion by the motivations of a man’s cock. The focus… the events of such nature that have unfolded in full public view thanks to the spotlight of the NFL.
Let’s review some of those not-so-memorable moments and the professional football genitals they call home.
It wasn’t so long ago the Worldwide Leader sent a young Suzy Kolber out to the field of play to corral Broadway Joe, and it didn’t take Joe so long to let Suzy know he yearned for her loins. A few barley sandwiches and the NFL’s version of Mad Men came to life right before our eyes… and the history since has been nothing short of monumental.
Joe went on the Oprah Baton March of Apology, Suzy moved on to an illustrious career as one of the most respected female field reporters around (she took the high road with Joe, probably because, like most of us, she TOTALLY would have fucked Joe Namath if the cameras weren’t there… and she was rewarded for it with an outstanding career filled with no semblance of football knowledge, savvy, or analytical talents of any kind… she’s been the best at asking obvious questions while running and introducing real football commentators to the floor), and a bunch of drug addicts found new lives as sports writers for Uproxx . Not too shabby.
In the offseason of 2000 Green Bay Packers tight end Mark Chmura enjoyed the summer rest by inviting his 17-year-old babysitter into the hot tub to do some bird watching … actually, it was Chmura’s buddy that took a shot at her in the hot tub. Not too many folks remember it was Chmura that started the trend of hot NFL bathroom hookups by shooting for sloppy seconds in the shitter. Classy stuff, but that’s Wisconsin. They have hot tubs, they have bathrooms… everything else is somewhere in between.
Both of these guys were acquitted. I prefer to remember the original story because Chmura is a total asshole.
Big Ben came through a few years later and took the Chmura Toilet Ride to a whole new level… that’s still fresh in memory, right? We don’t need to review. Most of us won’t shit in the bar bathroom, Ben takes his dates there … understood. Moving on.
While Chmura was paying for babysitting, Stacey Mack wasn’t dickin’ around. The former running back for the Jacksonville Jags had no interest in child care, hot tubs or any activities distracting from the pole waxing he so richly deserved.
Back in 2001, Mack wasn’t going to let his lack of cash, his love of ‘hood rats, and the presence of undercover police deter his search for romance. He hit the Phillips Highway (presumably named for Lawrence Phillips, the benchmark for accomplishment in the fields of domestic violence and criminal behavior) with $15 bucks and boner that wouldn’t quit, he asked a narc to slob on bob, and he won himself a nice pair of stainless steel bracelets.
Like we warned, Mack wasn’t known for quitting… he went on to build that resume, arrested in 2003 for a scuffle with NBA lunatic Drew Gooden after the innovative beard grower started problems in Mack’s nightclub with Darrell Armstrong (the source of our quote above, put forth by Mack to reporters when the fuzz came to haul him off). Later that year he was included in a police investigation along with several of his NFL mates delving into the cocaine and weed lifestyles of a local “businessman.”
Had Mack on a couple of fantasy teams back in the day (he was Option B when Fred Taylor started building his illustrious reputation as a perpetual resident of Jacksonville’s injury report)… I would have gladly chipped in on the blowjob and nose candy if it meant better numbers. Asshole.
Tony Washington was an NFL offensive line prospect leaving Abilene Christian College. Teams found out he had consensual sex with his biological sister in 2003. He’s not an NFL offensive line prospect in 2010 .
That’s pretty much it… but I wonder why no one went back to Abilene “Christian” College to ask, “So, yeah… ummmm, I’m not a devout Christian, don’t do church all that often, have never read the bible for any length of time… but I’m pretty sure that’s in there somewhere, right? I mean, I know you can’t covet thy neighbor’s wife… so your sister, that’s kind of assumed, yes?”
I’m not a rich man… not by any definition or means (well, I am rich in love, which won’t buy me a cup of coffee at 7-11 but I sleep better at night, so whatever that’s worth). With that said, I love gambling. I yearn and strive to make more money and to gain stature simply so I can easily justify gambling.
Gambling is cool.
However, I am not a man without perspective. If I were a rich man working in the intense spotlight of public criticism, say, as a professional athlete, I doubt I would find the allure of a $1000 wager too tempting. Granted, it depends… “I’ll give you $1000 to drink the contents of this urine bucket” doesn’t register if you make that kind of money, but if you work part-time at Burger King with five kids at home, you might give it some thought.
