Roger Goodell is one busy dude these days.  He’s running a billion dollar league, has a new crop of rookies to rule with an iron fist until the grovel before him begging for forgiveness take under his wing, and millions of his own to Scrooge-McDuck-Backstroke through in his vault.

So how does a guy like Roger Goodell keep himself organized on a crazy day like the NFL draft?  By meticulously planning out every free moment of his day with a calendar of course.  We were able to obtain a screenshot of what this calendar looks like, only a day ahead of the 2015 NFL Draft.  Take a look.

(*Author’s note: as usual, I apologize for the crappy formatting.  Just click the image and it will expand for you.)




On November 30th, 2014 a coach named Bo Pelini disappeared for the second time that year.  The first time was on November 22nd in Madison, Wisconsin — and well get to more on that later — but this was his second time going missing.  And this time it was for good.

Skerial, a new Podcast from NCB, investigates the mysterious circumstances and the conspiracy theories that abound surrounding the former Nebraska Football lightning rod.  Episode one sets the scene.


In a video that began circulating the internet on April 22, 2015 I truly believe that YouTube jumped the shark.  I know this is a bold statement to make, but it’s one that I feel I can back up with hard video evidence.  Here, submitted for your viewing pleasure, is a girl peeing herself while being interviewed about a guy being shot.  Take your time and enjoy.  Analysis will follow.

I’m usually pretty skeptical about this kind of thing.  Many times I’m the first cynic to shout out: “That shit is staged!” But, I have to admit, this video clip certainly seems pretty legit.  So let’s break down the different phases of this interview.

Phase 1) Before you even starte the video, note the girls’ stance.  It’s classic about-to-open-the-urine-floodgates posture.  I thought people doing the news were supposed to be astute observers of the human condition.

Phase 2) The girl first mentions she needs to pee.  She’s not subtle.  She just tags that part on in mid-interview.

Phase 3) The reporter assumes the dude that got shot had to go pee.  “Oh, that’s what he said?” She says, not understanding that her cross-legged homegirl here appears to have been crushing 64-ounce slushies over at the gas station all day.  Classic mistake.  The reporter has clearly seen Forrest Gump too many times.

Phase 4) “I got to pee. I’m peeing myself.” At this point, the reporter doesn’t back down or even attempt to shut things down.  She’s really going for that local Emmy, damnit, and some girl who is now visibly grabbing herself in an effort to HOLD IN HER BODILY FUNCTIONS isn’t going to stop her.

Phase 5)  She now whispers the words “I got to pee” to someone off camera.  This stage is when you know shit just got real.  Think about it.  Whenever someone whispers something in a movie, that means it’s more important.

If you whisper something to me when I’m reporting it, it’s getting my attention.  Because it’s either a confession, a declaration of some heinous crime you’re planning to commit, or it’s because you’re about to urinate down your leg in HD.  The reporter is unphased by this silently mouthed revelation.

Phase 6) “I just peed myself.”

Phase 7) The reporter attempts to show a little human compassion and touch our pants-wetting friend on the shoulder with faux-concern.  The girl wobbles as she loses control.  Yup.  She’s just peed herself on live TV.

Phase 8) The girl’s pants begin to show the end result of her lack of bladder control.  And, of course, she’s wearing khakis.  Because, if you were going to manage to pee yourself in front of a large TV audience the last pair of pants you’d want to wear would be tight, pee-showing khakis.

Phase 9)  Give the girl credit, here.  She’s still trying to finish the damn interview.  That’s heart.  That’s character.  She wants to help out the people of Greenville, Mississippi so they know what’s going on.  The fact that she’s now being forced to hide her pee-stains isn’t going to deter her from doing her civic duty.

Phase 10) This face:


Phase 11) Only now, after the reporter realizes she’s crossed the threshold of human decency and created an R. Kelly snuff film, does she attempt to end the interview.  My favorite part: the guys who uploaded this video to YouTube absolutely lose it here.

Phase 12) Someone get this girl an Emmy.  And some clean pants.


Chip Kelly has been making waves this NFL offseason.  The Eagles have pretty much established at this point that they’re going to do whatever the F- they want.  And, in this case, it appears highly likely that Chip Kelly wants Tim Tebow on his roster.  Nope.  You’re not high.  Or, actually, you might be.  But that’s still a report that’s been circulating.

We live in a digital age and No Coast Bias has some of the finest hackers this side of Edward Snowden.  We’ve used those hackers to snatch up some of the text messages Eagles Coach Chip Kelly received last night once news of the impending Tebow to the Eagles signing broke.  Here they are for your enjoyment.

