I must say, that had to have been one of the more satisfying Steelers victories since Super Bowl XL. Of course, it would have been nothing without smug, self-satisfied comments by Pats fans leading up to the game, especially those appearing in Pittsburgh publications.

Aw, that’s cute. Too bad Matt Cassel fell about 230 yards short of that 400-yard mark. Oh yeah, and he turned the ball over four times. I’m sure Randy Moss feels vastly disrespected by the footballs that bounced off his hands. But, yeah, he’s still the best there is. Unless the game matters.

I’ve watched Gus Frerotte for 9 games now. And there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, apart from the fact that he enjoys throwing picks in the ugliest manner possible: The man’s expression never, ever changes. You see him playing ping pong here? That’s Gus at his absolutely most excited: he’s damn near orgasmic in that shot. No one is able to look both intense and confused simultaneously quite like Frerotte. I’m telling you: the man has chicken broth running through his veins. Do your worst, Bears. There isn’t anything that can’t disorient and baffle this man. Even if Orton were to shave his neckbeard…

Orton is the only person I know whose looks are IMPROVED by rocking a neckbeard. Look at him in that shot. Would you even hire that guy to get lunch for you?

Anyway, tonight’s game will go a long way to deciding the “winner” of the NFC North. This week’s SI confirmed, through tape study, what I suspected all year: that the Vikings only employ one route for Visanthe “Oops!” Siancoe (the seam route) and never throw downfield to anyone but Bernard Berrian. What a tough team to game plan for! They’re the children’s restaurant place mat of offensive scheming.

The first time I ever met a Patriots fan was 10 days after my 20th birthday. It was week 1 of the 2002 season, the Steelers and Patriots held the first-ever regular season game in Gillette, a rematch of the previous season’s AFC Title Game. Only where I was watching the game, there wasn’t one of them, there was somehow a crowd of Pats fans. I honestly couldn’t believe it. Where had these people been during the run the previous year? Or, more to the point, at any point ever?

Back in high school, I remember a discussion me and my friends had about which team jerseys you would never see anyone wearing in public. We hashed out the following: the Cardinals, Jaguars, Seahawks and Patriots (I’m sure the Texans would join that list if it were made after the 2002 season and the Seahawks would probably be off it now). Granted this was made by a bunch of teenagers outside D.C., so regional factors had something to do with it, but of all those teams, the Pats had the least excuses. They had been to two Super Bowls. We were on the East Coast, hardly far from their territory. Red Sox hats, those were easy to pick out. So why not even so much as one Bledsoe jersey?

It’s not as though Pats fans didn’t exist, but the only place I ever stumbled upon them was AOL chats when the Steelers and Patriots exchanged playoff wins in ‘96 and ‘97. Still, the change from near nonexistent fanbase to ’90s Cowboys-esque bandwagon practically overnight was staggering and unlike anything I’d ever seen in sports.

I didn’t hate the Pats after the ‘01 loss, at least no more than the Chargers and Broncos teams that had won in the playoffs in Three Rivers in the ’90s. The gloating, smug fans I’d met in ‘02 got the hate ball rolling. Then as the years wore on, the fans got more omnipresent, the team got more cocky, more fawned upon by the media and added dicksmacks like Corey Dillon, Rodney Harrison, Vince Wilfork and Randy Moss.

Anyway, all of this is a long way of saying I hope every Pats fan gets run through with a broadsword so they can watch their viscera leak all over their goddamn John Lynch jerseys. Go the most ethnically diverse corner of Hell, you racist Masshole fucks.

Also, the NFL is encouraging me to embrace my hateful impulses this holiday season by scheduling the Steelers against the Patriots, Cowboys and Ravens the next three weeks.

Giants-Redskins highlights the early slate. Plaxico Burress was already out of the game with a hamstring injury, but expect lots of talk about his accidental shooting. Some have already started speculating about possible legal consequences for Plax if he is found to have possessed a handgun illegally. But knowing what a stickler for the rules Plax is, we aren’t too worried about it. Also, Brandon Jacobs will be back in the lineup this week, after screwing a million fantasy teams last Sunday when he was a last-minute scratch. (Not that I’m still bitter or anything.)

Tampa Bay and New Orleans is the only other sexy match up among the early games. Elsewhere, the Panthers bring their smoke-and-mirrors show to Green Bay. The Bills and 49ers will be playing to determine once and for all who has to claim OJ Simpson. The resurgent Colts will be tuning up the ass-kicking machine in Cleveland. Regional viewers will have to sit through the Dolphins-Rams and Ravens-Bengals. You have my sympathies.

