A lot of commotion is being made about Andy Reid possibly having creating a “blueprint” with which teams can defeat the Patriots. What sounds like an already tired media construct turned out to be true and KSK has secured a copy. Messrs. Billick, Tomlin, Mangini, Cameron and Coughlin, start your cribbing.

Fig. 1: Throw a bunch of inside routes. A football field has a width of 160 feet and you can use all of it. After all these years, the game still holds surprises. Also, Junior Seau’s bones defy carbon dating.

Fig. 2: Two words: familial strife. There’s a reason Tony Dungy and I have almost closed the deal. Good dad? Fuck you, go home and play with your kids. I have games to get tantalizingly close to winning but tanking in the end. And if I like skimming off of Garrett’s stash, all the better.

Fig. 3: Find scrubby QB who once beat Brady with an AFC East team. I got Mr. McFeeley. Find your own. Maybe trade for Sage Rosenfels, whatever. Drew Bledsoe isn’t going anywhere. Really, he’s been hanging out at the same Sbarro since May, nursing the same half-Barq’s, half-pink lemonade. Fucker is sick.

Fig. 4: Sign Devin Hester. Convince Pats to hire Mike Shanahan.

Fig. 5: Tell Wes Welker that to truly be scrappy, he must eat more scrapple. Titter heartily as his lightweight heart explodes after two servings.

Fig. 6: Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

Fig. 7: Let your coordinators be your guide. Keep up the creative blitzing, Jim Johnson. Hey, Brady got sacked! How brilliant of me to let you dial that one up.

Fig. 8: Dress more slovenly than Belichick. It fucks with his mind more than sleeping with unmarried women.

Fig. 9: Order a bunch of pizzas for the Patriots that they don’t want. Eat pizzas anyway.

Fig. 10: Remember how quiet Gillette Stadium was? Not a coincidence. Sure, it just seems like it’s filled with a bunch of spoiled, thin-skinned bandwagon fans who were aghast about not being up by 31 points in the second quarter. Really, my flatus can change history.

Fig. 11: You know, I didn’t actually defeat New England. Why is everyone so interested in this thing?

Fig. 12: Threaten to raise Asante Samuel’s kids for him.

While Dolphins fans are near orgasmic at the thought of a forfeit victory, the rest of us are bored shitless by the delay in starting the game tonight. Here’s something to idle away the hours while waiting for these clowns to fix Heinz Field’s latest drainage fiasco: Philip Rivers telling home fans to shut up during an early rough patch in the Charges 32-14 over the Ravens. We hear those hardboiled, cynical San Diegans can be downright brutal on a shrinking violet like Philip.

Man. Up. Nancy.

Reports have surfaced that Sean Taylor is now in a coma following surgery from a potentially fatal gunshot wound. This is a decidedly unfunny situation, and we are now faced with a rather morbid watch over Taylor’s health.

But I’ve learned throughout life that humor often serves as a useful distraction in moments such as these. That and sling bikinis. So here now is some random funny shit to help keep us all occupied:

-Hippo rape.

-I was taking a shit one time and had to go wipe my ass. Only, when I wiped, some of the toilet paper remained firmly lodged in my butt. I did not realize this at the time, so I went to go flush. When I flushed, the water gently tugged the paper out of my ass. And I have to tell you, it was kind of thrilling.

-One time I was sitting in a beach chair at a house party and threw up into my lap.

-KSK VP of Research flubby has unearthed this incredible collection of the 16 ugliest men in rock. I’m pretty sure Joey Ramone was born without a jaw.

-Sometimes, when I get an erection, I like to push it down, and then release it while yelling out, “BOING!!!!!!!!!” Sometimes, I imagine a small Chinese diver jumping off of it.

-When I was at boarding school there was a fat kid (one apart from me) who we called Big Fun, after the fat girl in “Heathers” who wears a t-shirt that says those exact words. We used to scream out “BIG FUN!” when he walked in the room. And whenever someone ordered pizza, they’d do it under the name “Big Fun”. So the delivery guy would walk in and say, “Is there a Big Fun here?” Try it with a fat friend of yours. It’s lots of fun.

