Welcome to the WEEK 17 edition of Always Be Covering. Once again I’ll be taking a look at a sampling of the games that catch my interest for no reason in particular. Today we examine the last final week of the NFL’s regular season and as you can tell by the title of this post, I’m a bit emotional high. So this week each game we spotlight will be accompanied by an appropriate lyric from the greatest depressing song of all time (feel free to tell me I’m wrong about that in the comment section, I’m sure you just love Alice In Chains type shit you fucking loser).

Disclaimer
Only gamble money you can afford to lose…because you’re probably going to lose. Compared to the NFL Jim Morrison’s death makes perfect sense.

I’m posting this picture because it makes them look gay…especially Eli, who is apparently sporting a semen drenched Hitler-stache.

Father, yes son, I want to kill you

Mother…I want to…fuck you
Washington +3 vs. New York Giants
Hmmm…that Eli Manning sure is confused these days, the natural progression should lead him to a nasty Oedipal complex. We already knew of his incestuous fantasies involving Peyton (see above) but this would be the coup de grace. Granted I don’t bet on the Redskins, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. Watching them ruin the Giants season will almost make up for all the bad stuff.

Is this a young Jim Morrison or one of Bobby Bowden’s recruits?

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill
Rams -3 @ Minnesota
This lyric goes out to The Lou’s most fearsome player on and off the field, Leonard Little. Regardless of whether you are a quarterback or a a woman out driving he’s the last guy you’d want coming from the blindside. Seeing as how Morrison attended Florida State and Minnesota just benched Brad Johnson, I’d say this one’s a lock.

The west is the best
The west is the best
Get here, and we’ll do the rest
Seattle +3.5 @ Tampa Bay
All the Seahawks have to do is show up to cover this spread. They have enough veterans to know they can’t keep playing like a bunch of retarded 12 year-olds (keep your panties on Siobhan) if they are going to do anything once the playoffs start. Besides, Jon Gruden has a long history of losing out to Mike Holmgren starting way back at the buffet lines in Green Bay.

“I shit bigger than you”

The blue bus is callin’ us
The blue bus is callin’ us
Driver, where you takin’ us?

San Diego -13.5 vs. Arizona
Lorenzo Neal is the baddest motherfucker to ever play fullback. If you don’t bet on him he’ll probably take a shit on your mother’s chest just to assert his dominance. San Diego has to win this one to lock up home field advantage all the way through the playoffs. The only way they can blow this is if Marty Schottenheimer remembers that he’s a fascist fuckwad with a propensity to pussy out when it matters (i.e. two weeks from now).

That’s it for the regular season, but I’ll be back for the playoffs. Feel free to offer up your own ill-fated prognostications in the comment section.

One of KSK’s favorites got rumph’d for the holidays. Mike Rumph, who played sparingly this season, was cut by Washington yesterday. We don’t know what Rumph has been doing with all this free time but it’s definitely not updating “his” blog: MikeRumph24.com.

In the course of writitng this post, I serendipitously stumbled upon Big Daddy Drew’s Urban Dictionary entry for “rumph.” Dear Readers, it was only through your collective efforts that KSK won Best Sports Blog of 2006 (a fact we intend to work into as many posts as possible, even at the risk of Pennington-esque shoulder surgery from patting ourselves on the back). On the heels of such a triumph (tri-rumph?), we are loath to ask you for anything else this soon. Nonetheless, if you are so inclined, your “thumb’s up” vote on Urban Dictionary could help make “rumph” a household word. Imagine– next year at Christmas dinner, you and your family could discuss who could use a good rumphin’.

Remember: football careers are ephemeral, but legacies are forever. We hope Mike Rumph catches on with another team, but if he doesn’t, at least he has made a contribution to our vernacular. Lord knows the world needs another lewd sodomitic euphemism.

It’s almost January 1st, which means that some of you will make sincere but halfhearted resolutions to finally get in shape. This is good news for places like Bally’s and Gold’s Gym and the like, as they can expect an influx of yearlong memberships that will collect nothing but dust and your hard-gambled cash from May onward.

As such, here’s KSK’s guide to your new gym membership.

The ideal gym is a no-frills establishment. It should have mirrors but no windows. Free weights and nothing else. No air-conditioning, only huge fans that recirculate stale, hot air. The stereo system should be primitive and play only pre-Black Album Metallica. Women should be given dirty looks reserved for traitors and Cowboys fans until they show an aptitude for the clean-and-jerk. That’s a fuckin’ gym.

