The top two seeds in the AFC last season are barely hanging onto faint playoff hopes with only a few weeks remaining in the regular season. When heads eventually roll, they’ll probably bear the visages of these two clowns. Likely, incompetence will emerge Hydra-like from the stumps. In the meantime, we can find out who’ll be king of the unemployment line in the offseason. WHO YA GOT?

And, here’s your Doug and Doug post to wrap up the week. We’ll be off tomorrow, spending time with our families until we grow sick of them and become tempted to post again. Back on Friday with Who Ya Got? and the cheerleader post.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Are you gonna eat your fat? ‘Cause I’ll have it if you don’t want it.

Welcome to a special Thanksgiving edition of Always Be Covering! Simply put, Thanksgiving is the greatest thing to ever happen. Sure, giving thanks is totally gay and nobody in their right mind would want to sit around a stuffy table occupied by all the people you hate most in the world (family). That’s why the wise Indian spirit handed football to the white man, who then lateralled it back slathered in smallpox. Now we’re left with the modern incarnation of Thanksgiving, a buffet style meal in front of the television. It’s light on the thanks and heavy on the action.

For the second straight year the NFL is treating us with a full day of games starting with a post-Turkey Bowl 12:30 kickoff and culminating long after the tryptophan and Franzia has knocked you out cold like that first girl you ever fucked (maybe if she wasn’t so protective of her “toy collection” you wouldn’t have had to drug her). Of course the three games are partly awful with an 80% chance of total awfulness, regardless, point spreads (and point totals) are the universal equalizer. If you think it’s boring to watch Indy leading Atlanta 35-6 in the fourth quarter than you probably don’t have your mortgage payment on the over. Don’t make this mistake people I urge you to wager with reckless abandon, it’s what Pocahantes would have wanted (that and British cock in her mouth).

Before we get on to the picks, here’s the commercial that inspired the headline.

That guy is going places!

Hey, I actually won my bets last week! I’m on fire like Wayman Tisdale in NBA Jam (speaking of which, if you want to reminisce over the halcyon days of the NBA in the early 90′s you should check out the original NBA Jam rosters). So we’ve got three games to pick for tomorrow and I’m sticking with last week’s format. For the purposes of the post I’ve placed $25 on each of the games; I’ll wear assless chaps in Dupont Circle before I lay another teaser.*

*not true

Detroit +3.5 vs. Green Bay

Betting on Detroit on Thanksgiving: 10% of the time it works every time. But hey, if I root for the Packers all day I’ll be puking long before I have the opportunity to cram my patented dinner of mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potatoes, turkey, salmon, pumpkin pie, and scotch into my gullet. The over/under on the number of minutes I spend in the shitter is significantly higher than the over/under on total running plays.

Full disclosure: Calvin Johnson and Roy Williams make me question my very manhood.

Dallas -14.5 vs. New York Jets

Every fucking year I have to watch those Dallas bitches play during my meal, so I might as well get something out of it. By this point I’ll be so blitzed on zinfandel I won’t even be surprised when Wade and Mangina reach through the television and begin eating off of my plate.

Indianapolis -12.5 vs. Atlanta

I don’t care if Marvin plays. I don’t even care if Peyton plays. There is no way Indianapolis doesn’t win by two touchdowns. I’d almost go so far as to say I’d forgo masturbation for am month if they failed to do so…but that would be silly.

Have a happy Thanksgiving and be sure to give your family a bit “Fuck you” from the Gay Mafia.

p.s. I’d be remiss if I didn’t let you readers know that after a week and a half without masturbation I’m still going strong (sex helps…a lot). Still, any time I see a hot piece of ass my hand practically begs me to let it go down Mexico way. So aside from the visual and auditory hallucinations I’m fit as a fucking fiddle.

The Meast of the Week column, as much as the members of the Gay Mafia try to shrug it off onto someone else, is actually one of the least restrictive features we have on this site. This is saying a lot, because as far as I know we don’t really have any rules or regulations other than incorporating the word “fag” into a post whenever traffic lags.

But the Meast is fun: just rant about something non-NFL related for a couple paragraphs, then write “This week’s meast is…” and you’re done.

I volunteered for the Meast this week because I’ve got the week off from both The Prelude because of Thanksgiving and from my social life because I’m in Southern Maryland. Problem is, nothing really struck me as worthwhile to write about. This ugly streak of moderate career satisfaction means that I’m just not angry enough to rant about things that piss me off. So instead of a rage-fueled rant, here follows a cornucopia — nay, a horn o’ plenty! — of Measty topics that I passed over because they were too petty, entirely indefensible, or just made me sound like more of a douche than I already am.

