I know there’s women out there who hate football and all it stands for, who don’t understand the allure, who don’t know who L.T. or T.O. are, who don’t know why their husbands or significant others would need to make player trades or adhere to salary caps, who don’t know why their guys watch games downstairs on the sly or vanish from parties to check scores.

But there’s got to be women out there who love the sport just as much, if not more, than some men. Right?

I can’t be the only woman at work who steals the sports section from the men so I can check my players’ statistics. And I can’t be the only woman who can tell you which team specific players used to play for, even if we’re talking about players who were done playing before I was born.

There has to be women out there who can’t miss opening kickoffs (especially if they are Vikings fans, since the Vikes are infamous for giving up touchdowns 3 seconds into the game). There has to be women who like to scream at the television: “Flea flicker! Why won’t you try the flea flicker, for god’s sake, COME ON!!!”

There has to be women who don’t understand the competitive merit of a 2-yard screen pass on third-and-long, who understand that the coach has to keep rushing the ball to establish the run, but don’t understand that when that hasn’t worked the last 15 times, why a nice long pass isn’t in order.

I know some women use football as an opportunity to rag on their significant other for ignoring them. For Jason & I, football is quality bonding time. I love sitting on the couch with him, both of us adorned with Vikings jerseys or sweatshirts, surrounded by football fare like beef sticks or fresh-from-the-crockpot-meatballs, our fantasy football lineups spread out hopefully in front of us like lottery tickets.

I love high-fiving him after a particularly good play, scaring the cats off our laps with our exuberance. And I love how my soul dies a little when a game is announced by Joe Buck, that talentless hack.

Anyway, football is awesome, is what I’m saying. And I hope more and more women out there feel the same way.

Because then maybe I wouldn’t have to always retrieve the sports section from the freaking men’s bathroom.

She ended up talking to a bewildered Steve Mariucci (the head coach), who kept asking her, “HOW did you get this number?” while she politely asked if he was the person who could sell her a jersey over the phone because she had her credit card ready and everything.

The next year, during the Thanksgiving game between the Bears and Lions, Joe decided we should pick a name and all take a drink any time the announcers said it.

He picked the name Urlacher. As in Brian Urlacher – the heart and soul of the Bears. In fact, even though Urlacher was a rookie at the time, the announcers couldn’t help but gush about him, mentioning his name exactly 32987238957783 times. And this was just during the pre-game. Luckily, none of us were drinking alcohol or I’d be writing this from the grave.

The NFL is rife with unique names. Like Rex Hadnot of the Dolphins: “I thought you had it, Rex!” “HadNOT!”

Or Trent Dilfer of the 49ers, whose name is now an insulting putdown: “Seriously man, don’t be such a Dilfer.”

Or Mark Colombo of the Cowboys: “How would I know where the quarterback is? I’m not Colombo. Oh wait…”

Or Todd Weiner of the Falcons. (This is only funny to me, probably. Because I grew up in a small town whose 17 of its 20 4-H members had last names that were either Weiner, Burger or Bacon.)

But then a few weeks ago, I saw The Name. The name to top all names. The name that made me want to immediately go out and purchase the jersey, even though the player is a member of the St. Louis Rams, who I vehemently rooted against in Super Bowl XXXIV for the sole reason that I could not stand Kurt Warner’s wife.

The name is Incognito.

Richie Incognito.

How freaking cool is THAT?

INCOGNITO.

Best name ever.

Shauna: No, that’s OK. I’m good.

Universe: One dry, moisture-resistant throat coming right up.

Shauna: No, I said I-

Universe: Hey dude, how would you like to have horrible side pain?

Jason: What? No! Actually, I had that a week ago and it sucked.

Universe: Too bad. Here you go.

Jason: Ow!

Universe: Hey, how would you like to be eliminated from your football pool because your team got beat by a last-second field goal?

Shauna: Oh, come on!

Universe: Yeah, it won’t just be a regular chip shot field goal, but a 62-yarder, just one yard short of tying the NFL record. Nice, eh?

Shauna: ARGHH!

Universe: Oh, while I’m at it, how about you guys go without heat this weekend?

Shauna: NO. No, no, no.

Jason: Yeah, we’re kinda fans of the heat. Especially when the temperature outside is 32 degrees and I, even with my abundance of body-warming testosterone, find the effects of warm air soothing.

