I didn’t learn much from the extensive wire-tapping — he’s basically been alternating between masturbating and working on a New York Times Op-Ed all day — but he did take and extremely long, strange shower this afternoon.

Is this creepy? Yeah. Voyeuristic? Definitely. But, as we all know, Will’s the one that made us sports voyeurs. Appropriately enough on this Halloween, we are his Frankenstein monster.

[For a full explanation -- and a few pictures that are even more hilarious, go here. Sorry, Will. But you had to know I'd do this.]

You’re stuck in your office right now, and chances are the only person who dressed up for Halloween is that one fat broad in accounting. She probably also brought in candy, ostensibly for the office, but really so she can gorge herself.

A quick note on Halloween candy. The following candy is acceptable at Halloween: Reese’s, M&M’s, Snickers, Kit Kat and Twix. Give out anything else and you deserve to have your house egged and shit on. Three Musketeers and Milky Way are just subpar versions of Snickers. Hershey’s Miniatures suck because you have to dig for Krackels and Special Darks. Mounds, Almond Joy and Nestle Crunch are all right. But really, those first five candy bars are what everyone really wants. So get you ass to CVS a week early next year if you don’t have these. Don’t fuck around.

Anyway, time to play a little game. Since Deadspin has been infected with “the gay” today, it’s now our job to give you a little commenting fun. It’s the KSK NFL Halloween Costume Bukkake! Just think of a good costume for the NFL personality of your choice and list it below. Some suggestions:

Mike Nolan: The Fuhrer

Shawne Merriman: Sammy Sosa

Troy Polamalu: Rae Dawn Chong

Donovan McNabb: Stan Marsh

Nick Harper: Steve Irwin

Will Leitch: poorly dressed Ferris Bueller

Alex Balk: Jeff Garcia

Daunte Culpepper: An actual football player

Peyton Manning: Eric “Stumpy Joe” Childs

Terrell Owens: A heterosexual

Drew Rosenhaus: Fagin

Suzy Kolber: A man

Grady Jackson: Gilbert Brown

Gregg Easterbrook: Mel Gibson

Bill Simmons: Bish

Leonard Little: Ted Kennedy

You get the idea. Best ideas will be included in the update. Enjoy!

Before I start the Gamebook, I wanted to note that I watched some of “Football Night in America” on Sunday night. This was the first time I saw it. Usually, I’m eating dinner when it’s on. I’m not missing anything. Here’s a quote from Jerome Bettis I heard:

No one’s talking about the Colts. When Peyton Manning is on the field, he gives that team a chance to win. Look out for the Colts.

Hey thanks for the heads up, Bus. Those Colts are real up-and-comers. And who’s this Manning guy? He’s pretty good!

Retard.

-It’s Halloween today. I had one good Halloween costume in my life, and that was when I went as Popeye and Mrs. Drew went as Olive Oyl. I wrote SPINACH on a coffee can, stuffed a corncob pipe with weed, and got fucking destroyed. Awesome. As a father, I’m now exempt from ever having to dress up for Halloween again.

As a husband, I also now have to nod in sympathetic disapproval to my wife any time a girl gets all slutted up for the occasion. Which pains me. I never got laid on Halloween when I was single, and that annoys me. One time at college I was talking to a girl who went as Wilma Flintstone for Halloween. She cut up the end of a pillowcase and wore it. That’s it. A fucking pillowcase. And she was hot. And she laughed at one of my jokes. And I did nothing. Guhhhhhh. My life is littered with tales of screwing up readily available poon tang. If you’re a guy in college reading this, do me a favor. If a girl you know is all slutted up tonight and clearly likes you, just grab her and fuck her. Tell her it’s for the Drewman. Don’t screw it up and spend the rest of your life masturbating through hot tears of regret like I do.

-Onto the game. Some of last night’s costumes at the Metrodome included: a purple Darth Vader (purple really takes the menace out), a purple gorilla (Grape Ape! Grrrrrrrape Ape!), and a guy wearing what looked like a Mad Ball on his head. Remember Mad Balls? Fucking crazy, man.

-I find it ironic that ?uestlove, who had a hand in making this music video (one of the greatest ever), now plays backup for Hank Williams before a football game.

-Concerning last night’s end result: Guhhhhhhhhhhhh. The comforting thing about the Denny Green/Mike Tice era is that, when the Vikings lost, you could always blame it on the fact that the team just didn’t give a shit that day. There were times under Green when the Vikings look genuinely surprised that they had to go play a football game. But the Vikings last night had no such excuses. They went out, played hard, and were summarily exposed as a fucking JV team by the Patriots, who pretty much undid all the good things the Vikings had built on the first six games of the year. Fuck you in the pants, Boston. I went to bed at the end of the third quarter.