Even some NFL Draft Prospects Wanted to Capitalize on the Tebow Name for their Own Personal Gain


Upon Hearing that Chip was Handing Out Second Chances, Even Convicts Got in on the Action

It seems like everyone was reaching out to Kelly for 2nd chances


The Man Who Most Experts Predict Will Be Philly’s Week-One Starter Wanted to Check in with His Head Coach

The current most-likely starter weighed in with his thoughts on the signing


Even the Man of the Hour (long Sportscenter special that will inevitably air this morning) Wanted to Thank Chip Personally

The man himself contacted Chip to discuss their future.


One of Chip’s Two USC QB’s shot off a quick message to the coach.

Some of Chip's backups were a little worried about Tebow's acquisition.


Everyone’s Favorite Accidental Racist Accidentally Text His Coach During the Melee

Riley Cooper checked in with his coach.

Riley Cooper checked in with his coach.

And Even Chip’s Personal Friend Dave Chappelle Took Time out from Pre-Gaming for 4/20 to Fire Off a Cautionary Message

Even famed comedian, Dave Chappelle, wanted to weigh in on the Tebow pick-up.


It was October in Nebraska.  The leaves were beginning to catch fire, leaf kindling leaping to autumnal flame, and the air only just starting to whisper quietly about the winter yet to come.  The kind of fall evening where the setting sun turns the light to gold leaf that could make King Midas jealous and plates the air in a quiet brilliance.

Out came the cooler, the chairs, and the holy grail of youthful campouts: the s’mores supplies.  My family and my best friend and I were at Pioneer’s park.  Night was just beginning its warmup laps around our prairie sky, darkness kissing the edges of the vast expanse above us, and we had come to stay until darkness.  With a crackling, we fired up the portable radio, battered black edges sliding along the equally requisite and equally dented aluminum picnic table near the fire ring.

Scanning through country tracks from pre-Chris Gaines Garth and past the sounds of a pop music blasting pre-crazy Britney, we landed on the right station.  The motherload.  The Husker broadcast.  We maxed out the tinny, small speakers so we could throw our own Nerf football while listening to the sounds of the game.  I don’t remember the other broadcasters voices, not now and not clearly anyway, but I do remember Adrian Fiala.  His voice’s unmistakable timbre, auditory pointillism dotting out each important moment, expanding though the night air like the smoke from our Journal Star clippings as they sparked our wood to a blaze.

We were young and it was Saturday.  Life itself was not to be pondered.  Not while there was a game blasting, a fire going, and football in the air.  Not while Adrian Fiala was talking.

Image courtesy of:

On Monday afternoon the radio clicked off.

The voice, that iconic deep-chested rumble, came to a stop.

On Monday afternoon, Adrian Fiala passed away.

I didn’t know Adrian Fiala personally.  He probably has no idea that he impacted my life in a small way; that his gilded baritone voice lacquered many a Husker Saturday for me, enhancing the product beneath but not ever trying to change it completely.  He probably doesn’t know that, when the Huskers played a severely overmatched opponent and the pay-per-view games were too pricey for my parents, I would crank my parents’ cable dial way up to the pay-per-view channel in an attempt to watch the scrambled lines of distorted gamedays even though we hadn’t paid for it and I would listen to him explain the shifting patterns as I desperately tried to make out whether that was actually Scott Frost running with the ball or not.

I didn’t know Adrian Fiala.  But he did know me.

He knew me because he knew Nebraska.  He knew me because he knew the players and he knew the tradition.  But above all, he knew the fans.  He knew that the blood in our veins had a particular hue to it that can only truly be described if you’re seated in Memorial Stadium on a crisp fall day in the capital city of Nebraska.  And he knew how to describe exactly that.  To crystallize a moment in a game and blend it with his football-mind and tumble out words like a timpani drum roll.  Regal and majestic.

When silence was called for, Adrian Fiala let it reign.  His silence over the air waves of my youth were just a momentous as his voice.  When Fiala let a moment simmer, you didn’t taste the stew until he was ready to ladle it back out again.  And that was how it went.  In a time of blurry pictures and pay-per-view games that were out of my parents’ price point: Adrian Fiala’s voice was high-definition.  It was slow-motion replay.  It was all the things that make nostalgia and sports blend together into a fine wine that ages gracefully and with dignity.

I’m no longer young.  And life is now, certainly, open to be pondered.  But one thing is for certain: come Saturdays in the fall, Adrian Fiala’s voice won’t be gone.  It will be remembered in the breathless recanting of a die-hard sports fan as he passionately remembers Fiala’s voice launching him into his traditional Saturday sprint into the front yard to celebrate a Husker touchdown, rocket-fuel for the youthful fan.  It will sound in the hearts and minds of those who loved him and knew him and were touched by his love in FM, AM, and in real life encounters.

