If you think you’ve screwed your life up sufficiently, just relax. You’ll have plenty more opportunities to jam the proverbial shovel into the soily base of that sorry pit that you call a life, and dig yourself an even deeper hole. Then, when the judgement comes [clutches bible in one hand and shakes it vigorously in your direction], you’ll have to answer for all the bullshit thou hath wrought, motherfucker.

But suppose you catch a break, and someone upstairs decides to grant you one more chance to atone, to come on down and spin the wheel or answer that riddle or eat that bug or whatever the fuck. Suppose you were put on a game show, against other dipshits like yourself. But in this episode, your fabulous cash and prizes for winning would be one first-class aisle-seat ticket to Heaven, or your religion’s equivalent. If you’re atheist, let’s just say you’d get a nice watch.

And herein lies the basis for our latest summoning of the vox populi. You are selecting a game show that you will be forced to play to determine your future in the afterlife. And, as with any other half-assed stab at democracy, there are a few stipulations to consider:

Your game must be played against other people. Single-player game shows, such as Deal Or No Deal, are out. That game creates a conflict of interest anyway, as host Howie Mandel is, in fact, a minion of Satan.

You may select a game show that would team you with a celebrity or celebrities, or anyone you like. You are asked to specify who will be rounding out your team with your selection.

Reality shows shall be considered game shows for our purposes here, and may be selected, provided that your selections meet the aforementioned criteria.

Your game show does not have to have originated in America. You are expected to provide a link and explanation for games that may seem unfamiliar to the rest of us. Use hyperlinks; the spam filter will block your pick if you copy and paste a URL. Also, only one incarnation of any game show can be selected.

Wait at least ten picks before making subsequent selections.

I’ll pick first, and I’ll take the Nickelodeon classic Double Dare, since my parents were assholes and never let me go on the show when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure I can outsmart a couple of 12-year-olds. Kids are dumb! And since I’ll need a smart, athletic partner upon which to hang my hopes, I’m also picking USA Gold Medalist, Harvard alum, and Celebrity Apprentice veteran Angela Ruggiero.

This might be the first commenter draft where the post was longer than the picks. Either way, it’s your turn.

Sooner or later we all have to let go of our old clothes, no matter how treasured they are. Except my badass Jackyl ‘93 tour shirt. That thing will ALWAYS be cool, bitchez!!!

What you’re seeing is a camera phone pic of the Carolina Thunder softball team soliciting outside of the Wal-Mart in Travelers Rest, South Carolina. From what I can tell, the team is made up of 12- and 13-year-old girls, which you would only find interesting if you happened to be a Japanese businessman or a lonely junior high school teacher.

I hope this team is good at softball, because their soliciting outside of a Wal-Mart on a rainy day DURING AN ECONOMIC DOWNTURN WHILE THESE SPOILED LITTLE BITCHES ARE WEARING CUSTOMIZED PULLOVERS WITH NUMBERS ON THE BACKS doesn’t strike me as a positive PR move.

If I could openly give these young ladies some advice, it would be this:

At least make some remotely uncalloused effort for my donation. I don’t care what you do. FUCKING BAKE SOMETHING, maybe. Don’t stand in front of a discount store and hold an empty bucket in front of me and expect me to fill it. My Diet Sam’s Choice Cola gets higher priority over your dipshit redneck fuckface parents trying to make you feel important. It’s best you realize your place in the world now, so that when you get married at 19 and have three kids before you turn 25, you don’t have delusions that you could have amounted to something with your sorry little Dixie dick-gobbling life.

You can fill that bucket with a handful of kiss my ass. Fuck your softball team and fuck you.

As a father, I’m normally against the idea of slaughtering children. But I dare you to watch 20 seconds of this clip without resisting the urge to grab a machete and start playing “got your nose” for real. I bet these kids never even learn to read a fucking traffic light.

Not pictured: Peter King behind a music stand waving a conductor’s stick.

Though receiving scant attention from the mainstream press, Marvin Lewis yesterday was continuing his mentoring program with Cincinnati-area at-risk youth.

Marvin Lewis: Okay, glad you could make out here today, uh…

At-risk youth: Terence Hawkins.

Marvin Lewis: Terence, right. Okay, I’m gonna let you take over for a bit. We’re up 3-0. We stopped the Steelers on their opening drive, but now they’re moving down the field. This is a critical point in the game. Our offense is playing well, but we don’t need to play catch-up on this defense. Whaddaya got for me?

At-risk youth: Okay, right. Okay. Yeah. I think I remember what my mans was telling me to do last week. Let’s try this…Madieu Williams, spin around real fast.

Madieu Williams: Whoawhoawhoawhoawhoawhoawhoawhoawhoawhoa

At-risk youth: Cool. A’yo, Leon Hall. When Hines Ward makes a routine move to the inside I want you to run straight at that goal post.

Leon Hall: Goal post. Got it.

At-risk youth: Dhani Jones, take a seat.

Dhani Jones: Has anyone espied my copy of “Piscatorial Eclogues”? You would be ill-advised if you displaced my Dr. Cornel West bookmark.

Marvin Lewis: Okay, who are you subbing in for Jones?

At-risk youth: No one.

Marvin Lewis: But you only got 10 men on the field.

At-rish youth: ‘xactly. It’s called the 46 defense. Because four plus six equals ten. I learned that shit last week from the new Mick Boogie mixtape.

Marvin Lewis: What’s it called?