-One thing I’ll never understand. The Pats won the toss and took the ball to start the game. And yeah, I know they scored, but why the fuck does every team do this? You should always defer if you win. There’s no downside to receiving the kickoff to start the second half. If you’re winning, you can help put the game away. If you’re losing, you can climb out of your hole. Why don’t teams ever defer?

-Beer and candy corn do not mix.

-Ad Roundup: What makes IBM special is their willingness to spend hundreds of millions of dollars on an ad campaign that doesn’t sell anything. I went on the Fathead website. You know how much a Fathead costs? $99. Are you shitting me? A hundred bucks to stick a big helmet on your wall? Fucking draw one. The Playstation 3 baby is creepy and weird. The Project MyWorld girls are whores. And The Santa Clause 3 opens Friday, which is unnecessary on at least six different levels.

-Tony Kornheiser and Joe Theismann engaged in a discussion as to why Tom Brady isn’t more well-known. Let’s see. The man has appeared in ads for Visa and the Gap, was named Sportsman of the Year, and has nailed various movie stars. Real low profile that guy keeps. I didn’t even know who he was until last night! He and that Manning guy are sneaking up on people!

-Tony also marveled over the list of players who have left the Patriots over the years. You know which other team also lost a lot of players over the years? All of them. It’s called free agency and the salary cap. All hope for Tony K has now been lost.

-Chris Berman: “Hopefully, you enjoyed the first half.” The Vikes were losing 17-0 at this point, and Brady had already thrown for 257 yards. Hey Chris: Go fuck yourself.

-I also enjoy ESPN’s habit of cropping the halftime highlights so that the logos from other networks can’t be seen. I love seeing 60% of a touchdown run. It’s awesome. You fucks.

-The ESPN Halftime Halloween Derby was beyond inexplicable. Fans booed the Irvin and Theismann heads, which was nice. But the black players heads looked disturbingly like giant Sambo dolls. Did no one at ESPN think that giant smiley black man caricatures might be a bad idea? I also object to the Berman head having hair on top. Total bullshit.

-After beer and candy corn, I opened a bottle of Blanton’s whisky. This is fancy whisky someone gave me for my birthday. Fancy booze is completely wasted on me. I don’t savor it. I don’t bury my nose in its oakey scent. I just ingest as fast as humanly possible. But it did have a metal horse sculpture on top of the cork, and that was cool. I played horsey with it while the Vikes got their asses kicked.

-Warren Moon kissed Michele Tafoya at the end of their interview. They’re only acquaintances. If she and Moon were closer, he would have punched her in the face.

-The Patron Saint of our site wore a camel hair straightjacket with small pockets on each titty. Nothing beats titty pockets.

-All in all, this wasn’t a very fun game to watch for the general audience. The Patriots completely outplayed and outcoached the Vikings from the start, and had an answer for everything the Vikings tried to do. Combine that with the Vikings refusal to run the ball, Brad Johnson’s inability to throw a ball longer than 8 yards, and Brady taking advantage of the Pats’ outstanding pass protection, and you have yourself a blowout. They even threw in some horrid refereeing (which Theismann, to his credit, pointed out numerous times) to make it even more annoying. Whatever.

Happy Halloween, kids.

UPDATE: Several astute people (i.e., people who actually take the time to read the rules for stupid people such as myself) have informed me that, in the NFL, you are not allowed to defer on the coin toss. Remind me to never try and make an actual football argument again.

So if you’ve been paying any attention to Deadspin lately (and unless you found the URL for this site carved into a bus stop bench, we suspect you have), you might have heard about some team winning the World Series. We’d tell you who it was, but we haven’t paid much attention to that.

So Will Leitch made a bet on his team and, in lieu of his conquest, found himself with the day off today. Unfortunately, he fucked us all in the process by depriving us of a whole day of Leitchity goodness. What the hell are we supposed to do all day? Work? Fuck that, we’re taking a stand.

We are stepping away from our regular AWESOME coverage of the NFL to get our Leitch fix, and to get you yours. Join us as we chronicle Will’s rare weekday away from the laptop. It should be a lot like Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, only without that sweet bike.

And O the questions! Will Will leave his domecile today? Will he buy a new jacket? Get a haircut? Spend some time in the gym? WE WILL KEEP YOU POSTED. We’ll be updating all day with the latest, so when you get sick of that Gawker fucker, whoever he is (is it whoever or whomever?), come hang with us. At least it’s all about Will someplace today. Come get some.