On Monday afternoon, the radio clicked off.

On Monday afternoon, that iconic voice – braille to a generation of fans that could not see the action on the field – came to a stop.

But make no mistake: that voice, the voice, will continue to echo for quite some time.

(Feature image courtesy of:


Well, college basketball fans, the season is nearly over. After brackets busting, perfection stumbling, and a hell of a lot of promotional tie-ins and corporate sponsorships: it all comes down to one final game.  The Wisconsin Badgers and the Duke Blue Devils face off tonight in a game for all the spherically-melted glass balls used popularly in the early 1900’s.  Or as kids today call them: trash that might make me slip on my way to my iPhone charging station.

So, since it’s Monday and we have another soul-crushing work week facing us and the unsavory prospect of a very non-madness-like April looming there’s really only one thing to do this evening: drink.  And since you’re going to be tossing back a few brews or daintily sipping on a Chianti after sniffing the cork, why not do it while enjoying the official 2015 NCAA Championship Drinking Game?!?!

Take One Drink:

  • Anytime a girl from Barbados stands in front of an American Flag and sings about how cool America is.

(*Author’s note: Rihanna’s American Oxygen, which might be the most redundant, repetitive song I’ve ever seen/heard/been forcefed by a major network.  There are 260 words in the entire song.  26% of them are either “America/American”, “Breath/Breathe” or “Oxygen”.  TWENTY SIX PER-F-ING-CENT.  

I think you have to actually try hard to be that redundant. The only part of the song that she doesn’t repeat is one line where she changes the gender from a girl to a boy and swaps “on the other side of the ocean” to “Tryna get the wheels in motion”.  That’s it.  Since I’m starting to repeat myself now, I’ll stop.  Holy hell, though, who did Rihanna have help her write this song? Jimmy Two Times from Goodfellas?)

  • Anytime they show us a panoramic view of Indianapolis from on high
  • Anytime you find yourself wanting to touch the glorious mini-fros being sported by half of Duke’s roster
  • ***Remember MEEEEEEEE for Centuriiiiiieeeeees! HIGHLIGHT PACKAGE ALERT!***
  • The refs call a bogus touch foul that grinds the game down to a brutal, debilitating halt.
  • Justise Winslow scores a basket and you realize that his name sounds like the title of a graphic novel about a crime-fighting skateboarder with a magical iPhone 7 that enables him to see into the future and solve crimes before they happen.
  • Any time people you’re watching with complain about their bracket like it caused the Ebola epidemic.
  • Any Time someone you’re watching with talks about their bracket like it was the sole reason the Ebola outbreak appears to be in decline

Take Two Drinks:

  • If CBS hits Coach K with a closeup and his pinched face appears ready to collapse in on itself like a dying star about to turn into a black hole.
  • When they show Frank Kaminsky getting a player of the year award but all you can think of is THIS:

  • When CBS inevitably puts Coach K’s statistics alongside Bo Ryan’s.
  • When The refs inexplicably botch a call and Bo Ryan looks angrier than if he had just heard The Whos fire up their band of Flu Floopers, Tar Tinkers, Who Hoovers, Gar Ginkers, Trum Tupers, Slu Slumkers, Blum Bloopers, Who Wompers, Zu Zitter Carzay, Who Carnio Flunx on Christmas Morning.
  • When “In the Annapolis” is muttered by the flummoxed and geographically challenged Chuck Barkley in an ad that is somehow still kind of funny.

Take Three Drinks:

  • When Justise Winslow scores a basket and you realize that his name sounds like the title of a graphic novel about a crime-fighting skateboarder with a magical iPhone 7 that enables him to see into the future and solve crimes before they happen.
  • If one of the teams inbounds the ball, you take a drink, pop into the kitchen to refill your plate with some chips and dip, check Twitter, have an in-depth discussion about the renewal of the Patriot Act and the social ramifications that come from a comedy show bringing more attention to this than the standard network news shows and THEN the shot clock sounds.  (*Author’s note: yes, I’m saying they need to reduce the shot clock in college.  A lot.)
  • Frank Kaminsky makes a play that a dude named “Frank Kaminsky” shouldn’t make.
  • Frank Kaminsky makes a play that a dude who looks like Frank Kaminsky shouldn’t make.
  • Anytime you hear the word “stenographer”

  • Jhalil Okafor palms the ball and it appears he may have the reincarnated hands of Andre the Giant.
  • Anytime they show a player’s Mom and she looks ready to nervous-puke.  And then they show her again.  And again.  And again. And again. . .


