It’s the first NFL game being simulcast by two major networks since Super Bowl I, and the first ever in which reserves will play a prominent role. No matter which station you tune into, you’re getting the same feed of the NFL Network’s dolorous Bryant Gumble dronefest. The winner of the ratings showdown is more in doubt and probably just as consequential as the winner of this game. WHO YA GOT?

Come next Tuesday, there comes the tedious ordeal that accompanies every New Year: buying a new fucking calendar. They’re all fucking terrible. Puppies, ponds, bridges, hair metal bands, Mega Man villains — I can’t commit to any of them. It’s the same reason I don’t have any tattoos or girlfriends.

There’s also that first awkward 15 days or so when everyone dates everything ‘07. I got out of a speeding ticket two years in January despite being clearly guilty of going 30 miles over the limit because the officer dated the ticket the previous year. Thank you, legal loopholes.

Oh yeah, and make resolutions for the new year, but that’s always an insincere nod to tradition, right? Wrong-o, fuckface. Apparently a bunch of NFL figures have pledged to do great in ‘08 and here’s how:

Bobby Petrino resolves to… aw, fuck it.
Brian Billick resolves to make the world more in accordance with his perfect design.
A.J. Smith resolves to hire Brian Billick.
Wes Welker resolves that he’ll win over that Boston fanbase yet.
Joe Damato resolves to point out that the people mentioned in this post didn’t actually make these resolutions, moron. It’s not even 2008 yet.
Roger Goodell resolves to scrap the NFL Network in favor of 53 channels each dedicated to a different player on the Patriots.
Devin Hester resolves to petition the Competition Committee to establish as inbounds all areas within 2 miles of the playing field.
Brett Favre resolves to stop hinting at retirement, sometime around never.
Travis Henry resolves to stop procreating…right after this last bitch pops one out.
Bryant Gumbel resolves to watch more football with his boyfriend as a way of bonding.
Derek Anderson resolves to choke again only after signing his big contract in the off-season.
Bart Scott resolves to choke more people.
Emmitt Smith dissolves to start sneaking more dearly.
Jason Elam resolves not to get left behind.
Philip Rivers resolves to yell at fewer employees at the Apple Store, people on the street, old ladies, trick-or-treaters, dogs, Chargers fans and mailboxes.
Tony Romo resolves to do that thing with his lips. You know, when it gets stretched taut from one side to the other? What’s that called? Oh yeah: mouth raped by Peter King.
Marty Schottenheimer resolves to win every game in 2008 for his new team. Wait, the playoffs would be in 2009? FUCK.
Willie Parker resolves to bounce back from injury, reverse field, run backward 10 yards then get back to the line of scrimmage for no gain.
Kyle Orton resolves to shave…time off his two-minute drill.
Sean Mahan resolves to block…all the spam from his Gmail account.
Roy Williams resolves to move to Europe, where tipping is unnecessary and the quarterbacks are refreshingly secular.

I don’t know shit about music, so self-indulgent and recherche year-end lists only give me a host of things to download and inevitably become disappointed by. Don’t feed me that LCD Soundsystem bullshit. I got duped by the fawning praise accompanying their first album and fucking hated it. Drew and Ufford loved them some The Hold Steady last year and I could never get into it.

Movies are another matter entirely for me. I glory in compiling ten best lists and breathlessly debating them with my friends. I worked as a film critic for my college paper, which was fantastic. I never had to go to the newsroom, except to swipe screening passes and I saw everything those two years.

The frustrating aspect of film lists is that you maybe get three or four potential good-to-great films before October. So everything is packed into a three month period when movies are battling with football for weekend free time.

I’ve painstakingly, despite not seeing all the movies I’ve wanted to see this year, narrowed down my list. Here goes:

1. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
2. Juno
3. No End in Sight
4. American Gangster
5. No Country for Old Men
6. Ratatouille
7. Breach
8. Zodiac
9. The King of Kong
10. Knocked Up

Honorable mentions: Superbad, 300, Eastern Promises and Darjeeling Limited.

Commenters would like to add that 3:10 to Yuma, Gone Baby Gone and Once – none of which I saw – are worthy of inclusion.

I’m trying to save room for There Will Be Blood. Feel free to tell me how wrong I am in the comments. At least Drew isn’t around. If you ever meet him, let him know how much you love the movie Brick.

Anyway, your Meast is Ben Roethlisberger, partially because I’m doing all the posts this week and I can pick anyone I damn well choose and also because he put up his NFL record-tying third career game with a perfect rating against the Rams, which was also his second this season. All that, despite the fact that he’s the most frequently sacked QB in the league this year and his offensive line is composed of gauze and Alan Faneca. He may even get an MVP vote. Huzzah!

Bill Simmons likes to harp about Roethlisberger being referred to only as “Ben” by the announcers, because Simmons’ mind has been eaten away by feline AIDS and being penetrated in the ear by J-Bug. Perhaps this grating-only-to-Simmons phenomenon has to do with the announcers not wanting to slow down the flow of the game calling by having to pronounce his four syllable last name in every sentence.

[Monolithic big box store of your choosing]

Customer representative: (sucks teeth) NEX’ I’ll take nex’ over here.

Cam Cameron: Hi, I’d like to return this Trent Green.

Customer rep: You got a receipt?

Cam Cameron: Yeah, right here.

Customer rep: (sucks teeth) I’m sorry, SIR. Returns are only good for 30 days. This here says you got this back in June.

Trent Green: Bananaface toytown August runs. Makeshift gearshift Total Recall. Seven come eleven rafting trip. These are not actually Beck lyrics.

Customer rep: You must be ow’chor damn mind. HE BROKE. I’m sorry. We cannot accept this return, SIR. NEX’

Bill Belichick: mumblemumblemumble

Customer rep: You gonna have to speak up, SIR.