-The singer for Quiet Riot died. Hilarious! Talk about “Condition Critical”!

-Need a quick shot of fun? Take out your scrotum and walk up to a lady and tell her, “Ew! Look! I sat in some gum! And there’s hair on it!”

-Raiders defensive coordinator Rob Ryan is the Joe Eszterhas of the NFL. He looks like a roadie for Bad Company. I swear, when the Raiders played the Vikings, he was wearing a windbreaker with no shirt underneath. If he isn’t banging 16-year-olds by bribing them with free acid, I’ll be upset.

-Poker Monkey!

-After Thanksgiving Day dinner, I embarked on a farting odyssey that caused my wife to re-evaluate everything about our relationship. It feels good to fart. It really does. It feels like I’m breathing a sigh of relief. I also enjoy making other people recoil with horror at my own stench. It’s a mark-your-territory kind of move. It makes me feel like I have the upper hand. I’m weird.

UPDATE: Taylor is unresponsive and doctors are currently worried about brain damage.

Redskins safety Sean Taylor was shot in his Miami home late last night. PFT is reporting that Taylor “is fighting for his life,” which means that Taylor is either fighting for his life or that the bullet harmlessly grazed him.

We remind our readers on this dark day that Taylor is the original Meast, and we here pray that his man-beasty constitution and Miami’s finest doctors are enough to survive whatever damage is done. We don’t want to have to name the weekly Meast award in memoriam after the actual Meast. That would be kind of depressing.

UPDATE: Taylor is listed in critical condition.

UPDATE #2: Taylor is reportedly in a coma following surgery. Yikes.

INT SET 0F P0RN0 M0VIE DAY

ON SET with Adult film star Admiral Pavel Becker, the Naval Pecker, with additional cast and crew, for the filming of the last scene in his Christmas special, Chestnuts Roasting On Your Open Mouth, Part 6.

————

Fred: Thank God, we’re finally gonna shoot the last scene of this movie and then we can wrap this bitch.

Andy: You know, Fred, I was thinking. “Pavel” and “Naval” don’t even rhyme. That sort of kills the whole thing for me.

Fred: Fuck you, smart guy. It looks great on the box, especially with the anchors and that Donald Duck uniform. That’s all we give a shit about in this business; it’s all about presentation. You can take your lacy frills and Mother Goose bullshit down the block.

Andy: Hey, Freddy, don’t mind me. I’m just impressed you got Gina Gershon in this movie.

Jeanie: (walks in) Uh, sweetie, it’s Jeanie Gershonn. With two Ns (puffs on a cigarette and blows the smoke in Andy’s face)

Director: Bitch, who said you could smoke on my set? (walks up behind Jeannie) Is Dick Van Dyke gonna chimney sweep the fucking tar out of my lungs? Get your ass on that sleigh, you rusty old cunt. (to the crew) Alright everybody! Chop chop, you little fucksticks! Okay, Jeanie. It’s time to save Christmas. And by “Save Christmas,” I mean “videotape you getting fucked raw.” (puts on headphones)

Jeanie: (licks palm of her hand and extinguishes the cigarette in it) Sure thing, sweetie. (gets on the sleigh with Becker, who is wearing nothing but a fake white beard and boots)

Director: Now, Becker, just go through your lines like we did in rehearsal, okay?

Becker: Ready!

Director: Okay, places, everyone! Quiet on the set motherfuckers! I am more important than all of you! Lights are good!…Camera rolling!…Cue the snow!…Aaaand cue the reindeer!…And ACTION!

Jeanie: So, can you tell me, are you…are you really Santa Claus?

Becker: Yes, Virginia…I am…Santa Claus.

Jeanine: Well, then…maybe I could meet…Santa’s Little Helper?

