Hamburgers, handjobs and the BCS

Welcome back to barguments, a series of short posts designed to help you sound like a genius while discussing sports around the water cooler or win an argument at a bar, a bar argument, or bargument, if you will.

Don't get me wrong. You don't need the help. The mere fact that you're reading the JBorhood suggests you possess a mighty intellect and staggering good looks, however, I'm going to kick it up a notch (the intellect, not the looks; not that you need any help, you sexy beast). That way, you can devote more of your free time to your true pleasures, like go-cart racing, monkey jousting, and iambic pentameter poetry writing.

Today's bargument is about hand jobs, hamburgers, and swift kicks in the nuts.

A hamburger is better than a swift kick in the nuts. Not exactly groundbreaking news.

A hand job is better than a hamburger in almost all cases. However, if made correctly, a burger can approach, though not exceed, a poorly executed digital pleasuring.

By the transitive property, a hand job is better than a swift kick in the nuts, not that it was up for debate.

The relative merits of the items in question shouldn't raise too many eyebrows, however, they're important for establishing our baseline.

Hand Job > Hamburger > Swift Kick in the Nuts

You'd think this was straight forward, but that's because you're a devastatingly beautiful, astute reader of the JBorhood and not a BCS apologist.

One of the most common arguments levied in favor of the BCS is, "It's better than the old system!" Yes, that's true. Any system that matches the two (arguably) best teams in the country is better than one that does not. Nearly everyone agrees that Oregon and Auburn are the best two teams in the country, in some order, and are excited to watch them play for the National Title on January 10th. But then, nearly everyone agrees that a hamburger is better than a swift kick in the nuts.

That doesn't make a hamburger better than a hand job.

A playoff system (4 team; 8 team; 128 team; whatever) is better than the current BCS system. There is no single convincing argument supporting a bizarre, black-box ranking system that concludes that the #10 team in the Country is better than the #11 team because Appalachian State beat Western Illinois unconvincingly -- No, really -- over a playoff, the method employed by every single other sport on the planet. None. So people need to stop trumpeting the mind-numbingly trite fact that a BCS system is better than the original Bowl system as evidence against the need for a playoff.

Yes, the BCS is better than the nothing, but that doesn't make it better than a playoff (or a hand job, for that matter).

So, the next time a smug, ironic college football hipster tries to pass off the superiority of the BCS over the Bowl system as a pseudo-intellectual argument against a playoff, ask them how they feel about hamburgers and hand jobs. Better yet, just give them a swift kick in the nuts.

What safe sex can teach us about the NFL

I'm going to start a new running feature on the JBorhood called Barguments. It will consist of a series of short posts, each highlighting a snippet of information designed to help you sound like a genius while discussing sports around the water cooler or win an argument at a bar, a bar argument, or bargument, if you will.

Don't get me wrong. You don't need the help. The mere fact that you're reading the JBorhood suggests you possess a mighty intellect and staggering good looks, however, I'm going to kick it up a notch (the intellect, not the looks; not that you need any help, you sexy beast). That way, you can devote more of your free time to your true pleasures, like go-cart racing, monkey jousting, and dispensing spirit tasting information while drinking vodka in the shower.

You can thank me later.

Today's topic: Does running the football more increase a team's likelyhood of winning?

The short answer? No.

The mere act of handing the ball to the running back again and again does nothing to help a team's chance of winning. In fact, the frequency of almost any event, except for scoring and turning over the ball, has virtually no effect on the probability of winning or losing. The effectiveness of each action, not the action itself, is the determinant of success in football.

The New England Patriots are streamrolling the entire NFL with an offense that views running the football the way I view getting a colonoscopy. Meanwhile, the Kansas City Chiefs are improbably leading the AFC West with an offense that passes the ball for the sole purpose of giving their running backs a breather. These offenses succeed through superior execution, not a devotion to a specific type of play.

This should be clear. But it's not.

Week after week, football commentators regurgitate the same misguided idea that struggling teams need to run the football more because, on average, winning teams average more rushing attempts than losing teams. And that's a legitimate truth. This year's top four teams in rushing attempts -- Kansas City, New York Jets, Jacksonville, and Atlanta -- are a combined 37-15. The bottom four -- Denver, Seattle, Washington and Arizona -- are a combined 18-34. And it's the same story every year. Winning teams rush the football more than losing teams. So it's understandable why people jump to the conclusion that teams should rush the ball more often if they want to win.

But this brings us to the idea of correlation vs. causation. Correlation is a relationship between two variables. When one changes, we see a corresponding change in the other. Causation goes a step further. It says that one of the variables is responsible for the change in the other.

For example, when I was in college, a strong correlation existed between my prophylactic use and the frequency with which I got laid. Clearly, my Trojan application was a direct result of getting lucky. When I got laid, I used protection. When I didn't, I wasn't strutting around my dorm room ready for action (as far as you know, anyway). But, if I'd been friends with an NFL announcer in college, they would have no doubt suggested that I start each day by putting on a Durex Pleasuremax (for the record, I had to Google that) before my boxers, since every day I used a condom I ended up with a lady in bed.

Now, think of NFL Teams winning as getting laid and running the football as the application of a prophylactic. Teams don't win the game because they wear protection, err... run the football. They run the football because they win games.

When a team is winning, it wants to take care of the football and run out the clock. The safest way to do that is to run the football. Running reduces the chance of turnovers and keeps the clock moving on every play. The more a team is ahead, the more they'll run. It's that simple.

Granted, there are certainly situations where teams need to run the ball more. Mike Martz tried to turn this year's Chicago Bears into the 1999 St. Louis Rams before realizing they had the offensive line of the 1999 St. Louis Crusaders (In fairness to the Crusaders, they had a better O-line). When he eventually called more running plays, it gave the offense more balance, slowed down the pass rush of the defense and gave Jay Cutler (some) time to throw the football.

But that's the exception, not the rule.

The next time someone tells you that their favorite team needs to run the ball more to win, tell them about correlation, tell them about causation, and tell them about how using more condoms won't help them get laid. On second though, maybe you should just stick to the statistics.