[ Thanks to LSUfreek for the creeptacular image ]

PLAX SHOT Reports are flying that Giants WR Plaxico Burress suffered a self-inflicted gunshot wound last night. Word is Plax spent the night in the hospital after accidentally shooting himself at a club. Damn, here I was thinking my weekend sucked because of all this leftover turkey, at least I didn’t shoot myself.

Make no bones about it: Washington, D.C. is an ugly city.  Oh, not the city itself — L’Enfant’s vision for a noble capital city is wonderfully realized with wide avenues and stately marble buildings.  I’m talking about the people.

The old saw of “Hollywood for Ugly People” is all too true.  The only people who might be superficially attractive there are the collar-popping set: uptight bitches in pearls and cocky jackasses in the douchebag uniform of khakis, blue blazers, and floppy “punch-me” haircuts.  Want an idea of how ugly DC is without the eyesore of going there?  It has the highest percentage of sports bloggers per capita of any major American city.

Oh yeah, DC: you ugly.  You ain’t got no alibi.

All this makes the existence of the Redskins Cheerleaders that much more remarkable.  They are wildflowers growing through the cracked asphalt of a vacant lot.  Like the duck-billed platypus, they are mysteries of nature, miracles of evolution, creatures too confounding and perfect for scientists to explain.  And there’s a whole lotta evidence of that after the jump.

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Jesus, Mary, and Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat: Ocho Cinco was up before dawn to shop at Best Buy this morning:

Ocho Cinco makes his way through the Best Buy store in Florence, Ky. He said was in the store to buy coach Marvin Lewis a gift. Seen with a Rock Band kit, portable stereo and a Cuisinart four-slice toaster, Ocho Cinco said, “I’ve been trying to call coach, but he doesn’t answer.” It was 5:25 a.m.

As I said over on With Leather, the only way that list of items could be better was if it included some Michel Gondry DVDs.

But you know what?  There’s a lotta shit in a Best Buy.  That list of items/potential Marvin Lewis gifts could probably be WAY better.  Since we’re lazing through the day, we’ll open up the comments for what else Chad should be buying at Best Buy.  Please include your reasoning and imagined Ocho Cinco commentary if necessary.

So what if all three of my Super Bowl titles are tainted? That’s three more tainted titles than you’ve ever won, you fucking piddling career backup.

You think you can turn this fanbase against me? Best of luck, kid. I made this fanbase, fashioned it with the sheer force of my rugged handsomeness. Before Feb. 3, 2002, there wasn’t anything but a bunch of empty fucking aluminum bleachers in Foxboro Stadium and maybe – MAYBE – a few bored Red Sox fans. I made the goddamn Patriots. Turned them into a brand and gave it meaning. You’re just keeping the throne warm. Shit, half the Massholes who follow this team think you spell your last name with two L’s. Still, YOU think you can be the man?

Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh. O-kay.

But now clueless pundits are on the cusp of defining my legacy as a system quarterback. Some fucking thanks I get for my 50 touchdowns last year. And like you look even half as good in your White Sox cap as I look in my Yankees hat when I’m parading around the streets of New York. God, I love that town.

If it weren’t for that asshole Bernard Pollard. That dick. For months I’ve thought of nothing but the furiously rakish grin I’d shoot that guy if I saw him again. And how fast I’d run to the sideline if he looked offended by it. That should be me out there against the Steelers. Shit, I’m 5-1 against them. No one, and I mean no one, is better at talking shit to the fourth safety on their depth chart then running away like a bitch when James Harrison shows up than I am.

I’d like to see you act like that much of a cunt today. In your moistest dreams, Moosetard.

And I know you’re the one who put all this extra bacteria in my knee.

[Sighs]

I want my perfect life back.

Apparently Jim Fassel’s declaration of absolute fealty did little to sway Count Al, as the coach is now a candidate to take a job in the CFL. All he has to do is beat out 16 other candidates, including super cereal Canuck hero, Doug Flutie. The stakes are indeed high, but at least Canada is a place where obsequiousness is appreciated, so maybe he has a leg up after all.

Two of the NFL’s more hackle-raising fanbases convene at the stadium where it now costs a small fortune to tailgate (it’s gotten so bad even Simmons hates it! Oh heavens!) to renew their recently one-sided rivalry. The rest of the NFL will no doubt be pulling for the meteor, while a game full of postseason implications plays out before thousands of breathless dickheads. So hold your nose while you pick WHO YA GOT?