Welcome to the 12th edition of our weekly feature, Always Be Covering. The following is a sample of the games that I find particularly intriguing.

Good lord, the New York Giants of New Jersey are falling apart right before my eyes…and I couldn’t be happier. As I hater of all things NFC East that don’t incorporate the proud Injun logo nothing pleases me more than watching the collapse. The icing on the cake is the glut of douchenizzles (sic) occupying the field every Sunday.

Granted there are a lot of players that I hate (in fact hate is quite possibly my favorite word…after nosh) but combining the likes of Eli “More Archie than Peyton” Manning, Jeremy Shockey, Plaxico Burress, and Michael Strahan is just too much.

Strahan and his former teammate boyfriend Jason Sehorn,

he’s smiling because he has a finger up Strahan’s anus.

Now that the everybody has gotten to know the pugnacious bagel-chomping yenta for the crazy fucker that he is the picture is complete. With a coach who’s always struck me as a closet necrophiliac I think the Giants team is finally ready to die. Which is why this week’s primary pick is so damn easy.

The NY Giants of NJ +4 vs. The Tony Romo Experience

That’s right bitch (no not you mom…go away…Because this is my basement!…is it weird that I read aloud while typing? I think somebody snuck some PCP in this peyote) I’m taking the Giants. Why? Because we’re gambling on the NFL and I’M OUT OF FUCKING IDEAS! This shit doesn’t make any sense and sometimes you just gotta say, what the fuck…

Yeah, I spend my winnings on high class whores…jealous?

I hate to beat a dead horse, but this is fucking bullshit.

There was a healthy amount of bitching last week when the NFL broadcast its marquee Thanksgiving matchup on its own Network, instead of free network TV, and shut out millions of potential viewers in the process. Shut the fuck up, I thought. You’re already getting two free games. All you’re missing is Jake Plummer and Trent Green, the AFC’s answers to Brett Favre and Drew Bledsoe, respectively (And did you see that shit in SI where the Chiefs were voted to have some of the best unis in sports? What the fuck? I’ve seen slabs of concrete that were better designed).

Besides, I thought, I already have the NFL Network on my cable package. I won’t have that problem. Won’t happend to me. And, even better, I can watch my Bengals play the Ravens next week. I’ll actually get a Bengals game down here in East Buttfuck, SC. And all will be right with the world.

But earlier tonight, about 3 minutes before kickoff, I flipped on said Network, and this is what I found:

Actually, I wish I would have seen this, so I wouldn’t have had to wait for a scrolling ticker to tell me that I was NOT GETTING THE FUCKING GAME EVEN THOUGH I WAS WATCHING THE VERY SHIT-ASSED NETWORK ON WHICH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BROADCAST.

No Chad Johnson touchdowns. No shitty dances from God’s Linebacker. Just shitty NFL films reruns. Not my game. Not any game. Not tonight.

Sadly, the only Chad Johnson available in my area tonight was this frat fuck, and while I’m sure he celebrates every score with style and pinache, it’s just not the same. Actually, I don’t know anything about this guy; I just found this pic with an image search. I’m sure he’s a cool dude, and you would only need one had to count all the underage girls he’s date-raped.

This network situation, simply, will not stand. These cocksucks are not fucking with my allegiances. It’s bad enough that I have to go through life feeling like shit that I don’t drive a Hummer, eat every meal at Olive Garden, or use other luxurious items like Colgate Total. All I want to do is watch football, and the League and these fucking cable people are cockblocking me worse than my fucking mom. Playing with my football is like playing with my emotions.

The NFL Network insists it’s not their fault, like some fuckfaced 6-year-old standing over a broken cookie jar. You just look for an hour and then sit on the porch like a goon. You get your ass out there and you air those fucking games!

And then there’s the Subset B of aspiring child molesters: the fucking cable people. They say it’s too expensive to add the NFLN to basic service. No, really. How can any organization with a natural monopoly on a service used by 5 of out every 6 GODDAMN PEOPLE IN THE COUNTRY look at any single thing in the world and go, “Ya know, money’s kinda tight right now.” Bullshit. I call bullshit on you, sirs.

