We’ve been so engaged in mock-sincere recriminations over who is most slighted, black quarterbacks, white receivers, Asian claims adjusters or half-German and half-Brazilian big tittied personal palm frond wavers that it seems that we’ve lost sight of what matters most. Sunday, it was reported that this year’s Meast namesake Kevin Everett made still more remarkable progress when he was able to lift his right arm and give paralysis the finger.

It makes you think of all the parallels with Christopher Reeve, like how they both wore red and blue outfits, and sucked stem cells dry to reach an arduous recovery.

But the debate hung over everything this week, especially the selection of the Meast. You knew we had to honor someone from the Eagles for their -temporarily- season-saving, face-melting 56-point performance against Detroit Sunday. With McNabb and Curtis canceling each other out with outstanding but co-dependent performances, it was the open field running of Brian Westbrook that proved most deserving of our recognition this week. We don’t care how many yards you had, Ronnie Brown. Fucking loser.

The Eagles’ back gained more than 200 total yards and had three scores, in the process getting an abdominal strain from eating so many Lions’ players souls.

And, hey, we didn’t pick a Patriot this week! There’s another “disrespect” card they’ll shuffle into the deck.

Yeah.

YEAH!

GADDAMMIT SWEET SONNUVA BITCH!

How you likin’ me now, shitbags? Eleven catches, 221 yards, three touchdowns, and one giant leap for Whitey. That’ll teach you cuntmuffins to sit me in your fantasy league.

But before the rest of you reach under center and blow dork sauce all over your Yahoo! matchup screen, let Kevin Curtis be heard. I wasn’t playing for fantasy glory on Sunday. I wasn’t playing to help my team win. I wasn’t even try to improve my chances with that cheerleader Janette. Well, maybe a little. But mostly, I was out there playing for my people.

You see, there’s not that many European-American wide receivers, so we have to do a little bit extra. Because the percentage of us playing this position — which people didn’t want us to play — is low, we’re held to a different standard.

I catch a bunch of passes for 100 yards, our team wins by seven, it’s just “Ah, he could’ve made this catch, they would have scored if he did this.” Ya dig? That’s why I went out for 200 yards and three touchdowns. Possession receiver? Kiss my proliferated cracker ass!

And no, James Brown, not ALL wide receivers face this kind of scrutiny. Terrell Owens? Randy Moss? Let me start by saying I love those guys. But they don’t get criticized as much as we do. They don’t. They can get by on talent alone and still make the team. But Uncle Waspy Vanillaface? Shit, my deceptive speed keeps deceiving my team from thinking I’m worth a damn. I’m busting the lighter-complected goodness off my hump every day, just to stay on the active roster.

Every year I’m part of some criticism. But if I learned anything growing up in the disadvantaged neighborhood of Murray, Utah, it’s that every day we go through life, white people must learn to overcome adversity. We’ve been excluded from lining up on the numbers for so long, but now it’s our time to shine.

I try to handle myself with class, with dignity. I get shit from the press all the time for not celebrating every first down catch I make, or by handing the ball back to the official if I score a touchdown. That’s just who we are, baby. This is how we express ourselves. Do you really want my kind to try to dance out there?

It was even worse when I first came into the league. I scored a 48 on the Wonderlic, and it was all over the news. The younger white receivers, man, they don’t know how good they have it. I think that if we keep progressing, one day, all the receivers in the league will be white. What a glorious day that will be.

Following DeAngelo Hall’s 67-yard smorgasbord of penalties on a single game-losing drive, Falcons coach Bobby Petrino promised some “in-house” repercussions not only for Hall’s misdeeds, but for his petulance on the sideline immediately afterward as well. Additionally, Pro Football Talk — which we of course hold in very high regard — reported this:

“There are rumors that Hall was beaten up by one or more teammates in the locker room after the game. One reader described the rumored incident as a “Code Red.”

COACH PETRINO sits in his office with assistant coach JOE WHITT JR. They discuss Hall’s series of costly mistakes.

WHITT: I think the best thing for us to do is trade him. Right away. He’s still a shut-down cornerback, and we have glaring needs at, oh, every other position on the field.

PETRINO: Hmmmm… trade DeAngelo. Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure that’s the thing to do.

Wait a minute, I have a better idea. Let’s trade the whole secondary to another team. Let’s… On second thought, the defense! Let’s trade the whole defense to some team for a quarterback who doesn’t play piano. Joe, go on out there get those boys out of practice, they’re packing their bags. Mary!