If I’m making $56 million over six years, you aren’t gettin’ me to do too damn much for $1000… unless I simply WANT to do it. So for Darnell Dockett, the thought of broadcasting my ink-infested naked body all over the world via UStream, taking a few select opportunities to do my Buffalo Bill dance (and to shove my package, the only part of my body not hit by jailhouse tat) for the peeps… that’s exciting. Add a $1000 wager to it and I have an excuse to be the true perv I’ve always wanted to be.
So that’s what he does, and to make sure the NFL is watching to dock my pay, I announce it via Twitter.
(He would have done it for a Big Mac. No one had to motivate Darnell via the $1000 wager. Dockett would have done this for free. He wanted to shove his dick in your face, and far too many of you wanted to let him. Not that I’m judging, I’m just saying…)
I must admit I haven’t seen the images, the video, or the package… I’m all good on that, got one of my own and that fills my needs. Besides, Dockett is one ugly sum bitch… If I am going to dedicate time in my life to watching a naked dude, I’ll go with one of the professionals working on the set with Asa Akira and get my money’s worth.
This just feels like some asshole turned on the cell phone at the gay bath house and shared what should have been a private experience with the world.
I’m not impressed, Chris… and I hope you cover the $2.50/hour its gonna cost to get Juan the Drywall King to fix that. You can’t just wander on to some random construction site and start breakin’ shit, ok Fred Durst? Clean it up, and while you’re at it, take your bloated GNC-lovin’ ass out to Home Depot and carry the drywall back… save the boys a few dollars on the truck. Its the least you can do.
And for the love of god, keep yo’ dick to yourself.
Cooley and his brother Tanner, the man in charge of Cooley’s personal blog, were a bit busy on game day, but still wanted to make sure they put out good content. Cooley tried to send the stuff to his brohem for edits but my man was busy driving, so Cooley, being so resourceful (as you’ve already noted), posts it himself.
Tanner goes to check it out after Dan Steinberg of the Washington Post (who tells the entire tale with great detail) starts asking some weird questions, he finds Chris is sharing his god-given gifts with the world, and thus we have another illustrious moment of nudity from the National Football League…and another reason for fans to rejoice in finding they aren’t as inadequate as they thought.
Most of these guys did nothing to help improve the image of the league… but there is one exception.
The Vikings were making noise late in 2008 (at least they were TRYING to make noise) when the cameras followed the team into the locker room following a big win over division rival Detroit… and as owner Zygi Wilf pulled the “I’m the owner, look at me… yes, I’ll sign your checks but let me grand stand for the cameras” moment in the locker room (he has yet to return Brad Childress’ balls by the way) the cameras from FOX were lucky enough to catch a full view of manhood from tight end Visanthe Shianco.
To be fair, this is a pretty big moment for cock in the NFL… more of a public service announcement than an incident of shame or misfortune. Put it to a vote and ask NFL players… take your pick. Brett Favre or Visanthe Shiancoe: which cock best represents YOU?
I’m going with the Shank… that’s my story, I’m sticking to it.
Onterrio Smith was a up-and-coming running back with the Minnesota Vikings (we keep circling back to the great white north… that was the ultimate lesson of Fargo: there ain’t shit to do out there but sex and murder) when he was stopped in an airport with several vials of powdered, synthetic urine and what appeared to be a fake dick .
Fake dick = Whizzinator, an ingenious contraption designed to help pot smokers pass piss tests. In the NFL, you piss test all the time, and you also smoke weed all the time. Weed is cool. Fake cocks with synthetic urine are not. Onterrio suffered suspension and never got back on track, on or off the field ( he’s still raisin’ hell ).
And think… you could have bought that very same fake dong for your memorabilia collection . Sorry I missed out. Never have enough fake urine or African American-tinted dongs in the house.
I don’t know no Bucho, holmes… but I do know Ron Mexico.
Before earning fame as the world’s most accomplished killer of dogs, Mike Vick was first tabbed as a killer of the ladies… and in 2003 his run through the housewives of Atlanta landed him in a sexual lawsuit claiming Vick was spreading herpes throughout the dirty south (the dirtier south), using the alias Ron Mexico to mask his true identity.