Well, fuck them too. Here’s a quote from one of those sorry, broke assholes, who probably has a parade of Lithuanians parade to his fucking bedroom to tie his shoes in the morning:

If we put all expensive sports programming on the standard tier of service, that would increase our rates to all of our customers, even those who didn’t particularly care about football or these games,

Those who didn’t particularly care about football or these games? Did I just fucking read that? What about that other group, Those That Don’t Give A Flying Fuck About Animal Planet/ABC Family/A&E/Lifetime/We/Style Network/E!/BET (sorry, thebigo)/History Channel/TV Land/FoodNetwork/HGTV or their rigamarole? I would think this group dwarfs the librarians, dog owners, and interior decorators that don’t particularly care about football. (Actually, bigo, I’m not sorry. Go turn a barstool upside-down and sit on it).

I got cable to watch football. That was it. I don’t beat it to Mariska Hargitay and I don’t need to watch Star Trek marathons. I want Boise State-Fresno State. I want Florida-Arkansas. And I want Bengals-Ravens. So that’s it. I’m cancelling cable tomorrow. Both of these fucks can keep counting their money for all I care. At least none of it will be mine.

The good folks at 360thepitch.com interviewed me today for their podcast. You can listen here. My shit starts about halfway through.

A couple things about this interview:
-Holy shit, do I like to use adverbs
-My dulcet voice will melt your heart
-I make absolutely no valuable football points
-I did this interview on a cell phone. Since I only heard about half the questions, enjoy listening to three people carry on what seems to be portions from three separate conversations. I’m so accidentally evasive, I should run for office.
-You will finally learn my last name
-I totally make racist jokes

I’ll be honest. This is not the most exciting thing ever. Unless you love me, in which case it’s like swimming in Valrhona chocolate while having an orgasm.

NOTE: You’ll notice the host call me different first names throughout, as a joke about my anonymity. I liked Dexter the best.

If you haven’t seen the clip of Michael Strahan responding to questions (and getting caught in a big-ass lie) about his comments to WFAN regarding Plaxico Burress, by all means do so now. It is transcendent comedy. Apparently, Strahan only suffers the media when they are fawning and obsequious, like when he set his bullshit sack record.

Where the hell does Strahan get off trying to tell Kelly Naqi how to ask a question? Naqi has been an ESPN reporter (a real journalist, not some sideline airhead—sorry Suzy) for 20 years, back when Strahan was an unknown kid on the Houston sandlots; his monumental gap still a mere crevice.

If Strahan has the nerve to tell a seasoned pro how to ask the questions, then I certainly have the nerve to tell him how to answer the questions. First, before proceeding with your nonsensical, meandering diatribe, please properly masticate that entire bagel you just stuffed into your enormous craw, you big fucking slob.

“Mr. Strahan, what you’ve just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

Strahan’s original criticism of Burress was well-founded. Plax clearly quit on the play and did nothing to stop Adam “Loogie” Jones from intercepting the ball. Worse still, once the pass was intercepted his attempt to tackle Jones was half-assed, at best. Plax, to his credit, has been savvy enough to play the “poor, poor pitiful me” role during the ensuing chaos.

Strahan needs to either grow a pair and stand by his statements, or apologize for them. I’m not talking some bullshit, non-existent “team meeting” apology. I mean an apology delivered in the same medium in which the original statements occurred.

But instead of doing either of these, Strahan attempts, in vain, to flip it on Naqi. Bullying, browbeating and intimidation might be an effective communication tactic within Generalissimo Coughlin’s ranks, but that shit doesn’t fly in the real world. Naqi comes off looking like an unflappable pro, while Strahan reveals himself to be the most petulant, blustering moron on a team that includes Jeremy Shockey. And that, amigos, is quite an accomplishment.

It’s not enough that Roger Goodell wants to move NFL games overseas in order to increase football’s international appeal; now he’s after an even more foreign crowd: women.

There are two competing schools of thought on women football fans. On one hand, some of KSK’s most highly esteemed commenters (hi, Brooklyn Becky!) are female fans who are knowledgeable and passionate about the sport. On the other hand… woman! I’m trying to watch the game!

Yes, I’ll come out and say it: I’m not entirely comfortable with women enjoying football. They’re competing interests I’m exceptionally passionate about, and I like to keep them separate. A woman who likes football is like your wife befriending your girlfriend. It’s just two worlds that should never collide.

I’m poorly designed for this new age of female football fandom, but in my defense, I’m shaped by my own experiences. Understand this: I never stop admiring women… except for the few hours each week I watch football. So when these two fulltimes (I can’t call them “pastimes”) collide, it confuses my simple, Neanderthilic mind.

