We’re running on a bit of a skeleton staff here this week with Drew getting a rum and coke enema at the Cape and flubby out with his traveling band of hillbilly bears, so we’re doing our best to keep up with the travails of the gayest QBs in the NFL, many of whom are struggling to reach an understanding, or even climax, with the objects of their affection.

Courtesy of Hot Clicks is Bretty Boy going for his own Lloyd Dobler effect.

Before even that, Jeff Garcia visibly bore the frustration of a hopeful yet strung along bride-to-be when he discusses a possible Favre liaison with that philanderer Jon Gruden:

“Jon Gruden hasn’t given you an answer yet?” Garcia said. “He loves quarterbacks. But he likes to just date. He doesn’t like to marry.”

Silly goosey Garcia, don’t you know how stereotypically promiscuous the gays are? You dumb old queen, let a real man, like Brady Quinn show you how to work it. He’s not concerned with settling down, not when his calves are looking so good in those black tights! Woooo! Look out, the other six gay guys in Ohio! Brady’s ready to stalk you in the night like a cat.

Help! Please someone, help me! I’ve been taken hostage by Jon Gruden and the Bucs! You’ve got to do something! They’ve locked me in the basement, and placed a ball gag on me! And they often spend all day tickling me. They’re so strong and rough! I can’t take the sheer ecstasy!

Oh, it’s terrible, the conditions they’ve left me in. Just the other day, they placed me in a barrel and made me fellate members of the staff! It was heaven… I mean, it was terrible! And sometimes, they whip me! They tie me to a post in the “Love Brig” and take out their long, leather whips, flaying me across the back as a man in a gimp mask tickles my balls! And they just whip me and whip me until I’m begging for more! No, please! I can’t take these kind of earth-shattering orgasms! It’s just like “Kiss of the Spider Woman”!

This is all Jon Gruden’s doing! He’s an animal! With his sun-bleached blonde hair, and his rippling muscles, and his husky voice, and his take-charge attitude! This man is a monster! No one can resist his charms! Oh, how I wish I were free from his mesmerizing spell! But he’s just so… so very dreamy. Can’t you see how he’s managed to enslave me somewhat against my will?

You must help me! I cannot get out of this terrible cycle of lusty pirate BDSM. The abuse is just so horrible, and titillating. Just last week, they stuck a feather up my ass! God, how I hated it. And loved it. No, I hated it! No, I loved it! I HATED THAT I LOVED IT! GAHHHHH!!!!!

SET ME FREE, BUCS! LET ME GO FROM THIS HORRIBLE, WONDERFUL OBSESSION! QUIT PLAYING YOUR IRRESISTIBLE SEX GAMES!

How long’d I play there? Four years? And you couldn’t have let through just a few measly gay nuptials? Same old story. Shit, I played in the CFL until 1998, then Canada went ahead and legalized gay marriages in 2005.

I mean, it’s not that I’m gay or anything. Heavens no. We’ve been through this. Straight as something that is universally thought of as straight. That’s what I am! There’s nothing I enjoy like some wet and wild heterocourse, which is what I like to call it when I’m smoking a cigarette after I get done totally giving the sex to my lovely, lovely wifely-type person. That girl, man, she’s so pleasing to what is considered men’s popular taste in women. Right? Thinking about her just makes me sexually excited in a macho way that thoroughly dispels questions of my sexual preference.

Back in San Francisco, I remember spending endless nights talking with T.O. discussing about what it would be like when the ruling came down. We were such bold fiery progressives in those days.

Then he went to Philly and Dallas, had some emotional problems, got involved in porn AND WHY DIDN’T YOU CRY FOR ME AT PRESS CONFERENCES, ELDORADO, MY LOST RECEIVER OF PASSION!?

Whhhhhhaaaa? You got something for mmmmeeeee? Nnnnnnoooo, you shouldn’t've, YOU BIG SILLY.

Oooh, thank you, thank you, you big huge Mister Mansssssss. Now I forgive you for all that nasty talk you was giving me on New Year’s Eve. You always knew I liked to be debased just a lil’.

That’s right, put down that gushing bottle of EAS and come give me some sugar, cuddlefish.

And don’t think I forgot YOUR gift.

Is it possible that the Manning family is growing tired of all this football business? Well now that Eli has overtaken Peyton as the dominant brother under center the whole family is poised for a move in a whole new direction.

Somebody over at NFL.com just became my new hero. Apparently Elisha Manning is questionable for today’s game against Green Bay and Britney Favre…

But don’t worry Indy fans, Petunia Manning is healthy and flowering.

Note: Eli’s birth name is actually Elisha Nelson Manning, oddly enough he’s always gone by “Eli”…just don’t tell NFL.com’s Injury Report guy.

HT: Sexy Sarah at Strike Zones and End Zones

It was just last week that we were first able to gaze upon GQ’s latest photo stylings of some of the NFL’s hot young quarterbacks. This week, as is the natural progression of Internet Things, come the Photoshopped images (all courtesy of our good friend 289).

Your move, Dan V.

As noted elsewhere yesterday, this month’s GQ places its gay gaze upon six young quarterbacks tagged — though not necessarily destined — for stardom in the NFL.

These photos are not to be underestimated. GQ is the magazine that gave us Tom Brady hugging an adorable baby goat, which we bloggers appreciate, as years of goat-fucking jokes have helped us cope with Dreamboat’s three Super Bowl rings and model-banging ways.

