If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

Donovan McNabb: CAW CAW

Brian Westbrook: A-heh-heh. That’s good stuff, Donovan.

McNabb: CAW CAW

Westbrook: Yeah, always great to win our last game. Especially over punk-ass Dallas.

Andy Reid: All right, gentlemen. We live to play another week.

McNabb: [Sotto voce to Westbrook] The fuck’s he talking about? I thought the season was over.

Westbrook: [Sotto voce to McNabb] I don’t know. Maybe he’s joking. Laugh like you got it.

McNabb: [Out loud] HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That’s funny, coach. Next week? HAHAHAHAHA. You always could make me laugh. So when do you wanna hit the buffet? All this running out of the pocket the last few weeks, I think I actually dropped a couple pounds. Can’t have that.

Reid: We made the playoffs. We play next week.

McNabb: …

Westbrook: …

Reid: Y’know, a seeded tournament that determines who is the best team in the league through a series of head-to-head contests, wherein I blow it for us through a bevy of poor playcalling and inept clock management.

McNabb: You mean we have more games?

Reid: Yes. That is what I am saying.

McNabb: THE FUCK!?

Westbrook: Shit, my ankle. I think this one is season-ending.

Reid: Okay. Westbrook: questionable for Minnesota. You’ll go through limited pracitice on Friday and rush for 150 on Sunday. Donovan, need you at the facility bright and early on Tuesday.

McNabb: Why didn’t anyone tell me about this shit?

Reid: There’ve been playoffs before. You even took part in some of them.

McNabb: That doesn’t sound like something I would do.

Douchebag Iggles Fans: BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOO FUCK THESE GUYS! KOLB TO CURTIS! KOLB TO CURTIS! KOLB TO CURTIS! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WORLD FUCKING CHAMPIONS! KOLB TO CURTIS, THEN LATERAL TO CHUTLEY!

McNabb: This wouldn’t have happened in Chicago.

Now mere weeks away from the start of the postseason, the hopes of many have been stoked, only to be later squelched. With eight playoff berths remaining to be clinched, the postseason picture remains muddied. To untangle the Gordian knot of playoff scenarios, we consulted out tiebreaker specialist, the tie rack motor. Take it away.

NFC

The Cowboys can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

“Ed Werder stops reportin’ them Cowboy-hatin’ facts! Yer journalism is yella!”

OR

DeMarcus Ware does everything.

The Eagles can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

OR

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The Vikings can clinch the NFC North if:

Drew abstains from pie for two weeks. GOD HAS DEEMED IT THE ONLY WAY, DREW! HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE YOUR TEAM!?

OR

Chilly Chill puts it in Tarvaris’ capable hands to carry the Vikes to glory! Or Valhalla. Or whatever mythic brothel Vikings like.

The Bears can clinch the NFC North if:

The gods of football are intent on giving us an uninteresting team to lose a first-round playoff game at home (At least the Vikings collapse will be amusing).

The Buccaneers can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

Grimey captions them into a playoff bracket.

The Falcons can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

Mike Smith maintains his surprisingly effective “Let Michael Turner score four touchdowns every game” strategy.

The Saints can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

They can’t. But my fantasy team needs Drew Brees to keep trying!

AFC

The Patriots can clinch the AFC East if:

A few more of Matt Cassel’s relatives die the next two weeks.

The Patriots can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

Only one of Matt Cassel’s relatives dies the next two weeks.

The Jets can clinch the AFC East if:

Opponents bother to conveniently implode at the right moments.

The Jets can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

League executives have a vested interest in seeing Favre make the playoffs. And they might. Just a guess.

The Dolphins can clinch the AFC East if:

Lavernanues Coles can’t bear to see Chad Pennington miss the playoffs.

The Dolphins can clinch a Wild Card spot if:

Because otherwise if would be DISRESPECT! A POST-SEASON SCENARIO THAT DON’T INCLUDE PEEZY IS ONE IN NEED OF FIXING! It would taint the whole league! THIS MY DYNASTY!

The Ravens can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

Their fans keep turning a blind eye to missed holding calls while complaining about the refs.

OR

They replace Joe Flacco with the Joker’s henchman.

The Colts can clinch a Wild Card berth if:

They continue squeaking by winless teams at home.