Example 1
There’s a regular at the sports bar I frequent, a really cute girl who wears a McNabb jersey every week. She has a delightful habit of turning around on her bar stool every few minutes and flashing a friendly — yet somewhat flirtatious — smile. It is a terrific part of my Sunday.

But that fucks my entire football process up. Ah crap, why’d I dress like such a slob today? Oh right, ’cause I’m watching football. Right. Football… Man I’m hungry. Time for some wings — crap! I don’t want wing sauce on my face when McNabb looks at me! That’ll totally mess up my game!

Please, somebody, tell me I’m not alone in this regard.

Example 2
Another regular at the aforementioned bar: a female Seahawks fan who I’ve kind of struck a rapport with. She’s cute and friendly. I like her. And it is the most unnatural thing in the world to high-five her after a touchdown.

Example 3
I once briefly dated a Steelers fan. Yes, it’s true. This was before a Seahawks fan had any reason for a beef with the five-time Super Bowl champions, back in Big Ben’s 15-1 rookie season, back when saying I’m a writer was Caveman-code for I’m unemployed.

She’s quite the little starlet, with a failed NBC series and a major movie already behind her, and IMDB claims that she’s got more films lined up. This is her:

Why she had a passing interest in me is anyone’s guess, but it probably had something to do with my boiling-point sex appeal. Anyway, here’s an actual conversation we had:

Her: I feel so bad for him.
Me: Who? Roethlisberger?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Why?
Her: It’s just got to be so hard. There’s so much pressure on him every week. He has it really tough.
Me: You don’t think millions of dollars and his choice of groupies maybe makes him feel a little better?
Her: [long pause] No.
Me: …

As you can imagine, ours was a love that was not meant to be.

Perhaps that last example isn’t the best representative of today’s female fan. The new NFL woman knows her shit, and — as the argument goes — isn’t it better that potential objects of sexual desire can share in the raw, base enjoyment of the NFL?

To which I say: not particularly. It’s already hard enough finding a woman who’s hot and smart but still shallow enough to make fun of ugly people with me; I don’t need the extra degrees of difficulty that come with screening out Steelers and Rams and Cowboys fans. Could you love a woman who cheered for T.O.? Only on the outside, friends. Only on the outside.

In a combination of chauvinism and the defense of my feminine ideal, there’s a limit to how much I want a woman to know about the NFL. Is it attractive for a lady to know that Peyton Manning is the fetus-headed scarlet prince of chokery? Absolutely. But is it attractive if she brags about kicking ass in her fantasy league because she picked up Marques Colston off the waiver wire?

Let’s put it this way: I can talk to women in Manhattan about fashion because I know who Tom Ford is and I can sometimes recognize a pair of Manolo Blahniks. That shows an appreciation for a (stereotypical) woman’s interests. But at the instant I rave about how excited I am for the spring line from, I don’t know, Donna Karan or something, then I cross the line into faaaa-laaaaaaaminnnng.

But it’s a new millenium. There’s a new dickhead of a commissioner, and he’s not going anywhere for a while. The only choice is to adapt, to embrace (both literally and metaphorically) women football fans, to accept them into our sports bars and exchange high-fives with them like they also have the right to vote and serve in our military.

I guess I can do it. Anything to make experiences like this a thing of the past:

Bernie Kosar was my favorite football player when I was a kid. No joke. Lots of the great QB’s back then - Montana, Marino, Elway, Laufenberg - were brilliant athletes who made the game look easy. Kosar was the exact opposite. Kosar made every play look like a complete fucking struggle. Which made him easier to identify with for fat, slovenly children such as myself. I would sneak downstairs to watch him play on Monday night. I also snuck downstairs back then because we had just gotten Showtime and “Candy Stripe Nurses” would come on late at night. But in between spanking myself raw, I watched Kosar work similarly hard for wins.

In fact, the entire Browns teams of the late 80’s were like that. They were winning teams, but they sure weren’t very graceful. They were the kind of teams that ran the ball a million times, got a few big plays (usually on trick plays), and then desperately tried to hold on with big defensive plays. That’s what made The Drive so devastating. After struggling mightily to gain leads against the Broncos, watching that horse-faced prick Elway easily march straight down the field to snatch the game away felt unfair. The Browns worked hard for those games, and then some asswipe Homecoming King coach’s kid just swiped them away, like Henri stealing Woody Boyd’s girlfriend. Fucker.