- Reasons why full-time paid blogging isn’t as fun as sneaking it in at work as an anonymous office drone

- Thanksgiving football games always suck

- Why do we perform scientific experiments on rats and rabbits when we have perfectly useless humans?

- Fuck Panera Bread. Who blocks YouTube and Blogger?

- Things that are more boring than college basketball

- Okay, ladies. You wanna prove you like the NFL? Make out with that chick.

- Big Daddy Drew’s formula for disliking something (Step 1: Find something similar yet less heralded. Step 2: Declare less heralded thing better. Step 3: Add profanity. Step 4: Disagree? Douchebag!)

- Listen, Grandma, I’m not gonna write thank you notes any more

- I try to be open-minded, but I just don’t like a finger in my asshole

- Even IF Maurice Morris got a blowjob from a random guy in Manhattan and ate that guy’s ass, that wouldn’t make me cheer for him any less

- Ya know who’s attractive enough for me to screw? Pretty much anyone famous with a vagina.

- Corner Creek: the most amazing bourbon you’ve never heard of

- A complete exposure of The Big Lead: his name and previous writing jobs, his challenging career as a news editor at People Magazine, and a link to his New York Times wedding announcement. He and his husband look so happy.

- Blowjobs are overrated. Really great, but overrated.

- Being in Hawaii: not a legitimate reason to wear a Hawaiian shirt

This week’s meast is the Cardinals’ Antrel Rolle. Like Antonio Cromartie last week, he had three interceptions. Unlike that pussy Cromartie, he took each one of them back to the house – only an unnecessary illegal block kept the last one from counting in the record books.

But you know what’s more real than the record books? A weekly blog award named after a made-up word. That is fucking edgy.

Thanksgiving is one of the worst times of the year for dishonesty. Usually family only breeds that sort of thing, but the mixture of special occasions, alcohol and tryptophan brings out the candor in everybody. Assorted NFL personnel have tried to head off that uncomfortable eventuality by entrusting their deepest secrets to the trustworthy, bad MS Painty care of NFL PostSecret.
NFL PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where players and coaches or whoever I feel like making fun of mails in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard. It’s also a satire of this.

—–Email Message—–
Sent: Tuesday, November 20, 2007 1:11 PM

Rumors >>> Secrets

—–Email Message—–
Sent: Monday, November 19, 2007 7:53 PM

He’s no teenage stock boy at the Whole Foods.

Tom, seven touchdown in seven possessions. How do you guys seemingly score at will?

(bats eyelashes)

You only won by 46, Tom! What kind of humble pie is Belichick gonna serve up now? Huh?

(playful tap)

Huh?

(pulls Tom in and whispers)

I want you, Tom. I want you NOW. After the game, I want you to meet me at the Residence Inn, and go to Room 301. And once you’re in there, I want you to throw me down and bang me like a man just coming out of the desert. I’m begging you. Hunt this MILF. Let me be your weigh station, baby. Your fuck stop.

Just do the nastiest shit to me that you can possibly think of. Nothing is off limits, Tom. NOTHING. If you want to beat me with a wire whisk, that’s fine. I’m 3’9”. Want to toss me like a dwarf around the room? You got it. Fucking hold a pistol to my head if you want. Fuck, bring Mankins in. I don’t care. Just be sure to big that big, luscious Michigan Wolverine in your pants with you. I want that cock, and I’m not stopping until I get it. Treat me like Belichick treats the media, baby. I don’t mind playing rough.

Yeah, I know you have a girlfriend. I’m not here to mess that up. She’s gorgeous and rich and smart and all that shit. I get it. Baby, I’m not here to be some sort of homewrecker. I just want the cock. That’s all. I’m a mature woman. I know how to handle this type of shit with discretion. You don’t have to give me your number, or your email address or anything. Just serve it up in me and hit the showers, Champ.

It can be our little secret. I won’t tell a soul that you treated me like Mike Tyson treats a stray cat. Just think of it as an arrangement. Maybe we can get together every few weeks or so. And you can hollow me out like a chocolate Easter bunny. We can even agree to a “no talking” thing, if you want. I have a similar deal with McNabb.

But please. Just give it to me. It’s lonely out on the road. See you in Room 301, sweetheart.

NOTE: Peep this video from Zubaz Pants.

Wade: Well, I do declare, that was one satisfyin’ win. But my goodness, this is one devil of a short week! I gotta get all this stuff done before those scrappy Jits come on in here tomorrow!

