It’s the NFL offseason now, so you might think Peter King would go take some time off to, I don’t know, work the land, or discover strange new urinals to relieve himself in, or buy people free dinners and then remind them that he bought them a free dinner. You might think Peter would go on vacation at a tropical resort of some kind.

BUT PETER KING RESPECTS THE SUN FAR TOO MUCH TO DO THAT.

Instead, King has other things in mind.

I need to relive the Steelers’ last drive of the Super Bowl. I want to relive it.

I want to invent a time machine, and go back in time to tell my past self about the amazing drive I’m about to witness. Because my past self was far too busy asking the staff at Raymond James Stadium to refill the spinach dip bowl. Len Pasquarelli ate all the spinach dip. Good for him. Sick people need to eat. But where I come from, when the spinach dip goes empty, you refill it for people. That’s common courtesy, people. Raymond James Stadium employees, you have a long way to go before you get to work the Capital Grille.

4. Not sure I’ve ever heard John Madden as excited about a play as he was about Holmes’ winning touchdown catch. A guttural “UNBELIEVABLE” came out of Madden’s mouth when he knew Holmes had kept both toes inbounds and fallen to the ground in possession of the ball.

That’s far from the only guttural sound to ever come from John Madden’s mouth. Here now are ten others:

1. HUHHUHWHOA!

2. ITELLYABRETTFAVRE!
3. FRUH!

4. BRECHHH!

5. GUMMA!

6. AMAZEBOOM!

7. DUCKEN!

8. MUDDY!

9. PERFECTPASS! (spit when you say the P)

10. YOUSEETHAAAAA??!!!

Big Ben will never have a championship game drive like this again — 88 yards, trailing by three, final three minutes, starting with a first-and-20, eschewing anything like a play-it-safe mode, ending with one of the great clutch passes thrown in the NFL.

Lofty words. True words.

Look at the stature of my words!

Roethlisberger is an interesting case.

He’s the only person I’ve met who thinks jelly donuts are cultivated.

I’ve asked other quarterbacks — Peyton Manning, Brett Favre, Tom Brady — about big plays and big drives, and they remember tiny details. They’re like Tiger Woods going shot-by-shot on a Thursday round (particularly Peyton), able to tell you why he went with the three-iron instead of the four-, 278 yards out from the tall grass on the seventh hole. Not Ben.

He’s that special kind of retarded.

“I don’t remember a lot of the plays from that drive,” he said. “I just don’t remember things in great detail like that.”

“But I had a lot of fun out there playing volleyball against the Blue Jays.”

Roethlisberger has oversized hands, and when he pumped the ball to Moore, he did more than pump…

He worked the tip!

Quote of the Week II

“The Oakland Raiders are back. We’re going to go win football games and we’re going to be a playoff team. You hear me? I’m not afraid to say that.”

-Raiders coach Tom Cable, upon having the “interim” tag removed from his job title on Wednesday.

Oooooh! He’s so ballsy! Empty bravado from the Raiders? That’s such a refreshing change! OMG look! Coach Cable just rolled a pack of cigarettes up his sleeve! And he’s challenged the other teams to a drag race at the Point! THAT YOUNG TURK DON’T GIVE A DARN ABOUT NOTHIN’!

When I looked through it, there was actually much more we could have called if we wanted.
-NFL vice president of officiating Mike Pereira

When I looked through the tape, we could have been even MORE petty dipshits than we really were. You folks in the audience got lucky. We could have easily made that game last nine hours. So go fuck yourselves.

Enjoyable/Aggravating Travel Note of the Week

Sight to behold on the day after the Super Bowl at the Orlando Airport: Group of Steelers fans, getting ready to fly home, seated in the Continental departure area, waiting for a flight to Newark. They’re happy. They’re disheveled. One 40-ish man, portly, has a black Penguins T-shirt on, and he’s eating some chicken, and he doesn’t have a napkin, and when he finishes, he takes the bottom of his T-shirt, lifts it up, wipes his mouth with it — revealing a huge and hairy stomach –and then wipes his hands with it.

Yep. Quite a sight to behold. John Madden saw it and let out a guttural THATSJUSFOOTBALL. By the way, this is an accurate description of most any Steelers fan. You people are fucking pigs. I’m surprised you have time to yell out support for your team in between inhalations of gorgonzola fries. You people are the most down to earth people I know. And by down to earth, I’m mean you’re all so fucking fat that you can’t resist gravity enough to stand on your hindquarters. Oh, but you have six Super Bowl titles to brag about! Nice. I’ll be sure to congratulate you when you’re bagging my groceries.

