I’m the most sensitive person in the world to people hating on my team, but I can’t resist this deranged video comparing the Steelers unfavorably to the New York Yanks football team. If you say you haven’t heard of the Yanks, you’ve clearly been sleeping, because according to this video, they practice on a tropical atoll and have won 12 Super Bowls compared to the Steelers’ paltry three. Not only that, but the Yanks have a much more macho dead celebrity trainer and a thugged out Ben Franklin on their logo. Hate to say it, but: advantage Yanks.

Tip of the hat to PSAMP for digging up this honey mustard sauce-dipped nugget of concentrated insanity.

The Wall Street Journal takes a moment away from cranking out my pointillism portrait to remind us that the Cleveland Browns of Baltimore were almost named the Baltimore Marauders, which rolls off the tongue similarly enough to “murderers” to just maybe work. But, alas, the team took the name of a scavenger bird that figured heavily in a famous short story poem written by an author who had little connection to Baltimore other than the fact that he was buried in it. Unless, of course, they took their name from that WCW wrestler, which, while quizzical, but would explain a lot of the sulking of the fanbase. Or Raven Symone, who, like Ray Lewis, started out as a charming little girl, but then killed some folks (I’m assuming. She does work for Disney) and gained way too much weight.

/Charm City looks okay when you’re driving past it on 95
//that’s a lie; it still looks wretched
///has no use for Baltimore other than to make tasteless jokes about Chinasaurus

For all the readers who hate my onslaught of homerism on KSK and want to see me get my comeuppance, today may be your lucky day. Because there is no ending to the Steelers season that could be more embarrassing and soul-crushing than losing a fourth straight AFC Title Game at home to the shithead Ravens. 0-16 wouldn’t be as bad. Losing the Super Bowl, while immensely disappointing and painful, wouldn’t be as bad. Ravens fans can explain a loss away by saying where they got was a lot further than a rookie quarterback and a rookie head coach should have taken them. Steelers fans have no such fallback. Well, they can always complain that that Palamuuluu guy wasn’t totally healthy.

But with great risk comes great reward. The Steelers can go 3-0 this season over a hated rival and 2-0 against them in the playoffs. For all the talk of how promising Flacco looks, Ray-Ray, Terrell Suggs and Bart Scott are all free agents this year. Their best receiver, Derrick Mason, turned 35 yesterday (Why weren’t Ravens fans celebrating his birthday? Quick guess: He’s not white). This could be the Ravens’ best chance for a while.

I’d love to be here to live blog it for you (that’s a lie) but I have to brave the crowds in D.C. to hit the bar on the Hill. So enjoy the bloodbath in open thread form. And, hey, the only home win in an AFC Championship Game in the Cowher era did come against a Harbaugh brother.

Why is Phil Simms the only guy in that booth still doing the headline games?

Earlier this season, I enumerated just a small litany of ways in which Baltimore would barely qualify as a third-rate bombed-out township in the Gaza Strip. I could continue to list these ad infinitum, though I fear my hate would consume all of existence.

More than being possessed of a massive persecution complex that results in them being massive dicksmacks, I loath Baltimore fans for their false sense of toughness. I’d like to think that’s what rooting for a bunch of talk-talking, post-tackle-dancing, bounty-hunting drama queens will do to a fanbase, but I fear the problem runs a little deeper.

An instructive story:

I was at a game at an interleague game at Camden Yards in the spring of 2004 (this being still when the Or-ee-oos were the closest available MLB team to me) during the brief period when the Ravens were trying to orchestrate a trade for Terrell Owens which he nixed in favor of going to Philly (even T.O. isn’t dumb enough to want to play for the Ravens). The game was between the Giants and the Orioles, yet an entire section of Eagles fans had gotten tickets for the express purpose of chanting “WE GOT T.O.! WE GOT T.O.!”

Yes, at a game between the San Francisco Giants and the Baltimore Orioles, a group of Eagles fans had bought up an entire section at a baseball game and driven in just to taunt people from Baltimore about a football transaction that had taken place in the off-season. And this wasn’t a quick little chant. It went on FOR FOUR FULL FUCKING INNINGS! And nobody tried to stop them, save shooting them the occasional ugly look.

See, I respect the doucheiosity of Philadelphia fans. Because they’re legitimately scary. Truth be told, I’d be nervous attending a game at the Linc wearing visiting team colors. Not M&T Bank. Sure, pretend hard-ass Ravens fans will threaten you plenty if you show up in a road jersey. Stabbings, ass-kickings, other vague and unconvincing intimations of violence, what have you. And they’ll act on exactly none of it.