CHUG IT. . .CHUG IT. . .

  • If the game becomes so overwhelming to you that you need to slowly, softly, collapse onto the floor.

Coach K Collapses

  • Coach K’s 1,000th Career Victory is mentioned.
  • Anytime CBS hits Bo Ryan with a close-up and you realize that, in spite of being a 4-time Big 10 Coach of the Year and posting a .765 win percentage, Bo Ryan is still less famous than his Twin brother: The Grinch.

  • The announcers describe Sam Dekker using any of the invariably cliché sportscaster terms for “White Dude”
    (*Author’s note: “he’s a gamer!” and/or “Scrappy” )
  • If Wisconsin wins and this happens:


As I was doing my super-stereotypical Twitter scrolling this morning, I came across a Tweet that piqued my interest.  In fact, it grabbed my interest and pulled it into a nostalgic black hole so gravitationally intense that I was pretty sure I might need the homey Bill Nye to emerge and explain this wormhole rip in my psychic space-time continuum so I could get back to work.


That’s right.  Not only do we live in the gilded age of 21-35 year old nostalgic cash-grabs (*Author’s note: see: live action, “grittier” reboots of all our childhood movies and ’90s music making a suddenly ’80s like resurgence.) but we live in a time when Surge is willing to pull back the curtain and show us all where the magic happens.

This is an amazing moment.  Let’s drink it in.  Along with 42 grams of sugar and yellow 5, yellow 6, and whatever the hell carob bean gum is.

But this immediately got me to wondering: what exactly would it look like if you were to get one of these ethereal green tickets?  Where do they even make Surge at these days?


Google Maps was confused by my query.  I’m guessing that this random technology company in Australia is not what I was looking for.  And, in fact, I found myself comforted by the fact that I didn’t know where Surge was made.  (*Author’s note: yeah, smartasses, I know it’s made by Coca Cola.  Suck it, the internet.)

Appetite for dumb questions satiated, I proceeded to continue further down my rabbit hole of self-proclaimed deep thought.  What would a tour of the Surge factory be like?  Let’s work this out. . .

Instead of Willy Wonka, The Factory Is Probably Run By a Coke-bendering Charlie Sheen


Because Surge isn’t about rainbows and lollipops.  It’s hardcore, son.  It’s insane.  It’s a neon green sulfuric acid-wash for your mouth that gets little kids more jacked up than a Mountain Dew and Red Bull beer bong moments before they head to Chuck E. Cheese for a 10th birthday party.  So who do we know that can harness that kind of power?  Turn something that could destroy so many people, wield it, and emerge unscathed?  Chuck Sheen, that’s who.  You think those white eyebrows on his slave-labor Oompa Loompa’s is paint or genetic mutation?  Nope.  That’s straight up rails of blow that got caught in their eyebrows while they’re were banging down rails with Sheen.

At Least One Section of the Factory Will Devoted to Serge Ibaka’s Free Throw Form Being Snottily Critiqued by Serge from Beverly Hills Cop


Because: puns.  Also, who wouldn’t want to see more of Serge– the snooty art critic from one of the best ’80s movie franchises — haughtily sniffing each time Serge Ibaka — one of the most fascinating players in one of the weirder 2010s franchises — chucked up a free throw that wasn’t auteur enough for his liking?  This part of the tour would be phenomenal.  And you know Ibaka’s people have been contemplating the promotional tie-in appeal, spelling be damned.

A Behind the Scenes Look at the Secret Ingredients That Make Surge So Damn Delicious


We know what the FDA says is in Surge.  But that’s all bull.  There’s no way that something as highly addictive and mind-bendingly toxic as Surge really just had a few simple chemicals mixed together.  This tour would hopefully shed some light into what really goes into surge.  My best guesses?  Lean, Blue from Breaking Bad, and Crunk Juice poured directly from the cup of Surge brewmaster, Lil Jon.  Drink up, kids.  You need something to keep you up all night.  That Nintendo 64 isn’t going to play itself until 4 AM at your friends slumber party.

The Tour Would Culminate in a Sensory Overload Chamber


You may be thinking to yourself: Surge is the ultimate in ’90s.  It’s the peak of 1990’s stuff.  And that may be so, but why not let the dude in JNCO’s and Airwalk shoes show you around the ’90s lounge where you can watch Power Rangers: The Movie, play NFL Blitz, call yourself from a real-live landline, and send/receive pages about your buddies getting a new AOL Free Trial floppy disk in the mail!

If this isn’t what a tour of the Surge factory looks like, then I’m not sure I even wanna go.