[A secretary enters]

MARY: Yes, sir!

PETRINO: Get me Las Vegas on the phone right away. We’re surrendering our season to the Buccaneers! Because obviously the Saints suck too fucking hard to win a single game in this sorry division!

MARY: Yes, sir.

PETRINO: Wait a minute, Mary, don’t get the Commissioner just yet. Maybe we should consider this a second. Dismissed, Mary.

Maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, maybe, we have a responsibility as coaches to train DeAngelo. Maybe we as coaches have a responsibility to this league to see to it that the men charged with stinking up the NFC South are trained professionals. Yes, I’m certain I remember reading that somewhere once. And now I’m thinking, Assistant Coach Whitt, that your suggestion of trading DeAngelo, while expeditious and certainly painless, might not be, in a matter of speaking, the American way. DeAngelo stays where he is. We’re gonna train the lad!

A bright but young commissioner named ROGER GOODELL, accompanied by his wallflower friend GENE UPSHAW, goes to meet with the MEDIA.

GOODELL: Hi. I’m Roger Goodell. I was told to meet with… (checks notes) the media? About a briefing.

MEDIA: You’re the commissioner that Tagliabue assigned?

GOODELL: I’m the HNIC. This is Gene Upshaw.

UPSHAW: I have no responsibilities here whatsoever.

MEDIA: Come in, please, have a seat… Commissioner, how long have you held your position?

GOODELL: About a year now.

MEDIA: And how long have you been dealing with troubled players?

GOODELL: A little less than that.

MEDIA: (pause) I see.

GOODELL: Have I done something wrong?

MEDIA: No. It’s just that when I petitioned the NFL for a new commissioner, I was hoping I’d be taken seriously.

The MEDIA and Commissioner GOODELL travel to Atlanta to meet with Coach PETRINO and Assistant Coach Whitt. Pleasantries are exchanged before business.

MEDIA: Coach Petrino, are you still close with your old team?

[PETRINO smiles and nods.]

GOODELL: [making the connection] The Louisville Cardinals?

PETRINO: Yes sir.

GOODELL: Well, what do you know! [to WHITT] Son, this man once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Made some trouble in the SEC. The folks down there said a Big East team couldn’t compete for the national title, Bobby Petrino said we’ll just see about that. [to PETRINO] How the hell is your old team?

PETRINO: They just suffered the biggest upset in the history of college football.

GOODELL: Well… don’t I feel like the fuckin’ asshole.

PETRINO: Not at all, commissioner.

A tense courtroom battle hinges on a gamble by the audacious GOODELL.

GOODELL: I WANT THE TRUTH!

PETRINO: YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!

Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns, by which I mean large biceps. Who’s gonna do it? You? You, Michael Vick?

I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for DeAngelo, and you curse the Falcons. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That DeAngelo’s death, while tragic, probably saved yards. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves yards. You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about in luxury boxes, you want me on that sideline. You need me on that sideline.

We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very entertainment that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a football, and throw a deep post pattern, because Harrington’s no good at that. Either way, I don’t give a DAMN what you think you are entitled to.

GOODELL: Did you order the code red?

PETRINO: I did the job you sent me to do.

GOODELL: Did you order the code red?

PETRINO: YOU’RE GODDAM RIGHT I DID!!!

Hold up. Wait a fucking second. What’s all this talk about Rex Grossman heading to the bench?! Do you see Rex Grossman walking to the bench? Do you see Lovie Smith calling for Brian Griese? Do you? DO YOU?!

Do you think I’m going to just sit idly by while some other jackass gets to throw my ball and take my audience? Do you really think Rex Fucking Grossman would just quietly accept his fate?! Do you think these eyes can’t tame a wild cougar?

Fuck that shit. I am not going down without a fuck.

You heard me. If you want to take my job, you’ll have to come and fuck the ever-loving shit out of me if you want to do it. Rex Grossman is no quitter. He will fuck and fuck and fuck until there’s no fuck left in him. That’s how he was born, that’s how he was raised, and that’s how he’ll die: fucking. If you think I’m going down without some serious hardcore, elbow-deep-in-your-butt gangbanging, you are sadly mistaken. I’m not backing down on this one. On the contrary. I am locked and loaded and ready to spray my salty jism all over this town if it means being able to do what I love most. I didn’t get this far not to fuck for what I believe in. I’m taking a stand. I’m holding my ground. And I’m fucking on it.