Because behind their (FEARSOME!) purple camo and plastic chains, they’re a bunch of exurban bitches wracked by insecurity. And guilt for having stolen a franchise. And the trademark Baltimore inferiority complex. And a Who’s Who of infectious disease.

Oh, how I hate them and everything in their city.

Okay, that’s not entirely accurate. I enjoy The Comics Curmudgeon guy. His wry take on the daily funnies never fails to brighten even the darkest day. The best part about him? His work is on the Intarwebs, meaning one need not visit Lord Baltimore’s herpetic lesion on the Chesapeake Estuary to access it.

For the rest of Bawlmer, let me extend to you my fondest Festivus greeting:

DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE

Preferably getting capped in the street like Bodie.

The Cowboys are in the process of being, to quote Emmitt Smiff, “blowed out.” Ben Roethlisberger was hurt (grrrr), the Patriots are on the verge of being eliminated with an 11-5 record. The Bucs lost to the Raiders. Detroit is 0-16. And the era of Favre is drawing to a close.

When asked by a reporter why he thinks the Ravens hate everyone’s favolite smalt smirretime leceivel, Hines Ward was at a loss. After all, the Ravens put a bounty on him then issued a bullshit denial to the media so they wouldn’t get suspended. After mulling it over a bit, Hines gave a very telling answer:

Hating Hines’ smirre? That’s like hating puppy dogs, big luscious titties or The Dark Knight on Blu-Ray. It’s impossible. And here I thought I was capable of unreasoning hate. You Ratbirds are sick! Sick, I say!

Anyway, I’d like to wish dick/vaginal rot on the NFL scheduling people for moving this game to the 4 p.m. slot. See, I was out of town for my mom’s birthday back in August (getting yelled at by Warren Sapp), so I promised I’d take her to a play or concert of her choosing. Well, there was a lot of conflict in our schedules, but eventually she picked Trans-Siberian Orchestra at Verizon Center on Dec. 14. “Wait! That’s the day of the Ravens game.” Luckily, there were two shows, one at 2 and one at 7:30. Being a Smarty von Smartpants, I got tickets to the later show, figuring, “Hey, I won’t be able to go up to Baltimore again for the game (not like it helped the last three years), but I can still watch it at the Steelers bar. It’ll end at 4, then I’ll have plenty of time to mosey over to the restaurant and meet by mom for dinner at a quarter to 6.” Of course, I didn’t count on getting schedule-raped by the NFL. Fuckers.

MMOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM C’MON! IT’S THE MOST IMPORTANT GAME OF THE YEAR! GAWD!

I could probably watch the first few drives before I have to leave, but I’m not going to torture myself like that. If I watch so much as the opening kickoff, there’s no chance I’m leaving until it’s over. Therefore, I’m DVRing this bitch, keeping my phone off and ignoring any person who tries to converse with me about any subject, lest they somehow tip the score. And don’t think the idea of eating the $100 I spent on the tickets and telling my mom to go with someone else hasn’t crossed my mind. But noooooo I’m a good son (YOU HEAR THAT, KARMA!?).

Fuck.

So, yeah, I’ll be having fun pissing off my neighbors by yelling at my TV from 10 ’til 1 in the morning. And bear in mind that if the Steelers lose I won’t be getting your gloating comments for a while, so you might want to address them to Future Ape. He’ll fume at them in due time.

Your regularly scheduled WHO YA GOT? is being canceled postponed in favor of a liberal application of hate directed at Baltimore. Happy Holidays.

The NFL is finally catching onto the fact that the Steelers and the Ravens comprise the most heated rivalry going in the league right now. It’s got everything: hate, threats of violence, bragging about violence when it’s administered and two cities that have nothing better to do than obsess over sports. As someone well-versed in the ways of petty yet all-consuming hatred, I can tell you this is good shit.

Sure, the Ravens as a team are a band of craven tough-talking thugs who put out bounties on players after they lose, but there’s so much more to despise. Like the city they play in, for instance. It’s just like Richmond, Virginia, only with professional sports teams and more murder and syphilis! Here’s a quick rundown from me, an unabashed hater who wishes they all die while watching a screening of Hairspray.

FUCK YOU to Bart Scott. At least Ray Lewis has actually done something with his career, so he can get away with killing folks and dancing after every tackle. But you, you’re a poor man’s Carlos Emmons. Nice 1.5 sacks this season, superstar.

FUCK YOU, Rex Ryan, you giant goofy mongoloid. Way to stick around the team after getting passed over for head coach in favor of someone who looks like he’s 17. I bet he polishes off six bacon cheese rolls by kickoff.

