Last week, when the Jacksonville Jaguars played the Philadelphia Eagles in London U.K., I devised a typically great "bit." My idea was to write a piece casting Philadelphians as clumsy oafs, juxtaposed with Jacksonvilleans, who would be portrayed as urbane sophisticates. The essay was to start with a dramatic scene of a Philadelphia resident in London, behaving as the proverbial bull in a China shop, demanding: 

"DUHH ... ME WANT MEAT SANDWICH!" 

As the poor Pennsylvanian proved himself a rube, the Jacksonville resident, dressed in a rakish Savile Row suit, would shrug apologetically and, with a smattering of cosmopolitan remarks, assure his London host that not all Americans are so painfully uncultured. As the Jacksonville man, pausing only to refill his pipe, won over the room with a series of digressions on the legacy of the East India Company, wandering Philadelphians would periodically interject:

"DUHH ... GIVE ME MEAT SANDWICH!" 

... requiring a tour de force of diplomacy from the Floridian to save the day. 

I've no doubt that this essay would have prompted the plaudits to which I have become accustomed, accompanied by a predictable round of churlish, barbaric moans from my many ineloquent Philadelphia acquaintances—a particularly delicious outcome in the perpetual "Battle Between the States." But I had to make some peanut butter cookies so I didn't get around to writing it. I don't get paid for this and therefore cannot be compelled to do it on anyone's artificial timetable. No one at Defector is the boss of me. Least of all Tom Ley. To his frequent wheedling emails begging me for more copy, I now have a standard response: "DELETE." 

This week, the Jacksonville Jaguars were still in London. And so a tantalizing possibility occurred to me: Could I repurpose my wonderful "bit" for this week's game against Houston Texans, leaving my audience none the wiser? After all, it is not challenging to imagine a group of Houston residents stomping rudely across Piccadilly Circus, crying out, in their grating accents: 

"DUHH ... GIVE ME MEAT BARBECUE!" 

With only minor adjustments, it would be easy for a wordsmith of my stature to shift the burden of "rube-dom" from the Philadelphians onto the Texans, ensuring that my editorial concept did not languish. Yet ultimately I chose not to take this path. While Philadelphians can be accurately portrayed as slovenly, angry provincials who would violate any number of laws in exchange for a small paper cup of beef drippings, I think of Texans more as flinty-eyed lawmen with drooping mustaches, ostentatious belt buckles, and a quasi-religious belief in their own ability to determine which minority their unforgiving god wants them to violently attack. Both are despicable. But it would be dishonest to imply that the dangerous, fundamentalist despicability of Texans is identical to the dangerous, drunken despicability of Philadelphians. I could not in good faith graft my perfectly honed disembowelment of one directly onto another without changes that would render it a completely different quip. 

And so, for now, my original bit slumbers quietly, awaiting a new opportunity for it to be deployed. To my loyal audience: I apologize for keeping you on tenterhooks, but my commitment to quality is paramount. I can only promise you that your time spent anxiously awaiting my next missive will be time well-spent, especially since you would otherwise just be wasting it playing video games and hoping silently for death's tranquilizing release. 

To the editors of this column who seek to throttle the rambunctious freedom of art with the straitjacket of the calendar: I owe you nothing. 

My dissatisfaction with this delay is leavened by my faith that it will not be long before the rabble of Philadelphia once again commit some grievous offense against public taste that will serve as the perfect excuse for me to unsheathe my verbal rapier and wield it against them. The Jacksonville Jaguars glance at their pocket watches, wink, and place their top hats on their heads as they bid farewell to their newfound London friends. Rest assured, my good fellows, that we shall return. We gotta get some of those fuckin fish and chips next time. I can't believe we forgot that shit. That's like the main thing of England.