With two short weeks left in the regular season, the playoff picture is coming ever more into focus, but that doesn’t mean this postseason Gordian knot is all the way untangled. Four teams in each conference are in, but four coveted spots remain. What follows are some scenarios in which the following teams can back their way into opening round losses.

NFC

The Giants can clinch a playoff spot if:

Eli Manning’s Citizen Eco-Drive watch instructs him how not to implode drives.

OR

Sinorice Moss applies backward running skills to backing into playoffs.

The Vikings can clinch a playoff spot if:

Knute Rockne disinvents the forward pass.

OR

Bill Simmons concocts an even gayer nickname for Adrian Peterson.

The Redskins can clinch a playoff spot if:

They rally around the memory of Sean Taylor.

OR

They aren’t overly burdened by the loss of Sean Taylor.

The Saints can clinch a playoff spot if:

Electrifying back Aaron Stecker continues to live up to all of his draft day hype.

OR

Martin Gramatica enlists cadre of Gramaticas to kick the teams ahead of them in the shins.

AFC

The Steelers can win the AFC North IF:

They’re interested in preventing a Christmas Ape killing spree.

OR

Sean Mahan gets breast implant tattoos on his arms to distract the rushers he can’t block.

The Browns can clinch a playoff spot if:

Romeo Crennel’s decision-making coin tells him so.

OR

I jerk it for a while to this girl and it happens while I don’t notice.

The Titans can clinch a playoff spot if:

Fuck. Again? I just blew my load on the Browns girl.

OR

Neither of these teams have fans this attractive.

I was utterly perplexed when I read this morning that Ray Lewis is, in fact, Jewish. Maj says it’s utter bunk, but maybe he just doesn’t want to claim God’s linebacker. Nonetheless, it says so right on his Wikipedia bio– so it must be true. Happy Hanukkah, Ray.

Jewish? Cool. But Ray as a mohel ? We think not.

-You gotta be fucking kidding me with this new Rambo movie. This is the kind of movie that gets 100% of its financing from the Bulgarian mafia. Sylvester Stallone is made primarily of plaster-of-paris at this point. There’s one other problem with this movie. The original “First Blood”, which was about a traumatized Vietnam vet reacting to a bully sheriff like a wounded animal, was a really fucking good movie. Rambo didn’t WANT to fuck shit up. He was forced to. Now they’ve got him blowing shit up to Drowning Pool songs. Kinda goes against the spirit of the original.

-Last night’s game featured the Vikings in purple pants. They looked like gay Ravens.

-Nothing says the holidays quite like the word DUH. As in, “It’s obvious… that these Hyundai ads are getting really fucking annoying. Shame on you, Jeff Bridges.”

-They showed Adrian Peterson’s dad in the stands last night. He looked about 2 years older than Purple Jesus. Which reminded me of this:

-I think I’ve had enough of Dewey Cox for right now. “Walk Hard” looks funny and all, but we’re getting into fucking “Bee Movie” terrain with this promotional shit.

-I know we rip on ESPN a lot here, but I thought last night’s telecast was pretty damn good. Yeah, the game was a total fucking abortion. But what was nice was that Tirico & Co. happily acknowledged it. One time after a Bears penalty (their 5,000th of the evening), Tirico blurted out, “This offense is AWFUL.” When the fuck did Mike Tirico become an interesting person? That sounded more like the Mike Tirico that wants to fuck women on top of cars. I want to get to know THAT Mike Tirico better.

-Apropos of nothing, I am far too liberal with wiper fluid. If there’s a particle of dust anywhere one the windshield, I fucking crank that shit for all it’s worth. I think I just really like watching it squirt out. I must be gay.

-Kyle Orton looked exactly like Martin from “Knocked Up” last night. No, Coach Smith, Kyle didn’t have pink eye. He was just really hiiiiiiiiiigh.

-I have a friend who has another friend who is roommates with Orton. Apparently, Orton was very displeased about the prospect of starting for the Bears, because it meant the end of the gravy train. He knows he isn’t good enough to be a pro QB, and that he looks far more appealing on the bench than in a real game. I love Kyle Orton.

-I find it funny that IBM’s new tagline is “Stop Talking. Start Doing,” yet their ads don’t sell any kind of actual product. In other words, they’re just bullshit. I’m not sure any company has spent more on advertising without actually selling something than IBM.