[Update: Apparently, Will fooled us all and is stubbornly refusing to enjoy his day off. Motherfucker.]

[Second Update: Looks like Will is off after all; the Gawker fellow has started his day, and my goodness if he's not a little bit bitchy.]

Apparently, the signs aren’t the only thing in St. Louis that need work…

[UPDATE: Thanks to bigboned for putting the link up in the comments section on Deadspin. If this doesn't help with your Will Leitch fix for Tuesday, here is another clip of Will on some kind of rant, rocking the emo bangs. Awesome.]

One thing I think I should quickly clear up for people considering running a marathon is its origin. Sure, we all know it’s about some low-level Greek functionary who runs 20 some odd miles to tell some more important Greek that their army has defeated another army or some shit. But here’s what they don’t tell you:

The traditional story relates that Pheidippides, an Athenian herald, was sent to Sparta to request help when the Persians landed at Marathon. He ran the 34.5 km (21.4 miles) from the battlefield by the town of Marathon to Athens to announce the Greek victory over Persia and died on the spot.

That’s right, the motherfucker gets there and immediately drops dead. Didn’t see that in the race packet when I signed up. Didn’t see that anywhere in Runner’s World. Don’t see that in the myriad Nike or New Balance commercials.

So, as I mentioned last week, I ran in the Marine Corps Marathon yesterday, during which two people had a heart attack and one of them died, so maybe they should put that advisory in there after all.

And yeah, I boasted that I’d do in under three hours, but that plan was scrapped somewhere around mile 16 when my legs went and, well, died. So I finished with a solid 3:49:35. For a first marathon, not bad.

Let’s review my collapse:

Mile 5 - 33:26

Hey, look at Mr. Hot Shit with the 6:35 mile pace.

Mile 10 - 1:08:28

Okay, you’re still at a 6:50 mile. Hang in there.

Halfway mark - 1:31:32

Slipping a little. A little over a 7-minute mile. But if you duplicate this in the second half then you’re right at three hours. So far, so good.

Mile 15 - 1:47:16

Alright, I’m reading the tea leaves here and I’m not liking what I’m seeing. Creeping a little further over a 7-minute pace. You’re just a little tired. It’s still good, it’s still good.

Mile 20 - 2:38:04

Aaaaand, you’re Rumphed.

I have to say that I made a new enemy yesterday: runners who write their names on themselves before races. Fuck you and your energy gel utility belts, you attention whores. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it on its face, it’s probably great motivation for the person (let’s call this person Jeff) to hear people chanting their name throughout the hours of running. But what if you’re the person running alongside Jeff for 8 miles? You hear nothing but encouraging words for Jeff and big fat squaddo for yourself, because I’m sure it’s easier for someone watching the race to cheer a name rather than to yell, “go number 1247!” or “go guy in the red shorts and grey top!” But it wears on you in that exhausted state, to the point that eventually you want to kick Jeff in the back of his knee or step on his heel and rip his ACL. Seriously, fuck Jeff.

Ah, but there’s more to this post than me gushing about my marathon performance. There’s Steelers sulking to be done and, luckily for our readers, this is most likely the last Christmas Ape Steelers homer post of the year, because Pittsburgh’s season is officially over.

After the race yesterday, my better judgment was telling me to fall into a sweaty heap in bed and wake up sometime Thursday, but my Steelers fandom demanded that I head to the bar, what with the game not being televised. And, as usual when the two square off, fandom wins hands down. Even though they were playing the Raiders and there was no urgency for me to watch the game.

I limped my way to my car and arrived at the bar just after kickoff. The regulars had a pretty uniform reaction. “Hey, that’s great. Congrats. And you’re still here? Wow. You’re a true fan…and a fucking idiot. Seriously, dude, go lay down. Jackass.”

Rather than further draw out an already long post with further description, allow me to summarize the few conclusions I can draw through the wall of rage: Ben won’t throw to a receiver unless there are at least three opposing players around his target. Ben will never throw the ball away. Before every sack, Ben will hold the ball for three Bledsoes (a Bledsoe being defined as a unit of time equal to five seconds in the pocket). A backup quarterback with a 136.8 QB rating under no circumstances should ever warm up when the starter, coming off a concussion, has thrown four picks, two of which having been returned for touchdowns. Charlie Batch has probably slept with Cowher’s wife and at least one of his daughters. Our defenders get flagged for coughing after the play. Russ Grimm, and hopefully not Ken Whisenhunt, will be coaching this team next year. (Living in D.C., it would be fun watching the ‘Skins fans get all in a lather about one of the Hogs coaching the Steelers.) And our special teams needs lots and lots of help. Lots.