Alas, those days are gone. I belong to a New York Sports Club just north of SoHo. It has lots of elliptical trainers and those big rubber balls that people use to strengthen their core muscles. And also hot chicks in sports bras. It makes working out very enjoyable, which is horseshit. Working out should be PAIN.

Attire

Men: sneakers, shorts/warm-up pants, t-shirt. Sleeves may be cut off for those wanting freer range of movement/shoulder tattoo exposure. Wifebeaters are for peacock dipshits who want to show off their muscles. Disagree? You’re a peacoack dipshit. Also, if you’re the guy wearing Airwalks on the treadmill, kill yourself. Now. Same thing for the guy lifting weights in jeans. That guy deserves to have a 45-pound plate dropped on his Adam’s apple.

Women: Wear what’s comfortable. Sports bra? Sure. Hot pants? That’s cool. Extra layer of baby oil? Green light. Makeup? What are you you, some kind of pretentious bitch? Leave the makeup at home.

Fatties: Far be it from KSK to pass judgment on fatties; several of our distinguished members are heavier individuals. As natural gluttons for beer and Buffalo wings, we wholeheartedly endorse people being fat. Unfortunately, fatties don’t have the same rights of attire at the gym. Food blisters may wear baggy shorts and t-shirts only. Spandex is strictly verboten. Display of man-boobs — whether from a too-small shirt or side-boob cleavage resulting from sleevelessness — will result in the loss of monthly gravy rations.

Work-out Etiquette

At no time should you offer any workout tips or technique critiques to a stranger. If somebody wants to slip a disc by bouncing the bar off their chest on the bench, that’s their God-given right. In the gym, every man is an island.

Grunting and groaning during sets should be kept to a minimum. You just benched 315? Way to go, meathead. No need to scream like Bruce Lee to announce it to the rest of us, though. Exception: Feel free to grunt like Peter North during a money shot if you can burst a capillary in your eye. Because that’s fucking sweet.

The Opposite Sex

Women, while encouraged to wear tight, revealing clothing, are not to be spoken to. Talking to women at the gym means you’re at the gym to pick up girls, which means you’re a fucking douchebag with no respect for the Church of Physical Fitness.

Women are to be eye-fucked subtly, preferably in between sets and through the use of mirrors. Women are to understand this rule, and must not make eye contact with men under any circumstance. Eye contact is an invitation for inter-sex conversation, which is a mating dance best left to bars and whorehouses.

…And with that, Week 16’s Meast:

Steven Jackson: 6 catches for 102 yards and a TD, 33 rushes for 150 yards and the game-winner in OT over the Redskins. Plus, he’s got the best dreds in the NFL this side of Mike McKenzie. Measty.

Kissing Suzy Kolber would, in the vein of every obnoxious football telecast over the holiday weekend, like to take a treacly 10 minutes moment to thank our support staff behind the scenes for their assiduous, thankless, exemplary whatever-it-is-they-do. Cue the twinkly music and superimpose a picture of holly. This has got to be classy.

Technical Support: The Blogger Hamster

The grittiest, indefatigablest little guy this side of David Eckstein. Without his help, how else would this crew of motley measts get together to write a cursorily edited football blog for free? But seriously, little dude, we don’t want to sign up for Blogger Beta, so just lay the fuck off.

Couch Leg Support: Footsteps Falco

See? He didn’t vanish. His rotting carcass is propping up a couch. What a team player, that corpse.

Script Girl: Chris Simms

Just until he heals, then gets to hold the clipboard on the sideline like a big boy.

Make-up: Cris Collinsworth

Because Drew’s gut doesn’t naturally have that much eczema.

Special assistant to Mr. Caveman: Scarlett Johansson

Don’t ask me how it happened. Guess that’s just how those paid sports bloggers roll.

Additional services: Mary Beth King.

My attorney advises me not to reveal any more about this arrangement.

Now that Christmas is over and this simian has spent some quality time with KSK spokescat Jean Grey and the rest of the family, my threshold for feigning affection and interest in things not football related has been decidedly crossed.

However, despite the Bengals and Jags being kind enough to drop their key games Sunday, my beloved, bedeviling Steelers mistakenly figured seven points in two games against the Ravens would be sufficent to manage a series split. Now, barring some mid-week defection to the NFC, they are, guhhhh, eliminated from the playoffs.

