This was the first movie we've watched where we disagreed profoundly, not about the big issues raised by the film, but about the construction of the film itself.

What a nerdfester thinking. No, it wasn't Ben and Adam fighting over what cinematographer uses the most intriguing focal length.

It was me being uncharacteristically crotchety.

The very tangible pork chopitude of this film was marred by a screenwriting flaw so fundamental

I couldn't get past it.

And the ensuing disagreement among your co-hosts as to whether that flaw spoiled the film

grew so heated, well, we almost

Colombian necktide each other over it.

And thankfully, we survived.

And we've covered the background of the drug wars before, from panicky laws about jazz cigarettes and,

admittedly, jazz heroin, through racist Nixonian divide and conquered tactics to

Reaganian military industrial complex escalation

symbolism to feta compli lukewarm potato Obama inertia to our present state of

dingling trigger happy intransigence. Meanwhile, the supply side of this backgammon game has only grown in wealth and paranoia, brutality, and power.

The outcome never changes.

Tremendous blood and treasure is wasted.

Entrenched powers retrench.

The impoverished are victims of unthinkable violence and then disproportionately punished by corrupt authorities looking

for scapegoats.

Meanwhile drugs and cash flow unabated.

But as far as this story goes, my God, Sakario plays out as the darkest of all sports movies.

The FBI and a Motley off the books intra-agency team of tight ends and wide receivers suit up and

...