Bill Belichick: I’d like to return this shirt.

Customer rep: What’s wrong with it?

Bill Belichick: I don’t need a second shirt.

Customer rep: (sucks teeth) Nuh-uh. You needs to give me some reasons for why the product is defective.

Bill Belichick: Well, for one, you’re a dirty cunt and I hope you die at this job.

Customer rep: Oh, that’s not even right. You need to get the fuck up outta here. NEX’

Wade Phillips: I received this voucher from my employer and I’d like to know how to redeem it.

Customer rep: (squints) “Good for one free stomach stapling for Gutbucket, the Christmas ham. Fattest wishes, Double-J.” Okay, you’re gonna go back to our cosmetology department. It’s behind auto repair and next to the pharmacy.

Wade: Ah, why thank you, miss.

Customer rep: Hol’ up. There’s more here. “To retailer: Upon redemption of this coupon, please refuse service to any bearer weighing more than 300 lbs. and have security piggyback ride him out of the store.” (squints) “Yeehaw…I…am…fucking…crazy.”

Wade: Of all the rotten luck.

Hey, what gives? I know we’re out of the playoff chase and suffered a crushing defeat Sunday, but have some goddamn pride, why don’cha?

Even the little Mexican guy who parks my car was gone. Same with the nice security man who lets me in the front door of the training facility. I had to practice my timing patterns in the parking lot with no receivers.

Lazy fucking bums.

Everybody knows Christmas is just some date that was assigned as Jesus’ birthday by Pope Bellicose V to coincide with some pagan winter solstice sodomyfest. But December 24 carries actual significance in the Christian calendar, for it was the day Jesus took a knee for our sins and created the most holy game of football.

Before the advent of the sport, bands of pagans amused themselves by catching fatal diseases, trying soccer and getting bored or playing Scrabulous on Facebook. People were getting restless with this “Son of God” business, saying that if he really was something special, he’d find a way to win in the playoffs after finishing the regular season with 13 wins every fucking year.

In his 20th year, joined by his 12 Apostles, Joe Gibbs, Jon Kitna, Tony Dungy, Mark Brunell, Kurt Warner, Deion Sanders, Adrian Peterson, Mike Singletary, Jason Elam, Tom Landry, Reggie White and Mike Huckabee, Christ did create the continent of North America so that the 13 of them could convene at a field house in Canton, Ohio.

“Behold, my brothers,” Jesus did say. “I give you football.”

He held aloft the oddly shaped object fashioned of cowhide leather but referred to as a pigskin. The Apostles wept as they regarded it. Tom Landry didn’t take off his hat, though, because he was a disrespectful asswipe.

“With this ball, shall ye line up 11 on 11 and attempt to take the ball to the opponent’s end of the Earth.”

The Earth back then was only 100 yards long.

“All that I ask of you is that you thank me for each win and each touchdown and not fault me for losses, fumbles or drive killing phantom holding calls.”

The Apostles agreed to do so.

“However, Man is not yet ready to accept this divine gift. Therefore I will create a race of lesser men to keep the grass of this continent in good shape – well, except Pittsburgh – until a football playing race of men is able to slaughter them and establish a multi-billion dollar league dedicated to bringing it to the masses at exorbitant prices. The Washington franchise will be given a name insulting to this breed of lesser man.”

“One more thing: you should slap each other’s asses while you play it,” Jesus said.

“Really? Slap each other’s asses? What are you, Jesus, gay?” asked Jon Kitna.

“Actually, yes. Yes, I am,” replied Jesus as he tongue kissed Esera Tuaolo.

Everyone seems to be pulling for the scrappy, defensively deprived Cleveland Browns to overtake the Steelers for the AFC North crown. Well, their vaunted offense is laying a Horse Ball sized egg in Cincinnati.

I bet Browns fans are pissed. Not as much as those who bet on the over in this game. Thought you were so smart, didn’t you?

We didn’t expect yesterday’s post about uber-dipshit Joe Damato (seen above, left, in an artist’s rendition) to go over so well. But, bless your adorable, shrunken hearts, you hated that bastard even more than we did.

That was a pleasant enough surprise, you hating him the way you did. But the blood diamond churned up by that post was the IMDb page of Joe D’Amato, who’s an apostrophe and about 200 pornos away from being our Joe Damato. Please, enjoy this sampling from Mr. D’Amato’s filmography:

Sperma Spende
Anal Perversions of Lolita… aka House of Anal Perversions
Raw and Naked
Sex Penitentiary
Robin Hood: Thief of Wives
120 Days of Anal
Homo Erectus… aka Jurassic Pork
Paprika… aka Anal Paprika… aka The Last Italian Whore
Some Like It Hard
Porno Holocaust
Blue Erotic Climax
Greedy Mouth
Erotic Nights of the Living Dead
The Smoking Cauldron of Virgins
Images in a Convent

Oh sure, laugh about Porno Holocaust. But you have no idea how many millions of sperm died during that genocide.

Speaking of sperm dying, I was looking for photos of NFL cheerleaders in Santa hats when my search was abruptly abandoned at this post at the Pro Cheerleaders Blog:

That’s Robin. This is the PCB on Robin:

Robin is the most senior Charger Girl and though she may be long in the tooth, she still looks hot in the uniform and gives it all when performing. I think if all Charger Girls give that level of performance and commitment, they would have careers as long and illustrious as Robin’s.

Ah, I almost didn’t realize this ancient hag was so close to menopause. I apologize. As recompense, here’s fresh-faced and fresh-everythinged rookie Heather:

Merry Christmas, KSKers. As flubby noted below, things will be a little slower than usual next week, but we’ll still get it up. Posts. Get posts up. On the blog.