Eagles Draft Aniston

erhaps the biggest surprise of the otherwise lackluster 2002 NFL draft was the Philadelphia Eagles' third-round choice of actress Jennifer Aniston, who co-stars as Rachel Green on the hit NBC sit-com Friends." Ms. Aniston had appeared on virtually none of the depth charts around the league prior to the draft, including the Eagles' own charts. That oversight was apparently not enough to stop the Philly club from taking the lovely actress with the 87th pick in the third round Saturday.

Player personnel assistant Weeb Tittle discussed the choice with reporters. "We've always liked her here, we just think she's a fabulous talent. We especially liked her roles in the movies Office Space and Rock Star, where she really held her own going up against the dynamic Mark Wahlberg."

Tittle went on to give a few clues as to the reasoning behind the controversial choice. "First of all, we looked at lots of film. Hours and hours of film. Of all the Friends, we thought she was far and away the most macho, the one that exhibited the most pure testosterone. The guys on that show must all be on estrogen treatments or something. I mean, take David Schwimmer, for instance. That guy is just a whiny wienie, a total wuss. Can you imagine asking him to blitz? He'd probably start crying. Matthew Perry, sheesh, that guy does more coke than the president. We don't need that on this team, we've had our share of cokeheads here in the past. And Matt LeBlanc... did you see that movie he made with the chimpanzee? He made that chimp look like a rocket scientist, like that guy, what's his name, Norman Einstein. No thank you."

"Lisa Kudrow, now," Tittle continued, "we gave her some thought, but we were afraid that her sister, the gal that played Ursula the waitress on Mad About You might want to be included in some kind of a package deal, and we didn't want that. And Courteney Cox-Arquette got some serious consideration, because we think she could probably kick some major ass, but do you know how difficult it would be to get 'Cox-Arquette' across the back of a jersey? Besides, no one can stand David Arquette, her husband. Have you seen that guy? He's almost as annoying as Carrot Top."

Asked what position they envisioned the rather-small-by-NFL-standards Aniston playing, Tittle mused, "Well, the offensive coordinator thinks she's a natural Tight End, and I tend to agree with him on that. But we both want to see what she can do with the pump fake, and how she handles play action. And our Quarterback, Donovan McNabb, would love to see her line up at center, but not if we're going to use the Shotgun formation. We also think she might be good at covering receivers, and we're all anxious to see her go up the middle. Of course it goes without saying that most of the guys are excited about getting a few one-on-one drills with her, and seeing her take that post-game shower, too."

"All in all," he concluded, "we think she'll be a big draw here, and will help put people in the stands. And that's what it's all about, isn't it? I mean that and winning games."

Tittle dismissed as simply a "publicity ploy" and "copycatting" the subsequent sixth-round drafting of actress Jane Leeves, who portrays Daphne Moon on NBC's long-running series Frasier, by the Seattle Seahawks."What's up with that?" Tittle wondered, his voice filled with scorn. "I mean, she's British, isn't she? Football to her means soccer. Those guys don't have a clue. I used to respect Coach Holmgren and his organization out there, but a move like that, well, that's just silly."

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Please.

Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I've heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that's clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? My elegantly formal CC? Or even one of my famous "Hands Off!" post-it notes? I think not. So let's put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.

No, of course I don't know whose crack rock it might be. Did you ask the children? All of them? You really called Montpellier at reform school? I have to admit I'm impressed by your thoroughness, my dear. What did he have to say? Lonely? Wants to come home? Hit another student with a cue ball? Really? Now that's showing some initiative. I may have misjudged the lad. Was he playing pool or billiards? Snooker? Even better! Remind me to send him a snuff box for Father's Day. I know he's not a father, Deidrebane, but anyone can enjoy a fine mahogany snuff box. Don't be so closed-minded.

Did I see the maid rifling through the couch like she'd just lost several thousands of dollars worth of illegal narcotics? My dear, name me a day when that hasn't happened! You know how Consequa is, with her rifling. That's why we chose her from among the finalists, don't you remember? Consequa was rifling like a pro long after the others had succumbed to fatigue and delirium. It's her calling card, like Carson with that golf stroke. You know, Rich Carson, when he had that stroke on the course? He milked that for years, dear, always japing like he'd burst a blood vessel in his brain whenever the moment called for levity. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Died of a stroke? Really? I bet it was hilarious.