Universe: Yeah, well, still. No heat for you. Also, they won’t be able to send someone out to look at the furnace until Sunday. When the repair rate is $40 more than Monday’s rate.

Shauna and Jason: Crap.

Universe: Enjoy your weekend!

(We did enjoy our weekend anyway, thanks to the comedic genius of Jim Colliton and Brian Regan.)

P.S. Thanks for nothing, Philadelphia Eagles! Losers.

• “2006 writing contests”
• “circular needles join tutorial” (also: “circular knitting joining HOW???” And “circular needles joining previous video UNHELPFUL!!!”)
• “Buffalo Wild Wings recipes”
• “Bad contacts permanent eye damage”
• “Minnesota Twins possibility picking good player”

***

Even though fantasy football is over for me (Jason won and I placed third), we’ve decided to bet some money, just the two of us, and pick our own teams for the playoffs. I realized that in order to get the players I wanted, I would have to take, oh you know…Mark Brunell. My arch enemy. The guy who does wonderfully right up until the second I add him to my team. Then he either injures himself on the first play of the game or else performs as though he is arthritic and blind.

Here’s what happened. The Redskins won the game, but Brunell only threw for only 43 yards. For the entire game. That is not far. At all. People, that has to be some kind of record. For poor performance while still winning.

To put this in perspective, Jason’s quarterback was Carson Palmer, who was injured on the first passing play of the game. And yet he scored more points, because that single pass of his was for 66 yards. Let me reiterate: Carson Palmer threw for over 20 yards more, ON ONE THROW, than Mark Brunell threw FOR THE ENTIRE GAME. Luckily for me, despite his lack of offensive prowess, his team somehow managed to win, so I can look forward to maybe getting some more points from him this week. You know, when he throws for a scorching 12 yards.

I think I am going to blackmail Brunell and write him a ransom note saying that in order to get his passing ability back, he will need to send me one million dollars. Yes.

***
This weekend was a culinary achievement as I made homemade french toast and also homemade buffalo wings (not for the same meal, but wouldn’t THAT be something?). So while my whole not-drinking-Coke thing is going along GREAT, the whole eating good foods is non-existent. But the portions were small. And I’ve exercised 6 days so far this year. And Coke Zero doesn’t taste like Coke, much to my bitter, bitter disappointment. So bitter. Bitter and caffeine free.

So, to recap this disjointed entry, today=slow; me=unmotivated; Mark Brunell=retarded; circular knitting needles=HUH?; french toast+buffalo wings=AWESOME.

Happy Monday. Now, get out and don’t come back until you’re Tuesday.

I love you. You rock and I know this is mean-spirited, but I hope Daunte Culpepper doesn’t finish his knee rehab in time for 2006. I hope you understand that even though I think you’re awesome, I still cannot break my rule of putting Vikings players on my fantasy team. Due to past performances, I cannot afford to get burned. I know you understand.

- From The Girl Who Owns 3 of Your Football Jerseys and a Boatload of Your Football Cards, But is Totally Not Obsessed With You

***
Dear Michael Vick of the Atlanta Falcons,

A guy who runs for more yardage than passing for it is nothing more than a glorified running back, NOT a quarterback. When your first instinct is to immediately take off running, it means you haven’t matured enough to the point to find a secondary receiver when your first option is covered. When you pass for 300+ yards in two consecutive games, maybe then I will stop bitching about you and your lack of passing ability. Also, try getting your passer rating position above #30 before you start talking trash.

Sincerely,
Someone Who is Sick of Hearing all of Your Unearned Hype, Dammit

***
Dear Mark Brunell of the Washington Redskins,

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that after having your piss-poor 65-yard throwing performance last week, that maybe, if it wasn’t too much trouble, you might be able to do better for me this week. I didn’t realize that after weeks of being a great player, you’re now going to suck. My mistake.

Signed,
The Person Who is Now in Second Place in her Fantasy Football League and Not Happy About it

***
Dear Mike Tice,

I have two words for you: flea flicker. This play is the best play in the world, and yet you steadfastly refuse to implement it. Come ON – it’s even fun to say! FLEA FLICKER. If you do not do this on Sunday, I will be forced to write you a scathing letter. With bad words. C’mon, it’s easy: Johnson to Bennett back to Johnson to Williamson. I’m telling you – it’s GOLD!

- Armchair Coach Wannabe