Becker: Cut!

(bell rings)

Director: (takes off headphones) Goddamn it Bruno, I’M the one that says cut! I’m the goddamn director!

Becker: Sorry, boss, but…it’s….it’s….

Director: Just spit it out, princess–

Becker: We don’t have my, uh, full attention.

Director: Jesus Fucking Christ, Becker, you and your rubber torpedo are gonna be the death of me.

Becker: That’s RUGGED Torpedo!

Director: Whatever, lady. (turns around) Fred, can you get Michelle out here? Time to fluff up another flat pecker.

Fred: Sorry, boss. Michelle’s taking an early lunch at Panera, but the agency can send someone over right away.

Director: Agency? Since when did we hire a fucking agency?

(from the back) Not a fucking agency, sir! A fluffing agency!

Director: (looking around) Who the fuck was that?

Maurice: (enthusiastically) It’s me! (hands resume to director)

Director: Wha–what the fuck is this? Most fluffers don’t hand in resumes…(looks at resume)…uh, Morris?

Maurice: That’s Maurice! Not Morris.

Director: Well, okay, Maurice not Morris (hands resume to Fred), get over there and get your hands dirty.

Maurice: Hands?! Well, what if I just take this and give a good (baritoned gagging sound)

Becker: Holy–wha…woowwwwww.

Andy: Wait, did he just–

Fred: Excuse me, is this a valid address? 800 Occidental Ave South, Seattle? Box 20?

Director: You’re a goddamn professional, Becks, just go with it. Carl, are you getting this?

Carl: (operating camera) Oh, I’m getting it. This is like taping Rodney King, but reversed. And gay.

Director: Yeah, that boom cam’s looking like a pretty good investment now, isn’t it?

Fred: (watches while slowly shaking his head) Wow, he’s really getting after it.

Director: I always enjoy watching someone so masterful at his craft. Just amazing.

Sean Astin: He’s telling his own story; you can truly feel the pathos.

Carl: Somebody needs to feed that guy. He’s like a starving orphan over there.

Andy: Where have I heard that expression before?

Director: Hang on, I think he’s finally coming up for air…

Maurice: (out of breath) Let’s…try something else…I call this (drops to his knees)…the “Trey Wingo.”

Director: Why’s he standing behind him?

Carl: And why’s he holding up those three fingers and coating them with Astroglide?

Fred: You know, I think he’s gonna jam them right up his–

EVERYONE: AWWWWWWWWWWW!!!

Fred: Jesus Shit! I think he got some elbow on that!

Andy: That’s an uppercut for the ages.

Director: I hope Maurice not Morris remembered to take off his watch.

Carl: Don’t you need a guardian present to jump into the deep end like that?

Maurice: (pumping feverishly) This will give that grumpy little prostate something to think about!

Fred: Uppercut! Uppercut!

Director: Now, does he call it the “Trey Wingo” because he’s using three fingers? Like Trey as in Three?

Carl: Or because when you set your hand like that, it looks like a W? You know, W for Wingo.

Andy: Or is it because this whole ordeal is associated with sports somehow?

Maurice: (retrieving his arm)…There. I just went two yards right up the middle. That ought to do it.

Becker: (looks down with delight) All right! All hands, attention on deck!

Director: God bless you, Maurice.

Fred: And God bless these fifty United States.

Director: Alright, places everyone! Let’s get set here! (puts on headphones) Cue the snow!…aaaand Go for reindeer! Aaaand ACTION!

Jeanie: So, can you tell me, are you…are you really Santa Claus?

Becker: Yes, Virginia…I am…sorry, sorry, guys. I just…

Director: CUT! (Bell rings) Goddamn it, now what?

Becker: Just remind me…what’s my motivation?

Director: (throws headphones to the ground) Fuck this shit, I quit.

The Colts had them. Now the fucking Eagles had them. This team is mortal and afraid to run the ball.

Rex: Was it good for you, baby?