FUCK YOU to the Chesapeake Bay. It’s not even a bay. “Behold the majestic estuary and its wiped-out crabbing industry!”

FUCK YOU to Cumberland, Dundalk, Frederick, Hagerstown, Towson, Calvert County, Annapolis, the Eastern Shore and all the other places the white people of Baltimore fled to rather than live in scary, scary Charm City. Enjoy your commute to M&T Bank in your frightening VW Bugs, you Old Bay-seasoned dicks.

FUCK YOU and your blubbering excuses. “Oh, Steelers fans only overwhelm M&T Bank Stadium because no one lives in Pittsburgh anymore.” Sure, Pittsburgh has lost 300,000 residents since the 1950s. You know another city that has lost 300,000 residents in the same time span? Baltimore.

FUCK YOU for taking pride in The Wire. “Hey, someone made a compelling drama about how our city is an unlivable, horribly mismanaged hellscape! B-MOOOOOORRRRREEEE” I hope you get left in a vacant townhouse.

FUCK YOU, Barry Levinson. Diner is overrated and Avalon is treacly garbage. Why can’t you make Baltimore-gets-nuked movies like Sum of All Fears?

FUCK YOU, Cal Ripken. Way to have your production slip so you can keep your precious streak going. And Carrie Fisher admires the way you’ve let yourself go, Iron Ham. On top of all that, you were the childhood hero of A-Rod. He kept a poster of you in his bedroom as a kid. That’s right. You’re A-Rod masturbation fodder.

FUCK YOUR alternative black uniforms. Notice how the Ravens incorporate more black into their lame jerseys seemingly every year? Quit copying the Steelers, you festering purple lumps of Grimace shit.

FUCK YOU for stealing Edgar Allan Poe. He’s more connected to Philly than your shit town.

FUCK YOU to 20-year-olds in Johnny Unitas jerseys. The Colts have been in Indy for almost a quarter century and they aren’t coming back, except to beat the Ravens in the playoffs. Even if you were born before 1984, you sure as shit weren’t around for Johnny U. Give it up.

FUCK YOUR aquarium. It’s the only good thing in that pit of despair you call a city. No wonder it costs $800 to get in.

FUCK YOU, Michael Phelps. You were retarded on Colbert last night plugging your ghostwritten book, just like you were on SNL, Entourage and the million other shows you’ve been on in your post-Olympics overexposure tour. I hope you die in the middle of a desert miles away from any body of water, you awkward dolphin dick.

FUCK Francis Scott Key. Thanks for giving dipshit Baltimore fans an opportunity to scream OOOOOOOOOOOOOO during the Anthem.

FUCK YOU, Natty Boh. Disgusting fucking crab juice of a beer. And it’s not even brewed in Baltimore anymore. Why don’t you take pride in a more hometown drug, like heroin laced with AIDS?

And lastly, FUCK YOU, purple camo pants, if only I could find you. You blend so seamlessly with your surroundings. One day I’ll track you down.

DON’T HATE ON FISHER HOUSE THOUGH! This week, we’re holding the second annual KsK Kares Kharity Drive for Fisher House, which helps build temp housing for disabled veterans and their families. You can donate directly to FH here.

With no Marion Barber, Romo will have to keep his throwing pinkie warm, as the expected wind chill at kickoff in Pittsburgh is going to be in the neighborhood of 7 degrees. In the meantime, I’d like to extend a hearty fuck-you-in-the-pants to NFL Network for playing Super Bowl XIII on loop all weekend, you jinxing assholes.

So how are Dallas fans dealing with yesterday’s news that Barber will be absent? Cautious optimism tempered with wisdom and restraint?

I love you, dipshit Cowboys fans. Don’t ever change.

Somehow this is only the third meeting between Steelers and Cowboys since Super Bowl XXX. Reading the chapter in Boys Will Be Boys about the game exhumed some rather unpleasant memories. But the most embarrassing for me was the fact that I bet our school’s equivalent of Jimbo, Dolph and Kerney $100 straight-up that Pittsburgh would win that game, knowing full well they weren’t gonna give me shit even if I won the bet. I was tired of being taunted that there was no way the Steelers were going to win and wanted the stupidest way possible to show I had faith in my team. Well placed, of course!

You stupid sexy, sexy kid!

Then two months later, I contracted Bell’s Palsy (Just like Jim Ross!) and had to spent the next five months getting electroshock therapy on my face to clear it up.

Fuck, I hated 1996.

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.