-One of the fun things about being a fan is, when my team plays well, I say to myself, “Holy shit! They’re fucking great! They’re never gonna lose!” Then the next week they play like shit and I say to myself, “God, they fucking SUCK. They’re never gonna get better unless they fire everyone. FUCK THEM.” I have no attention span at all, despite knowing better. But I think that’s what I LIKE about being a fan: The ability to turn on my team at the drop of a fucking hat. It’s really quite fun. My Vikings suck, by the way.

-I saw Krayzee Eyes Killah in a K-Mart ad last night. He did not ask the big blue light if he liked to eat pussy. Though I bet the blue light could do quite well down there, what with the illumination. He knows where he’s lickin’!

-They went through all the Bears QBs since McMahon last night. Each of them makes an excellent “Use an obscure player as a punchline” reference. Steve Stenstrom? Oh, that’s funny.

-There were black Viking fans!

-Brad Childress apparently showed the team a video of a group of water buffaloes scaring off a lion before the game. What better way to motivate the team than to ask them to emulate an animal so weak and pathetic it needs 30 of its kin to fend off ONE other animal.

-Look out! It’s the Fastest 3 minutes in sports! The highlights are shaking! They’re using filters to make the games look grainier! Oh my God, IT’S SO INTENSE!

-And you thought I overpraised Adrian Peterson. Holy shit, did he enter Favre and Vick territory last night. I’m surprised they didn’t have an ice sculpture of him in the booth with them. Jesus.

Nice going, DAD! Way to shit the bed against the Jets, DAD! Great job fucking my fantasy team in the finals with 140 yards and zero touchdowns, DAD! Thanks for not covering the 90 points and pissing away my five grand, DAD! Thanks for letting the doctors snip off my fucking ropecock, DAD!

I hate you! I never want to see you again!

Well, alright, let’s calm down here. I guess I can concede that I wasn’t seeing you much to begin with, so I think we need to have a little man-to-infant chat here. We both know that you make Matt Leinart look like Jon Kitna when it comes to raisin’ pups, ya dig? So what about we make a little dealio here: I’ll keep this “shitty father” business to myself and you don’t blow my trust fund on some diamond thong for my future stepmother. Okay? Pinky shake? Yeah, you’re pinky’s as big as my whole fucking hand, so why not?

Oh, by the way, when are you and Mom getting back together? She gets really excited when you’re on TV. She has a ritual, she locks herself in her room to watch the game with one of the landscapers, yelling “Go deep, baby! Go deep!” I didn’t even know there was a TV in that room. But I see tears of joy on her face every time you guys win!

It hasn’t been that bad with you gone; Mom brings over these hot-ass fucking nannies to help change me. Sometimes I’ll just shit myself as soon as the doorbell rings so these bitches get an extra shot at rubbing my ass crack. No more tears, indeed.

Oh, and one of my teeth came in last week, Dad! Look! This tooth is gonna–LOOK AT MY FUCKING TOOTH, DAD! Thank you! This tooth is 1/20th of my future million-dollar smile, which works out to, oh fuck, what’s a cool mill divided by 20? The fucking abacus on my crib doesn’t go up that high. Hey, hand me that little globey thing with the balls in it that I like to mow the carpet with.

Oh shit, I forget, I’m not that old yet.

Billick, your ass is so fired.

10 years, Jesus.

10 long fucking years.

I have played fantasy football for ten years now, and I have NEVER won a title. Ever. You would think that, despite my unyielding incompetence, I would have at least won a league one time by default. But noooooo. I only made the playoffs for the first time last year.

But this year was different. This year, I had amassed a fantasy squad of such astounding talent and depth, that failure almost seemed impossible. My lower round draft picks were excellent. And I made all the right pick ups, playing guys like Kolby Smith and Kenny Watson the weeks they had their best performances. I even pulled off a trade for Steven Jackson. By the end of the regular season, I had a first round bye and was averaging over 100 points a week.

My two main keys to success? Tony Romo and Terrell Owens. They produced nearly every week. Until this week. WHEN THIS FUCKING TALENTLESS COCKLEECH SHOWED UP IN THE COWBOYS LUXURY BOX WITH HER SHITBOX FATHER.