OR

Bill Simmons disdain for them is canceled out by Peter King’s venti boner for Pey-Pey

The Broncos can clinch the AFC West if:

Their defense can hold opponents under 300 points the last two games.

OR

Someone takes pity on the Cutler sad face.

The Chargers can clinch the AFC West if:

CUTLERFUCKER FACES ME LIKE A MAN! OR AT LEAST FACE ME LIKE THE SULLEN TEENAGER POSING AS A MAN THAT HE IS! YOU OWE ME A BLOOD DEBT, HOCHULES! LASERFACE CONQUERS ALL!

And, finally, the Steelers/Titans/Giants/Panthers can clinch home field advantage throughout the playoffs if:

They win Sunday. How fucking complex is that?

AFC 1st Seed — New England Patriots (*-0)

[Jan. 19, 2002]

Phil Simms: A season hanging in the balance. Here comes the ruling from Walt Coleman.

Walt Coleman: [On PA] After reviewing the play, the quarterback went through a forward throwing motion, brought the ball back into his body, then fumbled it. Therefore, the ruling on the field stands. First down Oakland.

Greg Gumbel: And it’s all academic from here on out. Charles Woodson forces the Brady fumble and the Raiders fall on it. A fine season from New England’s young quarterback, taking over early in relief of starter Drew Bledsoe, but it will come to an end here this evening. Meanwhile, the Raiders will move on to meet the winner of tomorrow’s Steelers-Ravens game in Pittsburgh. And head coach Bill Belichick falls to 1-2 in three career playoff games.

[Six years later]

[Quincy Bean Cannery]

Robert: Ay, ay, loogit what I found in little Tommy Brady’s lockah. Under all the straaaberry rubbahs and pahsitive pregnancy tests.

Brady: Aw, come on, man. Stay out of my stuff. I’m trying to stay up on Manu Chao.

Mike: Bet ya’d like tah git ya some a’that, eh? Ya fackin’ Caleefourkneeah queeah.

I know I’d tear that ass up right propah. She’s good and rail thin, but she could benefit from having a little less of the ethnic in her, ya know? Waaaa’s she from, Brazil? She might be some jungle bitch a’ something. Have a caaaapybarrrra a’ something crawl outta the cunt. Like my dick should be wearin’ a pith helmet.

Robert: Ay, Brady. What’d I tell ya abaat wearing Yankees shit ahn tha jab? Ya think cause yoo use’ta play a little bawl with the Paytree-uts, the rules dan’t apply to ya?

Mike: Like the Paytree-uts are even a fackin’ team. I ain’t never even been ta one-a their games. Fackin’ loosuhs. Haaadly worthy of my loyal allegiance.

Robert: Face it: If ya ain’t on the Sawx in this town, ya ain’t shit, pally. If you play for the Paytree-uts, should should prahbabbly just kill yaself. Like that one colored who showed his face here last week and killed hisself by getting his car door slammed in his face a couple dozen times or so.

[both laugh]

Mike: Ay, Tommy. I need to see ya the break room.

Brady: [exhales hard] Not now, man. I’m trying to get some work done.

Mike: Am I fackin’ askin’ ya? Move ya shit, shitbawx.

Robert: You fackin’ tell ‘um, super Mike. Super Mike Forevah!

[break room]

Mike:[opening refrigerator] Those ya tacquitos right there?

Brady: [peering in] Uh, nope. Not mine.

[Mike pulls knife around Brady's neck and bends him over a table]

Mike: Good. So I’ll have something to eat after ya give up that ass!

[Pulls down Brady's pants and forcibly enters him]

Brady: [stifled screams under Mike's hand]

Clarence: Ddddrrrreeeaaammmmboat.

Brady: Clarence!

Clarence: What a horrifying turn of events. I can make it all as it was, Tom. I just need to know that you’ve learned the values of fairplay and humility. That you’re ready to stop headbutting your teammates and pretending like you’re a major badass so long as you have some Norse woodsman protecting your blindside.

Can you forswear the avarice and lustful pride that twisted your once pure spirit? And for fuck’s sake, are you done with the pageboy caps and velvet blazers, Nancy?

Brady: [breaths bated by the continuing penetration] Oh, I have learned those things. I am prepared to live by that code. I’ve changed, Clarence, really I have.

Clarence: So we’re ready then?

Brady: No…no.

I’m pretty sure I’m good here, actually.