So, with Dreamgoat as our benchmark, let’s take a look at the photos and see which ones will stand the comedic test of time.

Oh, Brady Quinn. It’s not his fault he’s this good-looking, you know. Here he evokes the classic brooding handsomeness of James Dean. Sadly, despite Cleveland’s offensive line, football protective equipment is too effective for us to realistically expect a tragically premature death.

Am I the only one not sold on JaMarcus Russell? Here he is walking away from the jet he couldn’t buy because he hasn’t signed a contract yet. This picture won’t be truly funny unless Russell is a colossal bust and ends up a pauper. And given the state of the Raiders, I like those odds.

Cowboy Tony Romo as a cowboy. This photo actually wasn’t set up by GQ; Romo is a ranch hand in the offseason in order to maintain credibility with girlfriend/country star Carrie Whoever. It’s also the best job a degree from Eastern Illinois can get you, unless you actually want to be a high school music teacher in Nauvoo.

Matt Leinart lounging at the pool with a hot chick? It’s a little hard to believe, but I guess I can go along with it. Here’s part of Leinart’s interview with the magazine:

GQ: Okay, what’s the biggest perk of your job? And don’t be like, “I get to play in the NFL.”
Leinart: Well, you get a lot of free stuff. You get free clothes, and you get people who want to give you free suits.

GQ: Okay, but your suits are too big on you.
Leinart: You’re crazy.

GQ: I’m crazy? I work at GQ.
Leinart: No, you’re right. I’ll take your advice on that.

I love the way Leinart comes off as an easily swayed simpleton. It’s part of his charm, I’m sure.

Ben.

Ben, Ben, Ben.

Somehow I’m not buying into the smooth film noir private investigator image. Is it the drunk photos all over the Internet? Is it the Miami of Ohio background? The helmetless motorcycle crash? The too-carefully-groomed goatee? The organ failure? Yes. All of that. Plus I think this (surprisingly) not Photoshopped picture more accurately portrays the man who steers the Black and Gold:

I choose to disagree with your shirt, sir.

(Thanks for putting up with all the gayness in the post. Here’s a cheerleader for your patience. Her name is Keela Harris, and it’s best if you not try to figure out if her head has been superimposed on the picture.)

I don’t know what you’re doing right now, but I highly recommend you click here this instant, with all due haste. Readers at Fark decided to have a Photoshop contest using this photo of Tom Brady. The result? I’m fucking dying. Some highlights:

Photoshop credit to Fark artistes squrrelco3, Earguy, voopa, Man On a Mission, and i-dig

Recently, there’s been much some ado about Brady Quinn’s preposterous holdout, in which the draft’s #22 pick has yet to report to training camp because he and agent Tom Condon feel that Quinn deserves top-ten money.

And I think we can all say in unison: Fuck Brady Quinn. I feel like carrying a claw hammer around in my bag so I can brutally murder people on the subway. I feel like my taste and judgment should be respected to the point where I could euthanize freely without prosecution. But guess what? The world isn’t run by the way I feel about things, so the people who cut in line at clubs because they think they’re fucking special get to enjoy another day without their skulls turned inside out.

And you know who’s on board with me here? Our main man Peter King:

It isn’t just the front office that’s frustrated with Quinn. Players are usually business-will-be-business guys, but I got a sense a few of his teammates think Quinn is out of mind for not being in camp. And he shouldn’t expect a welcome mat whenever he arrives…

Bottom line: The Browns would love to serve up on a silver platter the quarterback job to this Ohio golden boy, but he’s probably within two or three days of getting so far behind, it would be hard for him to catch up and earn the starting job before midseason.

And you know what that means, NFL fans? It means several more weeks of THE CHARLIE FRYE EXPERIENCE.

In other words, bookies are already scrambling to find new numbers large enough to set the spread in Browns games. Can they cover eleventy? Doubt it.

But hey, outside of that autograph signing thing and missing his chance to become the starter right away, Brady’s at least a home-grown boy winning over the locals, right? Right?

Well, according to Cleveland native and longtime Browns fan Brian… no. Brian wrote us last weekend (July 27th, to be precise) to tell us of his encounter with Quinn (the veracity of which we of course cannot verify). But in the true spirit of Internet rumor-mongering, I include Brian’s lengthy email in near-entirety below, partially because it sounds plausible, but at least partly because I felt we should reward the first person to ever send us an email that was free from rampant grammatical errors, misspellings, and incoherent thought.

Having just turned 21 in February, this summer has been my first real exposure to the Cleveland bar scene. In a word: not that sweet. Regardless, last weekend I was at a popular place in the Warehouse District called the Blind Pig. My friend and I were checking out the skirt population (which was not that sweet either) when out of the corner of my eye I notice a pretty big dude with beautiful brown locks.

I said this at the time of the draft, and this anecdote only reinforces that belief: Brady Quinn belongs in Cleveland as much as Michael Vick belongs in an animal hospital. The guy is a snobby pretty boy asshole with no concern for his fans or the town. Joe Thomas? The guy who gutted a fucking trout on ESPN during the draft? He’s a Cleveland Brown.

Also a Cleveland Brown? Charlie Frye. He exudes the quiet crappiness that the team and city have come to represent. Have fun this season, Cleveland.

(Thanks to reader Dan V. for the Photoshop.)