As the whole country sweats this financial bailout stuff, New York Magazine has turned its focus on the story we’ve so desperately wanted uncovered: “Golly, what ever has happened to those poor Lehman Brothers traders?”  The whole story is worth your complete disdain, but here are a few choice selections:

Like many on Wall Street, the Trader’s career was moving along briskly. By 2006, he had settled into a new $2 million house in Connecticut with a pool, and kept a pied-à-terre in Manhattan. With two young children, he had private-school tuition to cover. He had recently completed a home renovation, and now there was talk of a new porch with a built-in stainless-steel barbecue. The Trader estimated that he was two years from making enough money to retire and never have to work again.

In other words, the guy next door. A real average joe. I hardly know him, yet I already have a bottomless well of sympathy for him.

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It’s been a while since we rolled out new merch on the site, but we’ve finally put together a shirt we’ve been wanting to for some time: one that properly commemorates the sideline assignation that started it all. It’s the ideal apparel for making unwanted advances in very public settings. Preferably while strug-ga-ling.

I hope you assholes know how lucky you are. While you’re sitting there enjoying this sexy Friday I’m conducting inventory in a 100,000 square foot warehouse from the crack of dawn until I bludgeon myself to death with a clipboard.

Oh, and if you’re not into Bengal fans sporting fake grills or Eagle fans flexing/buffalo stancing/attempting to fart continue after the jump for additional sexiness.

Anyway, on to the picks!

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Once teammates eons ago, Brett Favre and Kurt Warner will face off Sunday in what some wags are dubbing the Geriatric Bowl. Hey, way to be ageist, guys. Old people can do stuff. For instance, they’re bankrupting the country with Social Security! And they’re good at Wii Fit! Which superannuated quarterback can strike a blow for seniors’ rights? WHO YA GOT?

I’d like to think that somehow William Clay Ford, Sr. saw this video through his monocle and deemed it the last straw for Matt Millen. “Egad, if a long-time fan like Mike Baby, who has been with us for a whole eight years, doesn’t want to fucking talk to the Lions anymore then I must terminate Millen’s employment posthaste!”

In case you missed it, here’s a recap of Mike’s BITCH LIST:

* Jon Kitna
* Calvin Johnson
* Jeff Backus
* “The Rookie”
* Dude who tries in vain to rally support for the Lions

Ha! That white guy told the black guy with the funny accent to “Go home!” That’s some original shit right there. And you know what the black guy did? He totally got into his Camry and drove back to Berrien Springs. In your face!

When you have the rush-rush lifestyle of an NFL superstar, you find that you really have trouble taking time to enjoy the simple pleasures. Grabbing lunch with friends. Catching a double feature at the local theatre. Working on a house project. Strangling your wife with an extension cord while kneeing her in the ribs. It all gets lost in the mix.

That’s why during this two-week suspension, I’m really going to commit some time to savoring the beatdown I’m administering to the missus. I might even hire a decent videographer to capture it for us. It’ll be something we can treasure when we get old and want to look back. Presuming I haven’t killed her by then, that is.

Sure, the off-season is fun for marathon sessions of ritualized beatings until she’s lying trembling in the bathtub wrapped in the shower curtain and weeping like a child. But what about the five months a year when we have to settle for a quickie me-pushing-her-down-the-stairs before heading off to practice? A good marriage requires commitment.

This is really something I want to push on the team. Recently, I’ve told Eli I’d really like to pummel that cute wife of his. He’s not so sure. I tell you, that’s a warning sign right there. Can’t blame him, though. You really do get caught up in the grind. I can’t understand why so many retired NFL players are susceptible to depression when they have so much time to dedicate to beating their spouses to a pulpy mess.

So, thanks, Coach Coughlin. This suspension might be just the thing to save our marriage. But if you tell the fucking cops, they’ll find parts of you in each of your desk drawers.

Here are some things that pissed me off this week:

- When someone’s dog is barking, and the owner doesn’t try to make it stop.

- When I’m driving in the center lane of a highway, and people pass on the right even though the left lane is clear.  Fuck you.