All I know is that it was good for me, and that’s all I really give a shit about. Have a cigarette. I like to bring it right to the precipice before unloading deep in your territory. Rexy likes his erotic asphyxiation.

Don’t act like you don’t like it. Right, Devin?

Devin: Shit, yeah. You goddamn right. I like that shit. I run LONG for that pussy.

I go STRONG to the pussy.

I get ALONG with the pussy.

I sing a SONG about the pussy.

I do things WRONG to the pussy.

I eat dim sum in HONG KONG with the pussy.

I hit that pussy so fast it turn to glass. You ladies look out. The Bullet’s comin’ fast and hard at that ass.

I had remembered the 4 o’clock games being better than the Ravens/Chargers and a few duels of the damned. I’ll provide a little commentary until I arbitrarily decide to leave work and go home, which might be any minute now.

Hey, hey, the 49ers offense has found the endzone. Might as well set up camp while you’re there.

Antonio Cromartie makes a nice interception of Kyle Boller that gets nullified on penalty. Phil Simms jokingly suggests Cromartie should be converted to offense and Philip Rivers snaps, “No, I got the picks thing covered, thanks.”

The Niners take over at the Arizona 19 following a Kurt Warner pick and settle for a field goal. That endzone thing is played out, anyway.

Looks like Sideshow Bob will be making an appearance on this evening’s Simpsons. He and Norv Turner must share an agent.

Ack, the San Francisco offensive bukkake continues! 17 points? In the first half? Who the fuck exhumed Bill Walsh?

Quite a paucity of throwgasms in Soldier Field, as the Sex Cannon is 3 of 7 with an interception and no conceptions. Denver leads 10-3.

Welp, hangover be damned, I’m back to work on Sunday, the first of a six-day workweek coming out of the holiday.

“What, sure, I can take the Sunday shift. The Steelers don’t play until Monday night. I’ll be rested up from three days of solid drinking and gluttony. If anything, I can use the extra headache.”

Goddamn, I’m stupid.

Sure, familytime is a pain but mine is resigned to the fact that we don’t really enjoy each others’ company, and depart not long after dinner and dessert are topped off. Therefore, the rest of the weekend is spent catching drinks with old friends who now live out of town that you see twice a year. Those two times are usually Thanksgiving and Christmas, so the Thanksgiving meeting lacks any sense of urgency because you know you’re likely seeing the asshole again in a month. That still doesn’t save you from 15 of these bar conversations:

“Fuck, it’s been awhile. What, seven months? Let’s see: last time was…what, Easter?…so…yeah, seven. Yeah, I did hear Charlene is getting married. No, I haven’t heard from Jason in a long time. I don’t know what’s up with him. Who? No, never met him. Oh yeah, that LSU-Arkansas game was fucking amazing. Family’s good. Job’s a job. What? Oh yeah, been meaning to see that. No, I wasn’t at that party, remember? That was that weekend I got stuck helping Ralston move. Ooooh, shit, The Great Muppet Caper. Yeah, we must’ve got high and watched that like 15 times in three days. Gonzo’s such a crackhead in that movie. Remember when he talks about sleeping in bus terminals and that he’s doing a photographic essay on kneecaps? Hahahaha…eeeeeeehhhhhh. Anyway, good seeing you, man. I’m gonna go grab another drink.”

The one o’clock slate blows, and the 35-year-old 13-inch Sorny above my desk will be unfortunately tuned to the Redskins-Buccaneers game. I eagerly aniticipate the 17-14 goodness and cursing myself for ever starting Santana Moss on my fantasy team. Last week was a tease, I know it.

Feel free to relate any other early game excitement you may observe. That Saints-Panthers game should allow you to evacuate your bowels sufficiently to prepare you for the coming week.

Four minutes into the game and Santana Moss has already managed to lose a fumble on his first catch. Oh, how I hate the Redskins.