Think you can just waltz in here and tell the Sex Cannon what to do? Over my hard body. I fucked hard to get into this position. You’re gonna have to come get it. Naked. With my penis inside you.

Want to put me down for good, Chicago? Just. Fucking. Bring. It. And don’t think I won’t get my shots in. I got a nut just waiting for your eye. This is gonna be tooth and nail. Ass and ball. Tit and clit. Cock and mouth. If I lose, so be it. But there’s still some sex left in this cannon. I’ll fuck to the end. This was sexy business. But now it’s sexy personal.

So prepare yourself. You’ve got one big fuck on your hands. I may be going down. On you. But I’m going down swinging. My dick.

1, 2, 3 FUCK!

Hello there. Those of you expecting an imagined monologue by Rex Grossman following last night’s 15-33, 0 TD, 3 INT performance will be sorely disappointed. The Sex Cannon as envisioned by Big Daddy Drew is retired, killed off before the character became too rote and familiar (and thus unfunny).

But that doesn’t mean that Grossman has stopped sucking spectacularly, which means that he still deserves our attention. So, in an ongoing effort to reward people who send us intelligent emails and NOT FUCKING BASEBALL BLOG POSTS WE DON’T DO LINK DUMPS YOU WHORES, we’ve decided to publish this fresh take on Rexy from John Krolik of Truth in a Bullet Fedora, who goes to USC but otherwise seems like an okay person. John writes:

I was originally going to humbly beseech all of you (as I’m sure many readers have), to start a campaign to save Rextacy, as his benching seems imminent at this point, and I don’t know what I’d do without The Sex Cannon firing bolt after bolt of sexually-charged lightning every week.

But then I got to thinking: we should save Rex not just because we love his deviant ways and utter lack of caring for the shackles of quarterbacking or monogamy. We should save Rex because it’s our duty as Americans. America is a country that runs on not giving a fuck, from the little things (oh, a kilometer is 1/10,000th of the distance from the equator to the North Pole? Fuck all of you, we’re using miles because they kick ass.), to the more important things (You don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go to war? Try and stop us, faggots.) Rex plays quarterback like George Bush runs the country, and this is supposed to be America’s game, isn’t it? In fact, when you think about it, Rex’s career path mirrors that of GWB’s: Extreme initial skepticism and hatred from the intellectuals of the game/country, a brief period of redemption (post 9-11/the first half of last season), and then an utter blowup that made everyone say, “wow, we thought he sucked before, but now he REALLY sucks.” (The Iraq War/The Super Bowl and this season.) We want our leaders to have balls; John Kerry and Peyton Manning can be as successful as they want through “doing things right,” but at the end of the day we go “Yeah, but those guys are faggots.”

Well, Rex is no faggot, and while I don’t support George Bush, I think that Rex Grossman is America’s quarterback. And I don’t think he’s going anywhere; people have been hating Bush since the beginning, but he’s been running this motherfucker for 8 years when it’s all said and done.

So, Gay Mafia, save Rex. It’s your duty as Americans.

Pretty good, John. Thanks for your cogent argument and top-notch syntax. However, KSK’s belief is that there is no need to save Rex. Even if he DOES get benched — which Lovie Smith says ain’t happenin’ — he will live on in our memories. NFL fans will always have a little bit of Rex in them.

By which I mean, we’ve all been inseminated.

[Tilling dirt] Yield could be better. [Looks at camera] Hi, I’m a tobacco farmer living near Raleigh, North Carolina.[Talks into phone] Yeah honey, I’ll take an omelette.

[scene shifts to waterfront with several yachts]

My son is a plebe at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. Keeping America free for you and me.

[scene shifts to field]

Sometimes, when I save up enough money, I go visit my brother, who is a wheat farmer in Wyoming. [Turns to brother] Does anyone else live here?

[scene twists to ESPN newsroom]

I love the Panthers, and I count on ESPN in Connecticut to ignore them completely. THROW IT TO SMITH!

[scene turns to small office]

The man at the farm bureau is from Mer Rouge, Louisiana and is a fan of the Saints. [Talks to man at desk] Way to start 0-2, buddy.

[scene shifts with Space Needle in the background]

My no-account son still listens to mopey music from some suicidal bums in Seattle.

[scene shifts to concert stage]

While I still prefer Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.” They still tour, but without Ronnie Van Zant, they’re total shit.

[scene shifts back to Raleigh]

So I need a network that works where I live. A place called Raleigh Annyoming CoMerSeaAl.

AT&T. Airing 60 ads per half, until you want to dunk your phone into your beer.