So, how to direct this festering homer energy for the next six weeks? Well, I’ll be rolling out the Hater’s Guide to the Postseason later this week, chocked full of trenchant reasons why you should let the hate flow through you toward each team in the playoffs. There might even be bullet points.

We don’t celebrate (or for that matter understand) Boxing Day in the United States, which is a shame since anything that stretches a long weekend by another day is fine by me. So in the spirit of giving, this post goes out to all the poor bastards who are stuck at work today. Better you than me.

Packers at Bears has been picked up for this week’s Sunday night game. NBC can’t resist reminding us one more time that Brett Favre loves football with the such a child-like wonder that it makes me, you and all other fans and players look like cynical stacks of reindeer crap. I intend to commemorate the occasion by mixing up some Favre-inspired Mississippi Martinis (Old Milwaukee + Vicodin).

Good news for the Bengals: you won’t have January travel plans to clear with your probation officers.

Peyton Manning is continuing with his plans to get his annual January collapse in a month early. Ron Dayne ran for so many yards he was looking for Bucky Badger on the sideline to make sure he wasn’t back in Madison. At this point I wouldn’t bet on the Colts with Unsilent Majority’s money.

Rushing for 140 yards and two TDs long after it would do any good, Shaun Alexander delivered a special Christmas Eve “up yours” to all the fantasy owners who drafted him and then missed their leagues playoffs. This anecdote is a transparent excuse to post a picture showing the resemblance between Alexander and the anthropomorphic hamburger from “Better Off Dead,” as pointed out by KSK commenter (and revolutionary Christmas tree decorator) Michigan Becky a few months ago.

Everybody wants some. How ’bout you?

Prediction: after the Giants lose in DC Saturday night Tom Coughlin will go from no-nonsense disciplinarian to unemployed dickhead.

Remember this past summer when the Titans locked Steve McNair out of team practice facilities? James Brown’s widow can totally relate to that. She was barred from JB’s house on Christmas Day by his Jewish zealous lawyer and Jewish cautious accountant.

JB’s lawyer sez: “Now I ain’t sayin’ she a golddigger, but she ain’t messin’ with no dead singer’s estate until it has been probated under Georgia law.”

They brought the Cleveland Browns back from the dead; but they plan on burying James Brown. This world is FUBAR.

…so here’s a picture of Barbaro

Maybe I’ll do a real post later, for now feel free to chat amongst yourself in the comment section. I’ll give you a topic: Why Christmas presents always suck balls.

As if the whole quarterback-center dynamic wasn’t homoerotic enough, ESPN has managed to make it even more swishy. This morning on ESPN’s “Sunday Countdown”, Chris Mortensen played Santa to all football fans who put hot manlove stories on their Christmas wish list. Mort was positively giddy when he announced that in preparation for possibly inclement weather, Philip Rivers and Nick Hardwick practiced taking snaps in the locker-room shower.

Decorum and a respect for holiday sensibilities prohibits me from providing a complete transcript; but Mort breathlessly discussed “15 wet snaps” and went on to describe Rivers and Hardwick “going full blown with that shower head turned all the way up.” Mort then encouraged viewers to let their imaginations to run wild, “Pcture that,” he gushed, “Rivers and Hardwick under the shower in the locker-room.” Pervy Mort seemed absolutely crestfallen when he belatedly added that the duo were in their practice uniforms at the time of this suposed tryst.

In 2005, we were blessed with the miracle of the Carolina Panthers cheerleaders incident; a story that has served as spank-bank material for a generation. Today, we have arrived at the complete polar opposite– and on Christmas Eve no less.

Thanks for messing with Christmas, Mort, you cock. Visions of sugar-plums are supposed to be dancing in my head, not visions of burly men grunting on a wet tile floor. It will take a lot of Maker’s Mark to wash away this stain on the holidays. I’ll let you know how it turns out…

It’s Christmas week, which means we’ll gonna be awfully busy running base for Esteban and trying to leverage him against Corky in a chess-like plot to free our sister from the hell of addiction and flee this rotting corpse of a town once and for all.

Oh, wait. That’s the plot to 1994’s Fresh, one of my favorite movies. I’m actually going to Connecticut.

Which means we won’t be posting as much next week. Ape will be working and is certain to unleash his fury here from time to time in some sort of Steeler-related manner. So until 2007, KSK bids you adieu. Go make your own dick jokes, for shit’s sake. I’ve got smoked turkey to suckle on like titty.