“Oh look, Daddy! The cameras are on me again! I’m gonna smile and stick my tits out now, just like you instructed me to! Is this good? HEY Y’ALL, I’M ON THE TEEVEE! The plastic surgeon you hired was great, Daddy! Ashlee and I look like the Olsen Twins more than ever! This game’s boring! I’m hungry! (eats six containers of own lipstick) Do you think I need to get my hair dyed again, Daddy? There’s a racing stripe going down my head!”

My boy Romo was doing juuuuust fine until this big-titted tiki idol showed up yesterday. Fucking Jessica Simpson. Fuck. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!

You just HAD to show up at the stadium, didn’t you, you fucking Redneck Yoko. You just had to be seen cheering on your new boyfriend wearing A GODDAMN PINK COWBOYS JERSEY. I hate the fucking Cowboys, and even I was offended. I get it, sweetheart. Your career is fading. You’re not gonna stay on top much longer. I get why your dad ordered you to fuck a rising NFL star while he watched. I get that you have to help up your profile.

BUT YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO GO TO THE FUCKING GAME AND THROW OFF MY BOY’S CONCENTRATION, YOU VACUUM-HEADED CUNT.

I won yesterday’s game against Leitch, but fucking BARELY. I got a championship date with UM this coming weekend, and this fuccubus is throwing a wrench in it all. Now, if I had lost, I was going to wish cancer on Jessica, Howard Stern-style. I was going to pray to Jesus to infect her blood with some form of hideous cancer cell. And for it to reside deep in her bone marrow, quickly growing, turning black and sprouting hair, nails, and teeth. I was going to pray it would then metastisize, spreading to her lymph nodes, colon and uterus. So that she would have to endure round after round of painful chemotherapy.

But I did win, so that seemed inapporopriate.

So, dear Jesus, let us instead pray for Jessica Simpson to come down with a severe case of leprosy. Jesus, I know I don ‘t pray to you often. And I know that, when I do, it’s usually to wish bodily harm upon an innocent being due to fantasy football-related hardship, and that you’ve never answered a single prayer of mine, especially that one I made back in 5th grade about wishing I had a friend.

But I am praying to you now, Jesus, with all the strength in my heart, to give Jessica Simpson leprosy. Today. May it quickly proceed to then rot her body, causing her to lose fingers, toes, ears, and the like. May she be too dumb to understand what is going on with her body, and that she fails to consult a doctor before it is too late. May my boy Romo then immediately dump her sorry ass under the misunderstanding that leprosy is highly contagious (95% of all people have a natural immunity to the disease). May Jessica then be quarantined on a remote Pacific island, where she is then forced to marry Tree Man.

Please do this. I know your God is a vengeful God, and I have naught but vengeance in my heart. This female Brick Tamland has put my fantasy season in severe jeopardy, and I demand satisfaction.

You have my phone number. Let me know when thy will is done. I’ll be listening to “(Antichrist Television Blues)” while I wait.

Thanks to AA for the screen cap.

I cannot believe what I am seeing here today. Not one, not two, but four different cheeses on this pizza. And that’s on top of dough and sauce, the fundamental elements of this entree.

Look. At. That. When you think of the history of pizza, you almost automatically think of one cheese, but here we have mozzarella, gorgonzola, parmesan and what’s this? Ricotta? This is really something else.

Would you believe the complete mastication on display here by my jaw? I’ve been eating pizza for a long, long time and very few times have I seen the mandible and maxilla working in such perfect harmony. And the digestion is just about to start.

I’ve finished seven slices so far and there are about eight slices in this pizza. Once I eat that eighth, THERE WILL NOT BE ANY LEFT.

What does the waiter over there have to be thinking? He sees me having finished my pizza. Does he offer to refill my 128 oz. Pepsi or the accompanying 86 oz. of Dr. Pepper? Maybe he even brings me the check. This will be a really interesting decision that the waiter has to make.

Boy, do I ever have a lot of pizza lodged in my mustache! If I could get that wrapped in a to-go container of some sort, THAT WOULD BE SENSATIONAL. What incredible foresight by me to save all this pizza in my mustache. I might have some to finish on the way to my car.

Look. At. That.

The Friday Cheerleader Post