It’s like being tied to a chair and forced to watch your girlfriend fuck Jimmy Fallon.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckkity fuck.

I almost quit KSK this week.

I had drafted a resignation letter and everything. It was heartfelt and affecting, contrite yet cogent, and, if you can believe it, it even had a few Simpsons references.

You see, though I work for this paper, which on its face may seem like a cool job, my position occupies a deadening vortex of fluff piecery from which I cannot escape. See, carping about your job is much worse than bitching about your fantasy team. After getting turned down for another two positions elsewhere this week, I figured I needed to knuckle down and turn my full attention to furthering my career. That meant no more blogging about dick jokes and construda and how much I wish the Ravens to be wiped clean from the Earth.

Luckily, a sagacious voice called out from the darkness to remind me of that vital lesson that quitting is for losers and working harder at your job is for saps and the Chinese.

To use an NFL analog, KSK imbues my ugly, odious workdays the way the Ea-gals vastly improve the Hazmat quality 75th anniversary throwback uniforms Philly will be wearing this weekend. And I thought the Steelers’ throwbacks were horrific. Then again, these are just ungodly enough to ward off Jon Kitna’s miracle inducing powers, which he summons by having the hand of God rub his fuzzy head.

Thanks as always to the Professional Cheerleader Blog.

Welcome to the Week 3 edition of Always Be Covering. As you may be aware, the bulk of my gambling advice should not actually be taken. For the most part everything you read here will be in jest, but not anymore.

Last week I took my picks seriously, and despite some questionable decisions my wagers netted a positively mediocre $24 (life changing money!). It could have been a decent payday but the day was pretty much fucked the minute those Cincinnati cuntslutwhores were run out of the stadium. This week I’m going to be a bit more aggressive. Instead of relying on those retarded parlays, teasers, and props I’m betting half of the league straight up.

I’ve placed $25 dollars on each of the following eight games (risking 200 to win 180)… play along at home if you’re so inclined, but it’s not my fucking fault that you have a gambling problem and crack habit.

Kansas City -3 vs. Minnesota
When I started this feature one of the founding principles involved wagering against one Herman Edwards. It’s served us pretty well to date, and now it’s time to return the favor. I’m putting all of my support behind the awful and winless Chiefs because I don’t think Herm will let them lose to an even crappier team. Is it me or does Brad Childress look like the kind of guy that beats up cheap hookers to blow off steam?

New England -17 vs. Buffalo
The line shot up 2.5 points almost as soon as the game opened. Buffalo’s totally fucked and Belichick is just looking to bend teams over the coffee table and fuck ‘em like a Jersey housewife.

Pittsburgh -9 vs. San Francisco
Steelers be good ‘n shit.

Arizona +8 at Baltimore
Betting against the home favorite? Yep, I’m fuckin’ nutty! Baltimore can eat latkes out of my ass. Ed. note to self: Atone

I sensed you were getting bored.

Jacksonville +3.5 at Denver
That hook could be worth all the money in the world. Remember these two things: Denver is two field goals away from 0-2, and Mike Shanahan is a tampon.

Seattle -3 vs. Cincinnati
Maybe I should have just but the money on Over 50 total points. When is Marvin Lewis going to get his next extension?

Oakland -3 vs. Cleveland
It’s everybody’s favorite day of the year, Fuck Ohio Day! After last week you pretty much have to bet against both of em.

Washington -4 vs. New York Giants
Four fucking points? Has Vegas been watching the Giants? The veterans might stage a walkout at the two minute warning. Rocky McIntosh is going to see to it that Eli Manning never procreates.

There you have it, my eight favorite games (it literally took me seconds to pick them out). Do with them what you will, just get in your action before sundown if you’re a shape-shifting Jew.

Reader Slimmons (A Marine! Fuck yeah!) sends us these authentic OJ Simpson print ads from the 1970’s. Just in time for OJ’s latest Western adventure strongarming people in their hotel rooms. I have no idea why they art directed an extra right leg into each of these ads. I’m just assuming OJ likes having a spare limb handy. Some quick advice from the Juice in this ad:

Boots have to look great, but they also have to be made for whatever you’re going to be doing in them.

Thanks, Juice! Too bad Bruno Magli shoes aren’t made the same way.

And flubby dug up this comic book ad for OJ’s Juicemobile multi-purpose shoes. Built for fleeing!

And, lastly, here’s an old douche ad that has nothing to do with anything. But it’s about douche, so who am I to resist?