At-risk youth: ’s called “Four Plus Six Equals Ten.”

Marvin Lewis: What does tha–

At-risk youth: It’s about drugs.

Marvin Lewis: But you can’t have only 10 men on the field. It makes it easier on the offense.

At-risk youth: Nah, nah, coach. My man told me ’bout this thing, right. Like, he told me, if you play 10 dudes on dis down, you can play, like, 12 on the next and shit. And you if you play nine dudes…

Marvin Lewis: YOU CAN PLAY 13! Oh, man. That is genius. Yo, Bresnahan.

Bresnahan: Yeah?

Marvin Lewis: You’re fired. Terence here is my new defensive coordinator.

(Bresnahan shrugs, walks away without bothering to take headset off.)

At-risk youth: Aight. I’m thinking, like, we play, like, five guys per play in the second quarter, then in the second half, we can play the whole team on defense.

Marvin Lewis: Fantastic. If Tomlin didn’t wear sunglasses all the damn time, you could see the terror in his eyes.

At-risk youth: Yo, can I get your prints on this gun, right quick?

Pro Football Talk, which is always right about these things, is spreading the rumor that Matron Saint Suzy Kolber is preggers or with child, or whichever other gormless idiom you use for pregnant. I prefer germinated. It sounds less appealing that way.

See, Suzy, you start hanging around NASCAR and, before you know it, you’re having kids out of wedlock. Sure, ESPN’ll be cool with it at first, provided you name the kid Norby or Norba, then tighten up afterwards. They’ll have the finest vaginoplaster money can buy.

PFT hears it’s a girl, no doubt bound to be thick in the britches. But what of the name? JET Kolber? Turtleneckesta? Chevy Tahoe, Jr.? You decide, commenters.

UPDATE: We have an idea who the father is…

To atone for their various misdeeds and to burnish their image with the league, Chris Henry, Pacman Jones, Tank Johnson and Michael Vick met with Mrs. Plimsoll’s 4th grade class at Roosterhaven Elementary School in suburban Philadelphia to discuss proper conduct and comportment.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Okay, class. We have four special guests today. These men are professional football players that have gotten into some trouble and are here to explain to you what they did and why you shouldn’t do the same. We’ll begin with what each player did.

Tank Johnson: I got strapped. Then I strapped my house. Strapped my dog. Bought a second house so I could strap that. Shot somebody so I could worry about someone getting revenge on me, thus giving me an excuse to buy more guns. Worry that the guns I have would plot against me, so I bought more guns. You kids got guns? We’re not in Virginia, so I guess not.

Michael Vick: Oh my god. Am I back in elementary school again? This is great. I get to do finger painting and discover weed all over again. I don’t think that was until 5th grade, though. Maybe a little revisionist history is in order.

Pacman Jones: I tossed paper currency on an exotic dancer in a manner suggestive of meteorological precipitation. Then I had sex with her without saying “thank you.”

Chris Henry: Pick up the packet under your desk. Read items one through eight on my rap sheet. Don’t do them, ‘cept six, that’s still going through appeal in the courts, so we’ll wait on that.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Class, you may ask questions of Mr. Vick, Johnson, Henry and Jones.

Frankie Tompkins: Is your real name Tank?

Tank Johnson: Nah. It’s tracked armored combat vehicle. But that’s too long to stick on a gun permit, so I shortened my name and I also stopped filling out gun permits.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Students, doesn’t Mr. Jones’ name remind you of something?

Steven Showalter: Yeah, they had that game at the bar Chris Henry took me to last night.

Chris Henry: Which one of you kids asked me to pick up that pack of Spaten. Must’ve been that German kid in the back.

Mike Hunt: Mistah Jones, what causes the rain?

Pacman Jones: The rain is caused by one of three ways: these are known as condensation, coalescence and the Bergeron Process. But more often, it happens when my dick get hard and some freaky bitch twist her ass out.

Wendy Cappercan: Mr. Vick, why do you have doggies fight each other?

Michael Vick: I’m really glad you asked that. See, when at first I brought these dogs together, it was to get at the root of the pan-canine hostilities. We had doggie drumming circle, doggie art therapy classes, doggies team building exercises. Then we all sat down together, got really high and watched The Crying Game. Then Mr. Googily Eyes, Forest Whitaker gave that tale about the frog and scorpion, with the scorpion attacking the frog despite their need for one another and the frog saying, “Why did you sting me, Mr. Scorpion? For now we both will drown!” Then the Scorpion replies, “I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.” That really opened my eyes. Also, the dogs were kinda pissed about the transvestite stuff and wanted to work it out through combat.

Mrs. Plimsoll: That’s enough for the question period. To wrap up, each of the players will say what lesson they learned from their experience.

Tank Johnson: Obtaining guns is only the result of a more pressing problem, which is not owning enough guns.

Pacman Jones: Don’t make catchy names for your deviant acts. It only makes the punishment more severe.

Chris Henry: Don’t commit a whole bunch of crimes unless you’re ready to suffer the consequences. Like, being suspended for four games. So, try to keep at least a paycheck saved up in your bank account for times like that.

Michael Vick: Then the dogs come to me after the fight and tell me how freeing and natural the act of combat is to them. It really caused me to reevaluate a lot of things. Like, I’m trying to spend all this time reading these defenses when I could be talking to them, finding their true nature. I think at the end of it, the defenses realize that my place is in the endzone and they’ll leave me at peace there. Then we can get some defense drum circling going.