The Browns haven’t been relevant since. At least teams like the Cardinals have the common courtesy to be entertainingly bad. The Cards suck, but they still played in the most memorable game of the year (the Bears loss). The Browns just got shut out 30-0 by the Bengals in a game so bad I would rather have looked at Britney’s exposed furburger instead. And that thing is feral.

I blame two people for this. The first, of course, is Arsenio Hall. Stupid triangle-faced fuck. The second is this pompous dipshit on the right:

Carmen Policy. Policy made his bones as the GM of the 49er teams that won all those Super Bowls. But GM wasn’t the right title. He was more like the Executive Producer, some fuck who managed to get his name on the credits without actually doing anything. Bill Walsh picked the players. Eddie DeBartolo paid them under the table (and who wouldn’t take laundered money from a shady asswipe with Simon Cowell’s haircut?). What did Carmen Policy do? I think he made some Shiraz so everyone could celebrate.

But when you’re BFF’s with Chris Berman like Policy was (allegedly, DeBartolo and Policy wanted to give Berman a 49ers championship ring, but ESPN viewed this as a conflict of interest and disallowed it, which annoyed Berman. And now you know why Chris Berman should die by Ooga Booga), you get the kiddie-glove treatment. Which is why Al Lerner thought Policy and Dwight Clark would make such a stellar tandem when he hired them in 1999. They then proceeded to give the team the Angry Pirate by drafting uninspiring player after uninspiring player. And the Browns have been horrible ever since, with injuries and bad luck compounding their efforts to recover.

Worse than that, they continually get upstaged in badness, which makes them hard to ridicule. Sure, Romeo Crennel has one mighty black FUPA. Probably has some hair on it. But Crennel doesn’t rock the pleated shorts like Bill Parcells does, so his FUPA fades in to the limelight while Parcells’ gunt flaps about for all to see. Kellen Winslow’s Gary Busey impression got upstaged by Ben Roethlisberger’s Gary Busey impression. Reuben Droughns’ DWI got upstaged by Odell Thurman’s (Chris Henry vomited on Odell’s car, Reuben. Bring Braylon next time and see if he’ll whip his dick out in front of a female police officer). Browns fans tossing bottles on the field got upstaged by Piston fans who had better aim.

No matter what the Browns do to get attention, someone else ends up taking the spotlight away from them. Elwaying them, as it were. And that’s sad, because the NFL is really a better place when the Browns are interesting. So I have a plan devised to do just that. This plan won’t make the Browns competitive. Far from it. It would likely make them even worse. But it will guarantee that people sit up and take notice, which is half the battle.

Step 1 - Trade for Drew Bledsoe. Don’t worry about Bledsoe being fucking horrible. The magic is in benching him.

Step 2 - Have a player murder someone. And not in a pussy way like Rae Carruth. Get someone willing to pull the trigger himself. That would be fucking sweet.

Step 3 - Dump Crennel. Hire Ditka. I’m pretty sure Ditka can’t read. You may go 0-16.

Step 4 - Stop affiliating yourself with Drew Carey.

Step 5 - Ditch the current doodie brown uniforms. Doodie brown plays slow.

Step 6 - Move to LA. Become the Flaky, Effete, Liberal Dipshits.

Step 7 - Copy the Detroit model. Hire an unpopular analyst to become an even more unpopular GM. But up the stakes. I’m not talking Theismann. I’m talking about the King Retard himself:

Are you an interesting team now, Browns? Yes, you are. Bernie would be proud.

You people don’t see what goes on behind the scenes here. For every post you get here at KSK, the five main writers of this site plus Monday Morning Punter exchange somewhere between thirty and forty emails (How in God’s name Drew keeps up with his 20th-century Yahoo account, I have no idea).

Yesterday I promised the Krewe of Suzy that I’d get to work on something about Mike Vanderjagt’s abrupt dismissal at the hands of Herr Parcells. I didn’t have anything in mind per se, but any time a kicker with a multi-million-dollar contract — who notoriously got served by quick-witted king of one-liners Peyton Manning — gets cut like a line of yayo at Lawrence Taylor’s locker, I figure it’s worth mentioning.

But what was I going to do? Re-attack the “idiot kicker” theme for the seven hundredth time? Examine the Curse of Scott Norwood levied upon Parcells? Create a transcript of a symposium of exiled Parcells kickers, co-chaired by Jose Cortez and Billy Whats-his-face — you know, the young guy that sucked at kicking field goals a year or two back? I forget.