Yes, I suppose it could have been the butler's crack rock, now that you bring up the possibility. He's always creeping around in the shadows, answering the door at all hours of the night. Never trusted that behavior. What was his name again? Lee Butler? That's convenient. Can't believe I couldn't remember that name, how long have we had him? Is that in decades? My word. Remind me to send him a snuff box for Arbor Day.

You know, dear, it could have very well been the dog's. We don't know where he goes at night. Why are you looking at me like that? I wouldn't even know where to find a five-pound rock of pure crack cocaine. Not at this hour, anyway. Let's get back to the dog thing. Have you noticed that guilty look on his face lately? And the other day he was obviously jonesing, twitching on the floor like an electrocuted sea bass. What? I don't believe for a second that all dogs do that while they're sleeping, where did you read that? Dog dreams? Have you been watching that Oprah program again?

Sincerely, Deidrebane, sometimes I wonder about you.

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As you might guess, I'm back inside the safety of my apartment. It turns out it was all some sort of misunderstanding—Lee was on tour with his new band and Camembert was with him, acting as roadie. Sure, it doesn't explain the nasty note telling me to fuck off, but it was more than enough explanation to make me happy. And now that I'm back in, I've got to get this place in better shape.

I was so happy to find a place to stay after leaving my ex-wife's house I never noticed how awful this apartment looks. Sure, it's four walls and a roof, not to mention the great floor that keeps us from falling into the crazy veteran's apartment beneath us, but it lacks panache. So the first thing I did was went out to buy a panache, but it turns out to be some kind of adjective or something instead of the burrito-making appliance I thought it was. Which leaves me wondering how they make burritos.

The walls are a bland egg-white here. Not the natural paint color, but after all the egg fights Lee and I have had, what color can you expect them to be? The yolks run down to the floor and color the carpet, the whites just stay on the walls. I'm thinking anything with a fairly light color will charm the place quite a bit, and if there's a kind of paint that makes walls softer or bouncier and resists cracking eggs it will be a plus.

I suppose the carpet is fine, light brown so it matches virtually any paint color. I believe it's light brown. It was light brown the last time I saw it—picking up some of the cans and candy bar wrappers would help. It may be light brown. Camembert told me when I moved in it was white, but that was too long ago to remember. He also complains he can't vacuum because Lee turned his vacuum into bagpipes, but that was a problem that solved itself as the bagpipes drown out the complaining.

My room is perfect, of course—the first thing I did was glue-and-glitter the walls to liven them up, and Lee's suggestion of black lights was ingenious; now all my white clothes look like neon purple. But I can't spend my redecorating talent on my room alone! I will not rest until the entire house screams "Rok Finger lives here!" The same way I do when women pass by my window.

In Rok Finger's world, of course, form follows function. My method of design follows the scheme, "If it sounds like fun, I say do it." Back when I lived with Arvelyn I had to design according to "color schemes" and "motifs." As a bachelor with no hope of trapping a woman within these walls, I design this place for fun, fun, fun! And sleeping, when necessary.

First step is to rip the carpet out—really, what purpose does it serve? I don't sleep on floors, you plebeians. I'll replace it with linoleum, like the kitchen. Now that fun we have sliding across the floor in socks can be for every room in the house! Except the bathroom, where it's too dangerous to slide around porcelain and crap cans. In there we put natural flooring—a foot of dirt and grass, which is impossible to slip on. Also, it makes it less important if you hit the toilet or not.

Something really needs to be done about these walls, too. Away with them! Walls just close people out and make the place seem smaller. No secrets here in our apartment. At least there won't be once I do away with the walls. Finally I'll be able to tell if Lee and Camembert are talking about me when I'm in the bathroom; or, as it will be known from now on, "the left side of the room."

I'm excited about the re-designing already, and as soon as I tell them, Lee and Camembert will be, too. Or if they come home later than I do, they'll be excited with the results.

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