The cuts to the near catatonic looks on Al Davis’ ghoulish visage peering from the owner’s box as the Raiders neared victory were almost as unsettling as the outcome itself. He looks like my legs feel.

I watched yesterday’s games with a handful of Bengals fans (including my friend Chris Knight of This Charming Fan), which means that there was a lot of shared empathy going around at 4 p.m. Thankfully, by seven o’clock, Roethlisberger had thrown four picks on the way to a Steelers loss against the Raiders, which buoyed our spirits nicely.

If I had to pick a silver lining to the cloud of shittiness that is Comcast’s Sunday Ticket-less stranglehold on NYC, I’d say that it’s watching the games in bars. Spending my Sundays sharing my grief or joy in a social environment — as opposed to the cocoon of misery when I watch the Seahawks by myself — is about the only worthwhile aspect to this shitty, shitty monopoly comprised of shitty shit shittiness.

Yesterday’s venue was The Turkey’s Nest, a humble but relatively clean dive across the street from McCarran Park, which straddles the hipster Mecca of Williamsburg and the quiet, Polish neighborhood of Greenpoint. One o’clock was a little bit early after last night’s Halloween festivities––but we managed to get to the Nest having missed only half of the first quarter. Even though I was hung over and starving, I took advantage of the drink special: 32-ounce Coors Light (official beer of the NFL!), served in a styrofoam cup.

The crowd:

- The Turkey’s Nest softball team. This was a bunch of guys who were all about five-eight, 210 pounds. They carried a lot of gristle on their frames, spoke at least 30 decibels louder than necessary, and addressed each other as “ya fahckin’ BASTID.” I kind of liked them.

- Hipster Eagles fans. Understand one thing: caring about anything, especially something as masculine as sports, is terrible for hipster cred, but I give these guys props. They were wearing not jerseys, but threadbare vintage Eagles T-shirts that were a solid 15-20 years old. When you can stay true to both your team AND your urban fashion sensibilities, I salute you.

- Assorted drunks/barflies. There were some old guys nursing glasses of whiskey at the bar. If they had seats at the bar, that means they arrived before 1 p.m. in order to drink hard liquor, straight up. Yikes. I may be a drunk, but those guys have a problem.

- One (1) Hasidic Jew. I’d joke that he was cheering for Sage Rosenfels, but c’mon: Sage Rosenfels doesn’t cheer for Sage Rosenfels.

- Hipster Chiefs fans. These anorexic, unshaven excuses for men showed up halfway through the third quarter in their 28-inch-waist skinny jeans and would do this aspirate “Chiefs!” cheer that sounded like a sneeze. They were even too cowardly to taunt me after the Seahawks lost. Bitches.

- Three (3) women: a Bengals fan whose boyfriend looked like Fred Savage with a white trash-’stache, a hipster Eagles fan (old-school Eagles sweatshirt) with a femme-mullet, and a blonde Bears fan with hypnotic sandbags. She made me want to go bubbadibubbadibubbaduh.

In conclusion, I will give $5000 to the first person to go back in time and murder John Mellencamp before he can record that Chevy song. Also, Larry Johnson is a son of a bitch.

So the Raiders have, um, won two straight.

You think I’m fucking with you? I am not fucking with you.

Ben Roethlisberger has revealed that after he suffered a concussion in Atlanta Sunday, he was taunted by the Falcons as he lay on the field. When pressed for names and details, Roethlisberger demurred. Nonetheless, the crack staff at KSK Labs has been feverishly reviewing audio of the game and come up with their best guesses at what exactly the Falcons said to Big Ben.

“You just got knocked da fuck out, man!”

“That’s for ruining Christmas Ape’s fantasy football team!”

“Wha’ happened???”

“Fuck Chunky! Dinty Moore, bitch!”

“Dorothy Mantooth is a saint!!!”

“Yeah bitch, now you need ANOTHER appendix transplant!”

“I whole-heartedly deride your gridiron handiwork.”

“This is what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass, Larry!”

“I’m Chauncey Davis and I approved this message!!!”

[What? You think you can do better? Give us your best guess in the comments.]

Update: Somone brought to our attention the increasing similarity between Big Ben and Donald “Ogre” Gibb (Revenge of the Nerds, Bloodsport, 1st & Ten). The two are headed toward an inevitable showdown on “Who’s More Grizzled?”