Sly mother fucker, man… he’s a walking petri dish, he’s hiding an abhorrent life of violent crime as a leader of an underground dog-fighting syndicate, and he’s convinced the mentally-challenged whores of the ATL that he’s not only hispanic, but he’s the first Mexican ever with braids and no tattoos written in Spanish (not the first Mexican with a rape stand).
That may be impressive, but I’m not giving thanks… now men all over the world have to work THAT much harder to come up with fake names. You can’t just use whatever country you’re in any more.
Speaking of the Dirty Birds…
Most of the boys get in trouble during the offseason. They get bored, Xbox can fill only so many hours, maybe the side gig of choice proves to be one of poor choice or the habits we all enjoy but never discuss come into the public light when pushed by offensively-huge paychecks and fame… whatever. This stuff tends to come when these boys have down time, and it takes an innovative force to set new standards, to think out of the box, and to change stereotypes.
Enter Eugene Robinson, the patron saint of Super Bowl temptation and the pains they cause.
You have to go back a ways for this one, but in 1999 the Falcons were set to battle John Elway and the Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XXXIII (I believe that translates to 186, but don’t quote me). Hosted by Miami (one of the elite SB venues of choice), Robinson was fresh from accepting honors as the NFL’s recipient of the Bart Starr Award, presented to “the player who exemplifies leadership at home, on the field and in the community.”
Bart Starr never used the night before the Super Bowl to solicit sex from an undercover cop (well, I assume he didn’t)… but Eugene did, raising the bar for idiotic behavior at the brightest stage the game knows and ruining a long-standing tradition of Super Bowl prostitute smorgasbords. This event served was to hookers as Christmas is to Macy’s… its pussy on parade and Eugene’s mishap put it on the front page of every paper in the world .
It took the biggest recession since the Great Depression to top Robinson’s damage . We don’t appreciate it Eugene, but we respect the balls it took to take the mischief game from the offseason to the most illustrious event on the sports calendar. Kudos.
When it comes to creating headlines and putting the NFL in a negative light, Santonio Holmes be puttin’ in work, yo.
Santonio has five on it.
Santonio doesn’t like flying and he hates your stupid-ass rules (and I thought the Soul Plane looked like a good time).
Santonio hates crowds, but the cops seem to hate him more (this one… bullshit if you ask me).
Most recently, Santonio was on the payroll in college .
Know what Santonio likes? His own dick and social media . We should give due credit to Jeff Reed… not only was he Holmes’ roster mate in Pittsburgh, he was also the inspiration for Santonio’s leap into shower modeling. As the story goes, the shower pic of Holmes was taken by a female admirer and then shared on a site known as xesalley.com … think “The Vagina Monologues” meets “Barber Shop”, and enter at your own risk.
That’s what she said.
If you want to identify the premium poster boys for the glory days of the cocaine-fueled era of NFL, you’d find Taylor listed as El Presidente and the Playmaker listed as his vice. In terms of pure performance and the ability to turn cocaine into a performance-enhancing drug (steroids have nothing on coke… it’s not even close), LT was the king of kings. He defined the generation.
Irvin… he carried it to a new level. Let’s say this. I’m 100% certain both of these guys were doing coke like body shots, and their cocks are amongst the most decorated in the history of the league… but you cannot deny one fact.
Irvin’s girls went on to do Penthouse and the strip-club circuit. LT’s girls went on to do time.
Maybe the Playmaker is the play for the throne of this list. Both are found upstairs in the Hall of Fame.
That pretty much says it all.
The box says “#1 BRAND” in the upper corner… that and the visual of Jimmy Johnson going long. Really drives the sale home.
Thirty hard-ons in a box.
Yeah, no shit. You want jeans that help you feel free. Think we figured that one out, Brett . Thanks.
“When Lil’ Favre comes out for picture time, he’s bursting out of some Wranglers.” We could circle back around and make the hillbilly “at least he didn’t fuck his sister” joke here but Favre’s entire family has cancer, or has had cancer, or is recovering from cancer, or is anticipating a fight with cancer… and you can’t make fun of a cancer-ridden family. Maybe of they’re on the Jersey Shore, but not in Mississippi, or Green Bay, or New York, or Minneapolis.
So there ya’ go. There are plenty more, but there is only so much cock that we can write about without feeling funny.