Basically, I didn’t have a good angle to effectively mock Vanderjagt.

Then I saw this picture:

Anyway, sucks to be you, Mike Vanderjagt. Have fun on the Redskins. Haw-haw!

Rather than doing something to, say, shore up their porous run defense, the Colts are continuing their strategy this year of surrounding Peyton Manning, that fetus-headed scarlet prince of chokery, with players who actually rise to the occasion in big games, such as Adam Vinatieri and now Ricky Proehl, pictured below getting some afterplay delight from Dick Vermeil, will fill the role of “gritty, deceptively fast, possession” receiver left open with the injury to Brandon Stokley.

“May I sup of thine tear ducts, Dick?”

He’s one of those players like Robert Horry or Moises Alou who always seem to be in the playoffs, even if in reality he’s had to while away the majority of his career with the Buzzsaw, the Seahawks and most of the shitty Rams teams. Proehl would probably be better remembered if his new teammate Adam Vinatieri not foiled his two Super Bowl-tying TD catches (with two different teams) by twice making game-winning field goals. He better have a good reason to come back, because he would have ended his career with 666 catches, and how would have Kurt Warner have felt about contributing to that?

Colts fans are keeping their usual clearheaded perspective on the matter:

this is a really good move. now with a decent slot receiver as stokleys backup, we can start gettin back to dominating all the time.

Absolutely. Because 10-1 isn’t a dominating record. And conversely, all those years of losing in the playoffs can be directly attributed to the lack of a viable option at backup slot receiver. Or blocking. Or purple Gatorade over blue on the sidelines. Or Kenny Chesney not returning calls. But not Manning meltdowns. Heavens no.

To shed some light on these and other matters, we here at KSK welcome the receiver in the latest installment of our long-dormant feature, 10 Yards of Awkwardness.

Christmas Ape: Thanks for coming, Ricky. The last two quarterbacks you’ve played with were Jake Delhomme and Kurt Warner, and now you’ve got Peyton Manning. A real glutton for douches, aren’t ya? Delhomme pushed Bojangles, Warner pushed Jeebus and Manning hawks everything else. Do you feel you’re being crowded out of endorsement opportunities by this gaggle of dicks?

Ricky Proehl: Jake and Kurt were great quarterbacks and I’m looking forward to playing with Peyton.

CA: Do you like Kenny Chesney?

RP: He’s not really my thing.

CA: Fuck. Then I have some bad news for you. Peyton pretty much insists on it all the time. In the locker room, on the team plane, at meetings, synched into game tapes, after sex. You know all those audibles he calls at the line? They’re Chesney lyrics. You’d better familiarize yourself in a hurry.

RP: ………

CA: Say, you’re a white guy playing a predominately black position, so I figure you can answer this for me: Whatever happened to that guy, Thicke? He had that one song a few years ago, “When I Get You Alone” and everybody thought he was Justin Timberlake with a wig on. Kinda popular with the brothers, but not really.

RP: I’m not really sure I know who you’re talking about.

CA: Well, here’s what I think: he’s not a very talented musician and he’s struggled in recent years to find a second hit song. Just crazy enough to be right, huh?

RP: Sure.

CA: CBS ABC is broadcasting A Charlie Brown Christmas this evening. What trait most makes Peyton like Charlie Brown, the self-deprecating humor through adversity, the obnoxious relatives or the big fetus head?

RP: I don’t see the connection.

CA: I’m sure you don’t. Anyway, thanks for coming, Ricky. Enjoy being the scapegoat this year when the Colts don’t go all the way.

At KSK we’ve presented you with our opinions regarding Peter King and his nemesis, one James Arthur Monk. I’ve never had all that much against PK, mostly because I stopped reading his articles when I got tired of SI’s anti-Redskin agenda (sure, call me paranoid…they’ll come for you next). The one sticking point for me has always been his irrational opposition to the election of Art Monk to the Pro Football Hall of Fame. For this I’ve always held a grudge against the grandiose Oracle of Starbucks (although he’s also known by such affectionate epithets as Fucktard, His Dudeness Doucheness, and Manning Family Rectal Inspector).

