The greatest threat to the NFL as we know it…is Ryan Seacrest

Ryan Seacrest takes the field for NFL Kickoff 2013
(Photo: Twitter | @JimmyTraina)

The NFL kicked off its 2013 season with the usual fanfare and festival (albeit 30 minutes late, thanks to Mother Nature). But, at long last…football was back. And we were happy. For a minute.

The Denver Broncos hosted last year’s Super Bowl champions, the Baltimore Ravens. And we learned a few things. We learned that Peyton Manning is still really, really good. That Dallas Clark is not. And that people really don’t like Ryan Seacrest messing with their football.

Yes, Seacrest made an appearance during the Super Bowl in New Orleans earlier this year, but so did Beyonce. And the President. It was to be expected during the most commercialized sporting event on the planet.

But, you can imagine my shock (and that of millions of others), when prior to the start of Thursday night’s Sunday Night Football, I saw a small white dude come swagging (yes, I made it a verb) down the tunnel. As soon as I confirmed it was not Wes Welker, I moaned in agony. It could only be one other person…Justin Bieber. Or Ryan Seacrest. Sorry. That’s two people (or one and a half adult people).

I tweeted. So did many others.




My mother called. She said, “I find it a little annoying that Ryan Seacrest is on football.” My mom isn’t even on social media. And she’s a huge fan of American Idol. But even she could see that Seacrest had overstepped his bounds.

And then, it hit me. The greatest threat to the NFL as we know it is not concussions, or performance enhancing drugs, or lawsuits. It’s Ryan Seacrest.

Remember when American Idol started? Remember Ryan Seacrest’s cohost? What was his name? Exactly. And has anyone ever seen that guy again? Think about it. I’ll wait…

And then there’s Ryan Seacrest Productions, which gave birth to the Kardashians as we know them. And death to Kris Humphries and (now) Lamar Odom as we knew them.

And good God, has anyone put out a missing person report on Julianne Hough since her breakup with Seacrest?

Someone needs to stop this guy. And apparently, that someone is me.

Dear Ryan Seacrest,

You have everything. Why football? Keep the fame. Keep the fortune. Keep the Kardashians. But leave us our football, damn it. It’s all we have. It’s all we care about. And it’s the only place we don’t have to see you.



NFL Fans

America, you are welcome.


Twas the night before kickoff

(Photo: Getty Images)

(Photo: Getty Images)

Twas the night before kickoff and all through the league,

Not a player was tweeting, not even McAfee.

The jerseys were hung in the lockers with care,

And they knew the Commissioner soon would be there.


The owners were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of Super Bowls danced in their heads.

Irsay with his guitar and Kraft on his jet,

Had just settled in once the rosters were set.


When out of Manhattan there arose such a clatter,

They rushed to their iPhones to see what was the matter.

Before they could open up Facebook or Twitter,

An alert came across that made both of them bitter.


The season was starting with Manning and Welker,

In Denver instead of the Baltimore Harbor.

And banners of Flacco on Mile High Stadium?

The season was starting out of circadian.


When out of nowhere, so soothing and low,

Came the voice of the players, led by Tim Tebow.

In jerseys and pads, they numbered a dozen,

He brought them together like they were his cousin.


“Now Brady, Brees, Newton, Wilson, Kaepernick, and Weeden!

And Cutler and Rodgers and Stafford, Luck, Dalton, and Freeman!

To the league office we go, without even a rumble,

But let’s not bring Sanchez, we don’t want a buttfumble.”


They took to the streets and gathered up fans,

And sang football songs while they held hands.

“We’ve been waiting all day for Thursday night…

Now it’s almost here and we don’t want to fight.”


The light was still on, the Commissioner was working,

And somewhere in the world Miley Cyrus was twerking.

They knocked on the door and rang at the bell,

And the Commish came down and yelled, “What the hell?”


Dressed in a robe, with no shoes on his feet,

Tebow stepped forward with his brother, Pete.

He pulled out a bag and papers with care,

And asked the Commish to sit down in a chair.


He took off his shoes and kicked up his feet,

And said to Tim Tebow, “Alright, let’s meet.”

Tebow’s eyes twinkled and dimples appeared,

He smiled at the Commissioner as the players neared.


He handed him a pile of signatures granted,

On schedules and testing and things he had ranted.

The players had challenged him at every turn,

But fighting was foolish as they would soon learn.


They came to agreement on things at the table,

And the Commish pulled back where he was able.

They signed on the lines and shook hands in the end,

Without even a lawyer on which to depend.


And when it was over, he didn’t ask why,

Commish just got up and started to cry.

“Tebow, you’ve done it…it’s settled, my son,

The job of commissioner is yours when I’m done.”


The players all cheered and for good reason,

It was time to get home for the start of the season.

And Tebow exclaimed as they vanished from sight…


“Happy 2013 season to all…and to all a good night!”