Hmm. You know… I reckon if I can get some of this game plan done NOW, I can leave work early tomorrow! Hoo wee, that’d be the bee’s knees! Hop in the car around 2, beat all the traffic, and be home to help the Mrs. Cook her famous sweet potata pie. Mmmmm, I can smell it comin’ out of the oven now. My, my, my.

Well, no time to waste then! Better get these papers in order…

Hmmm, suddenly I don’t smell sweet potata pie no more. I smell gun powder. And Cool Water! Oh, no…

(door flies open)

Jerry: YEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAW!!!!! YUMPIN’ YIMMINY YABBITY YOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Wade: Shit.

Jerry: Holy shitballs, Tubby! Did you see what my boy ROMO did to those dirty Redskins from DC! Scalped ‘em like a pilgrim’s child! Woo hoo!!!! Ooooh, I bet that little Danny Boy is still smartin’ over that!

Wade: Sir, I was just in the middle of…

Jerry: …An apple fritter? Shut up and listen, Jurassic Pork. You know what I bet that tiny little sack of shit if we won on Sunday? Do ya?!!

Wade: No.

Jerry: I bet him a weekend house! Ha ha ha! Can you believe that deluded little shit went for that bet? My flabby friend, I am now the proud owner of 300 pristine acres in the Wyoming valley! I got the deed right here! SIGNED, SEALED AND DELIVERED TO THE DOUBLE-J! Yeeeeehaw!!!!

Wade: Wonderful, sir.

Jerry: You know what I’m gonna do with all that land, Shirley? I’m gonna BURN it! Picture it, Jemima: A raging wildfire as far as the eye can see! And poor Danny Boy can’t do shit about it! Then I’m gonna make all our players wear a patch on their uniforms that says, “Hey Danny Boy, your daddy is still dead!” How you like that shit?

Wade: Very exciting, sir. Listen, if you don’t mind. I have to finish up our game plan for the Je…

Jerry: You aren’t finishing up jack shit, Crisco Kid! Hey, I like that! The Crisco Kid! It’s funny because you’re fat and sad! I wanna know why you aren’t taking your etiquette classes with Princeton Boy!

Wade: Sir, we have a very short week. I don’t have time to waste with these silly…

(door opens)

Garrett: Yes, I would imagine such things would seem rather silly to you. Why, I’m surprised you don’t have a napkin tucked into your collar this very moment. Surprised, indeed.

Jerry: Jason, my boy! How are you? I hope you’re ready for Thanksgiving at the ol’ Double-J ranch!

Garrett: Oh, quite. Muffy has prepared a wonderful mince pie for the occasion! And I brought a special Sauterne I thought you and I might share!

Wade: Wait a second. You invited HIM to Thanksgiving and not me?

Jerry: Well of course I did, you big fat shit! I can’t invite you when I have OTHER people there who also need to eat! I’m not lettin’ you turn my house into your own personal Golden Corral!

Garrett: A wise decision, sir.

Wade: It’s not fair!

Jerry: Well, maybe if you took Jason’s etiquette course seriously, you’d have found yourself on the invite list, Queso Dip!

Garrett: Indeed. You could use the training, my good man. Why, just look at my star pupil!

(door opens)

TO: Hello, Mr. Garrett. Hello, Mr. Jones.

Jerry: My God! You are like the goddamn dog whisperer, Garrett!

TO: (holds up croquet mallet) Would you gentlemen care to join me on the lawn for a set?

Wade: He’s faking it! He lit Terence Newman’s shoes on fire just yesterday!

TO: Why, Wade! Whatever dost thou mean, old chap?

Jerry: Looks like you could use some tips from ol’ TO here, Fathead. Since my boy GARRETT has worked with him, he hasn’t caused any trouble. Or sucked any cocks!

TO: (nervous) Yes, yes! No cocks of any sort!

Wade: Fine. I’ll take the goddamn course.

(four hours later)

Garrett: And the salad fork goes on the…?

Wade: On the far left. The dessert fork goes on top.

Garrett: Very nice, Wade!

Jerry: I’ll be damned! It’s like seeing a hog dress up in black tie! You done good, Sergeant Stretch Marks. That’s why I’m going to give you a reward.

Wade: What?

Jerry: You get… A TICKLIN’!!!!

(tickles him)

Wade: (laughing) No! Sir! Hahaha! Please stop!

Jerry: WHAT’S THE PASSWORD, FATTY?

Wade: Iced tea!

Jerry: LOUDER, PIGGY BOY!

Wade: ICED TEA!