I think everyone doing free-agent lists should add one name in pencil: Terrell Owens. I’ll bet you a month’s worth of lattes he’ll be free in six weeks.

Just doing my calculations… and yes, a month’s worth of Peter King’s latte supply WILL indeed fill the Caspian Sea basin. But at least he didn’t put his daunting crumbcake supply on the line as well.

I think Jon Gruden is absolutely, positively right. “Tim Tebow is a Wildcat who can throw. This guy is 250 pounds of concrete cyanide.”

Gruden would love to have him as his QB, only to dump him three weeks later for the first asshole available on waivers. Concrete cyanide, by the way, is by far the most effective form of cyanide. People can never tell if they’ve inhaled a cinder block or not.

(Todd) Haley first coached under Bill Parcells with the Jets, and this is the advice Parcells had for Haley when the pupil phoned the teacher for advice last week: “Don’t [screw] it up.”

That’s just the kind of first class advice I’d expect from Bill Parcells. “Oh, you got a new job? Hey, don’t fuck it up. Or I’ll rape your wife’s mouth. I know how to motivate people. Where’s my frozen custard?” But that wasn’t the last piece of advice Parcells gave Haley:

-”Hey, win lots of games and shit, you fuck.”

-”Run the greasy slope plays when you can.”

-”Don’t fucking lose, asshole.”

-”Win a Super Bowl, cuntfuck.”

The man is a master.

I think some of you might not agree with me, but I’m boycotting the worst all-star game in sports history, the Pro Bowl. You’ll have to look elsewhere to read about meaningless nothing.

Okay, let me look elsewhere for meaningless nothing. Oh, here it is in the next paragraph!

8. I think one of the biggest MMQB fans on the planet, Michael Whelan of New Orleans (formerly of Detroit), got married over the weekend and deserves a kudo or two, particularly for finding such a lovely gal in Emily Edwards. But Michael: No invite for the Kings of Montclair? Come on!

So if you’re an aspiring sportswriter, children, be sure to follow these simple rules:

1. Always use your column to privately address people no one in the audience knows or gives a shit about.

2. And BE SURE to bitch people out publicly for not inviting you to their wedding

We sat home Saturday night and watched Casablanca!

It’s this cool new movie I just saw! Have you heard of it?

How dare you not invite Peter to your wedding, Michael. He could have come in, talked on his Bluetooth the whole time, bitched about the free food, and then written about the traffic. NEW ORLEANS, YOUR TRAFFIC IS OUT OF CONTROL.

David Beckham should be ashamed. Nice message he sends to his children and to the soccer community full of children by signing a five-year contract with Major League Soccer in 2007, opening a soccer academy in California, then trying to walk out on the deal last week because he likes his new team in Milan. Play hardball, Don Garber. Get a ransom for the bum.

How dare Beckham commit to one team, then leave it twisting in the wind as he decides whether or not to leave them? Brett Favre would NEVER do that. Not with all the Junior Percocet clinics he’s helped set up in South Jersey!

Nice friends you’ve got there, Michael Phelps. Even if a total stranger snapped that photo at the University of South Carolina, the mercenary who took it and sold it should be more ashamed than Beckham.

THAT’S THE KIND OF PERSON WHO WOULD LET A KIT KAT MELT.

e. Whoa, Coldplay. Heck of a performance at the Grammys last night. Tremendous. That’s a band I need to see.

I never knew music could be so sterile and lifeless! Move over, U2! I’ve got new harmless background music for all my affairs!

(SIDE NOTE: I watched the first two minutes of the Grammy Awards last night, when U2 debuted a new song. And apparently, that new song is “Wild Wild West” by the Escape Club.)

f. Nice week for Jennifer Hudson, starting with the National Anthem at the Super Bowl and ending at the Staples Center with a live performance at the Grammys. Gutsy.

You define clutch. And if you also define loose, Peter may have to undo his belt.

g. If I don’t see Gran Torino soon, I’m going to scream.

THE EXTORTION CONTINUES! I BET MERRIL HOGE AND MARK SCHLERETH GOT TO SEE IT! THIS IS BULLSHIT!