And now, just like that, PK is flipping the script. All in some pathetic misguided attempt too court my forgiveness and loyalty (I know how you think Peter, I have a key to your diary). Listen PK, just because you contradicted everything you’ve ever said about my favorite wide receiver doesn’t mean that you’re getting one of my conceptually flawed, yet undeniably popular, Hanukkah Hams (he’s obviously not in it for the Christmas Card…so much profanity and so little pig fat).

It can’t be that simple, the guy has spent years bashing the candidacy of the venerable Monk. When Bill Polian told PK he was acting like a donkey raping shit eater (I’m paraphrasing from memory…does THC hinder memory?) King decided it was about time to change his mind. And get this, Dr. Z approves! (somebody’s off his meds).

Sometimes we get so involved with inner-sanctum nonsense that we lose sight of the big picture. It’s good to have an outsider knock us on our ass every now and then.

Well what the fuck do you think we’ve been trying to do all this time, improve Monk’s confidence? It’s as if all of the football guys at Sports Illustrated have just recovered from the worlds longest hit of nitrous (Tom Jackson’s Pac-Man impression makes me giggle). Now that King has looked at Monk’s true contributions he’s been deemed worthy of entrance into the Hall that PK guards with all tenacity of Cerberus on a five-day meth high.

Let’s just say that I’m not quite ready to drink the kool-aid promising a “new and enlightened” Peter King (although I’m down with the “new and lightened” PK…big ups vanilla face). The last time I fell for the “phony nice guy” routine I wound up with an Anvil tattoo above my ass crack. For all I know this could be his way of teaming up with Brian Pillman only to turn heel and join up with those Canadian bastards in the Hart Foundation (yeah I had to sink down to that level, the Sports Guy already had dibs on the Rockers and Piper/Snuka).

In my heart of hearts I am still holding out hope. I know that PK is a great football mind, despite his penchant for douchebaggery occasionally veiling his knowledge. Perhaps one day Peter and I could be friends, maybe we could even meet for one of his coffee-like beverages (although I take mine sugarless and blacker than Kueth Duany). Yet non of this can happen until Monk’s sultry bronzed visage is resting in its rightful spot in Canton. There is nothing gay about seeing the beauty in a sculpture!!!

For now we can call things even, maybe one day I could even be dating one of your lovely daughters…or not. Too soon? Yeah, it’s probably too soon.

Peter King’s Monday Morning Quarterback

Is that Berrian? I think he’s triple-covered. You know what? Fuck it. I’m throwing it downfield.

Yeah, I see Jones open on the flank. But fuck that. Dumpoff passes are for faggots. I’m fucking Sexy Rexy Grossman. I can get that ball in there. And, even if I can’t, I bet I’ll be able to pull it off the next go round. I like throwing the ball long. It makes my dick hard.

What’s that? I should throw a quick slant? Fuck that. That’s gay. Button hook? Gay. Flare out? Gay. Screen pass? Kevin Spacey gay. This is fucking football. You can’t just expect wins to come to you. You can’t massage that shit. You gotta grab that game by the throat and rape the ever-loving shit out of it. You think a 5-yard out is gonna win you a game? You’re a pussy. This ain’t John Shoop running this offense. Sexy Rexy’s got the arm. The dragon. You gotta unleash the dragon.

Okay, I’m throwing it. Nice. Look how far it went. I look good. I bet I made that Pats cheerleader wet her panties with that throw. She fucking wants me. I bet she likes it over a stair railing. I can hit that with 100% accuracy, my dear. Mmmmmm. I am delicious.

Oh shit. Looks like Samuel caught it. Again. Oh well. It still felt fucking great to throw that shit. Tell me that wasn’t one of the prettiest passes you ever saw. You know what? Not only am I gonna throw it long the next time we hit the field. I’m gonna throw it even longer. Harder. You see that kid in wheelchair sitting in the end zone bleachers? I’m gonna nail him right between the fucking eyes with a Sexy Rexy fastball. Why? Because I can.

This is Rex Grossman we’re talking about here. We’re talking 210 lbs. of twisted steel and sex appeal. I’m not just a gunslinger. I’m a cumslinger. Throwing that ball long tells all the Rexettes that I am fucking out there. On the edge. Where I gotta be. The ladies love the danger. The unpredictability. Oh, maybe I’ll tease them with a pretty touch pass every now and again. But then I’m gonna go right back to pumping that ball out for all it’s worth. It tells them I throw like I fuck. That’s how we do things in the sexy business.

Tell me you’re not turned on right now. I am.