Forgot to mention that, through sheer retardery, I also have Clinton Portis on said team. Yep, he’s fumbled too. The two Redskins in my lineup have produced -4 points through the first quarter. Somebody needs to bomb Raljon.

The commenters mentioned Redskins defensive end Andre Carter just had a kid named Quincy. Hilarity does not ensue. So many jokes not seized upon.

Jeff Garcia is hampered with a pulled clitoris. Can Dr. James Andrews recommend a good OB-GYN?

Hey, Jason Campbell just fumbled. At least Redskins not on my fantasy team are getting in on the act.

Isaac Bruce, whom I started Moss in favor of, has just scored to put the Rams up 16-7 on the C-Hox. And, what’s that? Portis just fumbled again? It’s Black Sunday. All footballs must go!

Pittsburgh native Bruce Gradkowski has entered the game for the Bucs. Probably not destined to make the pantheon of great quarterbacks from western Pennsylvania, but he’d have made an interesting choice as another Bob Dylan in I’m Not There. Anything to keep Richard Gere out of that movie.

The Redskins have been perhaps the worst second half team in the league this season and they now go into intermission trailing 19-3 on the road. I’m guessing this one is pretty much over. But I’m a captive, time-wasting audience, so I must slog on.

If Jacksonville hangs on to beat Buffalo, the Patriots officially clinch the AFC East crown. If the Pats win tonight, I think they clinch the division for next year as well.

I know I’ve been doing a lot of bitching about my fantasy team, but in one of the two leagues I’m in, I started 7-2 and now I’m poised to lose my third straight. I’m the Detroit Lions of fantasy football.

A reader e-mailed us to say that, coming back from a commercial break, a CBS announcer Steve Beuerlein referred to Titans running back Lendale White as a “USC Thug.” I’m pretty sure he meant MSG Thug. Lendale likes his egg rolls.

Just when the Redskins look like they might make a game of it, fantasy hero Clinton Portis gets stuffed on 4th and 1 inside the Tampa Bay 5. I need lots of rum.

Elisha Manning is presently 11-35 for 178 yards, no TDs and three picks, one for a TD, against the Vikings abysmal secondary. But Jeff Garcia is spotted warming up on the sidelines, so the gay quarterbacks might just ride again.

Scratch that, four picks for Elisha. HE’S GOING FOR THE MANNING FAMILY RECORD!

Seriously, two pick-six throws in 42 seconds of football? Eli’s squash partner is never gonna let him hear the end of this.

At work, I’m trying to knock out a brief about a Green Bay meat company recalling 95,000 lbs. of E. coli-tainted ground beef. So, while I’m stuck miserable at work, at least I can count on all the assholes with the day off eating greasy E.coliburgers.

Just as the Redskins are driving to take the lead, Jason Campbell adds to the Redskins turnover tizzy with a terrible out pattern toss that’s jumped by Ronde Barber in front of, guess who, Santana Moss. At least Unsilent is more depressed than I am.

And Tampa Bay responds with a three and out with three minutes left. Perhaps some third party would like to come in and win this game, as neither of these teams seem very interested in doing so.

Aaaaaannnnndddd Jason Campbell throws another pick in the endzone in front of Santana Moss. Satan toasts Hitler in Hell and pinches his ass.

Huzzah! Bonus coverage of the Rams-Seahawks game. I got to see Joe Gibbs execute poor clock management. Your move, Holmgren.

Oop. The C-Hox hang courtesy to some good old St. Louis red zone ineptitude. Shine on, Scott Linehan.

This is former Bucs cheerleeader Mary Delgado. Mary was arrested yesterday for punching her boyfriend in the mouth. Presumably while performing the dreaded “Reverse Bismarck”.

She was also the “winner” of the 2004 season of “The Bachelor”, nabbing a proposal from a professional bass fisherman. Really? A fucking fisherman is your prize? Jesus.

Since we had no cheerleader post yesterday, here’s a proper Bucs gal.

Don’t hurt me, baby. I bruise like a ripe avocado.