Fitted Sweats‘ Jeff Johnson presumably has better things to do with his Sunday afternoons than attend a Bills/Jets tilt (which to be fair, turned out to be a pretty good game, despite Buffalo’s season going down the toilet).  Had he stayed indoors with the family, however, he’d not have witnessed the most memorable East Rutherford throwdown since John Calipari called the Star-Ledger’s Dan Garcia a “Mexican idiot”.

Yesterday at the Meadowlands in Mezzanine Section 212, a little Joe Pesci lookalike (minus about 25 years) who was cheering for the Buffalo Bills started turning around and yapping at a guy (who seemed pleasant enough) in a Jerricho Cotchery Jets jersey. The men were both seated in different rows in front of me.

I don’t know what precipitated this event (the Cotchery guy could have been a monumental ass, but I didn’t see it), but by some point in the middle of the second half, Little Joe Pesci turned around and challenged the guy to a fight. The guy merely laughed it off, which made Little Joe Pesci angrier.

He called the guy a “Faggot” about four times. Then he paused. Turned around. And then turned back towards the Cotchery jerseyed guy and said: “I’m going to get you pregnant. I don’t know how it is going to happen, but you are going to be the first pregnant guy ever.”

It was at this point that Little Joe Pesci captured my undivided attention, and I became almost unhealthily invested in making sure Little Joe Pesci experienced some type of pain, either mentally, emotionally or physically. How completely retarded do you have to be to come up with that as an insult?

Telling a guy you are mad at that you are going to get him pregnant–the ultimate act of love, some might argue–is telling him that you are pretty certain that a very intimate moment with him (in this case, um, a fighting moment?) would make you orgasm. And the ultimate impossibility of impregnating a man (thru his ass???) only tells the guy that you are really willing to give it your all sexually for a very, very long time, against all odds. It is at this point that it ceases to be an insult and more a sketchy, unrequited love thing, commonly found in letters written by nine year-old boys to Alyssa Milano circa 1987.

“We’re going to go out to the parking lot. I am going to remove my britches and get and maintain an erection in front of at least 55 drunken sweatpants wearing oafs in the waning light of this 31 degree Sunday afternoon, and then I am going to somehow dominate you physically, and put my penis inside of you. And, sure, my knees might get scuffed up on this gravel. And you might not stop punching me in the face and throat, but you are going to become pregnant….And that will teach you to root for the New York Jets so enthusiastically.”

That is a scenario that can only come from someone from Buffalo’s mind.