Jerry: I CAN’T HEAR YOU!

Wade: ICED TEA!!!!!

Jerry: YEEHAW!!! WHOOPADEEDOO!!!!!! I AM FUCKING CRAZY!!!!

Details are scarce in the alleged scrap between sidelined Titans teammates Albert Haynesworth and Pac Man Jones. We all know Haynesworth will stomp your dome in a fit of roid-fueled pique. But Jones’ tormentors often find themselves dodging bullets.

Police accident reconstructionists say the melee probably looked exactly like this:

NOTE: This post was written by Captain Caveman, who is currently stuck at Panera Bread and must abide by their draconian firewalls, which do not allow him to post on Blogger. Nevertheless, our man Ufford is willing to make great sacrifices for a good slice of Asiago ciabatta.

I’m spending the week with my sister and her husband in southern Maryland. It’s nice here: lots of trees, and I get to spend a lot of time with my niece. Other than that, it’s hard to find nice things to say about the area. We’re at least an hour and a half from the nearest train station/airport/urban center, and getting a wireless signal is goddamn next to impossible. And my sister has two cats. I’m allergic to cats. Every time I visit it’s a non-stop search for the right cocktail of antihistamines that allow me to breathe without feeling like someone’s sitting on my chest. Fucking sweet. Anyway, I watched most of the game last night.

- I tune in at 9:00 p.m., just after the Stokley catch-and-run TD. The Broncos’ Glenn Martinez gets sprung by a monster block by the Jamie Winborn that actually takes out two Titans. It’s great to see Hispanics making it in the NFL. All those Spanish telecasts are really paying off.

- An all-new Grey’s Anatomy event! Thursday on ABC! There’s an ambulance crash, or something! Not shown: estrogen-fueled blubbering.

- “Sam Adams the player, not the beer I should point out.” – Tony Kornheiser. Nice one, TK. I made that joke in 1994 when the Seahawks drafted him. I was in high school.

- Bo Scaife: definitely the name of an American Idol contestant.

- I stop by the living room where my sister and brother-in-law are watching television. “Is this Two and a Half Men?” I ask, incredulous. “Dancing with the Stars went to commercial,” they reply. Oh, well now it makes sense.

- End of first half – Shanny attempts the infamous clock block timeout. Bironas misses the first attempt, then makes the second. Fuck you, Shanahan.

- Halftime has the “Fastest 3 Minutes in Football.” What’s the fucking rush? How about a nice, leisurely ten minutes of highlights? This goes for you, too, Sunday Night Football. If I wanted to watch people flap their cockholsters I would have gone to law school. So just shut your fucking mouths and play the highlights.

- A lot of people really don’t like Kornheiser in the MNF booth. I’ll admit he’s not perfect, but Jesus Christ: remember Joe Theismann? Remember Theismann with Mike Patrick? Mike Patrick makes Tony Siragusa look like William Safire. I refuse to file an official complaint about Jaws and Tirico with TK.

- A VY pass deep down the seam goes straight through Bo Scaife’s hands and hits him in the face before falling incomplete, at least the third crucial drop of the night. It’s like Seahawks-era Joey Galloway, Koren Robinson, and Jerramy Stevens have reunited in Titans jerseys tonight.

- Martinez fumbled punt + short field + VY TD after review = 27-17 Broncs. I leave to walk my dog.

- End of the 3rd quarter. Despite an early evening Claritin, I’m still laboring to breathe like Big Daddy Drew on an elliptical machine, so I take a mild “Anna Nicole Kennedy”: NyQuil flu gel-caps chased by whiskey. I don’t have much interest in seeing how the game ends anyway.

- Who is Andre Hall, and why did he just run for a 62-yard touchdown? If there were Wi-Fi in this godforsaken house, I could pick him up for my fantasy team, where he could do nothing at all in the coming weeks. Damn you, Shanahan!

- The Broncos have the ball at midfield with a two-touchdown lead at home with ten minutes remaining. The Titans could come back… but they won’t. I’m going to bed.

Shawne Merriman got freaking killed by Maurice Jones-Drew. Merriman has nine inches and 70 pounds on Mojo, but it doesn’t keeping him from getting his ass dropped like a sack of dirt on this play. While Merriman was otherwise occupied, David Garrard threw a TD pass to TE Marcedes Lewis. Not a typo. “Marcedes.”

But the biggest hit taken in Jax yesterday was by Philip Rivers’ rep. That guy folds like a K-Mart pup tent. I think he could get psyched out playing skee-ball. Chargers fans might want to start organizing that road trip to Tijuana.