- Sarah Palin’s voice. Jesus Christ. Every time I hear her stupid cunty accent I want to cave in a retarded baby’s head with a brick.

- Hearing someone tell a story the second time.

- Sometimes I’ll walk my dog, and some bitchy mommy will pull her two-year-old back and be like, “Connor! Watch out, it’s a dog!” Yeah, a domesticated dog that’s better behaved than your little fuck trophy. Who’s destined to become gay, by the way.

- T.J. Houshmandzadeh. What gives you the right to have a monster day when you’re sitting on my bench? Thanks a lot, asshole.

- Contracts. Why do I have to print something out and fax it? Do you have any idea how hard that is for someone who works from home? You think they worried about this stuff in the Middle Ages? No. People just PayPal’d each other for whatever services were rendered. Like, chain mail repair and wench rental and stuff.

- Motorcycles. Do you ride a motorcycle? Guess what, you’re an asshole.

- New York City airports. You know, in San Diego, the airport is right next to downtown, on a piece of prime real estate right on the water. It’s probably a huge loss to the city in terms of potential revenue… and it is AWESOME. You can be anywhere in the city and get to the airport in, like, five minutes.  JFK and LaGuardia and Newark can all go get fucked.  I say pave Central Park and make it Ufford International.  Brilliant idea, or brilliantest idea?

Anyhoo, this week’s Meast is Ronnie Brown. 117 yards and five touchdowns to end the Patriots’ 21-game regular season winning streak with an embarrassing blowout in Foxborough?   Yep, that’ll do.

Int. Romo’s apartment

[phone rings]

Tony: You got Romo!

Peter King: Hey Tony, how are you doing today?

Tony: Oh hey, Peter. I’m good, I’m getting ready for Sunday’s game.

Peter: I bet you are, I bet you are.

Tony: Yeah…so what is it you’re calling about?

Peter: Oh you know, I just wanted to chat.

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I know what it is you need to endure another weekday of drudgery: bloggers painfully stammering through satellite radio interviews! Last night I was on Relentless on Sirius 98, Hardcore Sports Radio for a few minutes to lend some halting commentary on the state of the AFC and, for some reason, to advocate for Brandon Marshall as our next KSKharacter! Enjoy.

Until recently, I thought Peter King reserved his breathless enthusiasm for the likes of Brett Favre and Tony Romo. But that was before Drew brought this week’s slurpfest regarding Marriott’s exercise rooms and breakfast buffets to my attention. Then a question struck me, is it possible King effusively fawns over every single thing he enjoys even slightly? Well, today we got our answer…

“I was on the way home yesterday, trying to make my way from the baggage claim to the taxi stand at LaGuardia. Between my bags and a hot cup of Peet’s Garuda Blend, I had my hands full. It was then I saw someone outside walking towards the same door I was. Now here’s the stunning part, this nice gentleman—who didn’t know me from Adam– actually paused to hold the door open for to exit before he walked in himself. What a guy! I mean, he didn’t exactly open the door for me because it was already open, but he kept it from closing in my face. He had on a sharp-looking pine green J. Crew shirt—he looked like a million bucks! As I approached, I caught a slight whiff– just a faint aroma, mind you, nothing overpowering by a man of his quiet dignity, of his aftershave (it must have been aftershave as he didn’t strike me as a body-spray or cologne type of guy).

Under his arm he carried a book, and even though I couldn’t see the title, I’m sure it was something quite literate and heady—but not pretentious. No a chap like this could never be pretentious. He gave me a slight smile as I passed. Not one of those “gee, aren’t I a prince” grins, just a slight “hail-fellow-traveler-well-met” uptick to the corners of his mouth. In an earlier age, he might have even given me a quick doff of his fedora.

This guy surely has a beautiful wife, a couple smart little kids and a hearty pot roast waiting at home for him, yet he takes time out of his busy day to help out a complete stranger. Keep your eyes on this up-and-comer, America! I wouldn’t be surprised if that fellow winds up in the Senate someday. Just a super, super gentleman from whom we could all stand to learn a thing or two!

Oooh, and let me tell you about the young lady at Baskin-Robbins…