Clarence: But, but, Tom! The accolades? The titles? The fame? The glory? The Andrea Kremer restraining orders? Riches attending a legacy that will live on for generations? Don’t you see a mistake it would be to throw it all away? All this you would abandon in favor of occasional coerced buttsex in a bean cannery break room by a galatically douchey Masshole?

Brady: That’s about the [winces sharply]…ooof, the long and short of it, yeah. I mean, so long as he shares those tacquitos.

NFC No. 1 Seed: Dallas Cowboys (13-3)

Hello? Yes, this is Terr… [disguises voice] this is Dr. Arthur Honeycake, Mr. Owens’ personal physician….yes, Mr. Owens has a sprain in his ankle and it’s very bad…and I’m afraid he won’t be able to play Sunday…well, we’re not exactly sure how the sprain got in there…yes it’s….OH WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN “YOU KNEW IT WAS ME?” Y’ALL DIDN’T KNOW SHIT. Fuckin shit, man. [Hangs up and dresses for practice]

Aaaahhhh! Oooh, oh, it hurts so much! Me so tender. I’m limping! Look at me limp! Hey, y’all come get some limp footage. Get that shit while it’s hot. Aw, damn, I’m in so much pain! I can’t practice on this thing, man. Shit, no. Ain’t no damn way I can play on Sunday.

What’s that? You want me to jog some? Sure, man, I can jog for days. Ooh, ooh. Little jolt there. Now, wait, that’s not so bad. Wow, this ankle’s starting to feel pretty good. Couple days of this and I’m gonna be alright. Yeah, man, come Sunday, my shit’s gonna be good to go.

AAAHHAAHHHHH, FUCKING SHIT! I just stepped on a goddamn turtle! TRAINER! NEED ME A TRAINER RIGHT DAMN NOW! Man, who’s letting turtles into practice, man? He from the gotdamn Morning Star or what the fuck. No no no don’t touch it don’t touch IT AAAAAHHHHHH OH SWEET FUCKER TO ALL HELL LISA LOPEZ!! MMMmmMpphh, shiiiiiitttt! That’s it, man. I’m done. Ain’t no way I can go against the Giants, man. Forget it.

What you doin? What, you taping that shit up? Wow, you’re using a lot of tape on me there. I think I’m getting…wait…yes, I’m definitely getting a boost of self-esteem from all this attention. Wow, I feel the need to repay this organization in some way. Guess what, baby! I’m playing on Sunday! Getcha popcorn ready!

Game Day

[drops pass]

Aw, shit, man.

AFC 2nd Seed — Indianapolis Colts (13-3)

[Hell, Michigan]

Dallas Fucking Clark: Y’know, I like winning as much as the next guy, but I’m pretty sure this idea is for shit.

Peyton Manning: Nobody’s paying you to think, asshole. If this can work for New England, we can make it work for us.

MarHar: I know one thing: it wasn’t my ass what drug us down here. Ya’ll into that aloe drink? Pick it up at the Chinese grocer. Tasty as shit. Could go for some a’ that right now. Hot as dogcrotch down here.

Booming Voice: SILENCE!

Satan: Who dares encroach upon my kingdom of th–

Adam Vinatieri: Hey Satan.

Satan: Oh, hey Adam.

Satan: …my kingdom of the damned?

Peyton: We learned of the deal that you’ve entered into with the Patriots. I think you’ll find our counteroffer enticing.

Satan: Yeah, it was your basic team of souls for a perfect season arrangement. I’ll tell you right now: Matching that offer isn’t getting you anywhere. The Pats have good credit here, you know. You don’t know how many Southies I’m gonna get just by having Wes Welker on my side. I’m guessing all of them.

Peyton: Okay, but just wrap your mind around this…

[Sunday]

Jim Nantz: And with the tackle by Bob Sanders, that will take us to the two-minute warning. The Colts, up 34-17 on the Chargers, minutes away from an epic showdown in Foxboro. Back after this.

Peyton: Hey, Peyton Manning here to talk to you about a great limited-time offer from the Prince of Darkness.

Up to your asshole in debt? Finding payday advance loans and armed robbery to be too much of a hassle? Maybe just want some arbitrary bullshit?

Ever thought of selling your soul to the Devil?

Whoawhoawhoa. Hear me out. And you’ll discover why there’s never been a better time to sell than now.

Don’t be duped into selling your everlasting essence to one of those big corporations or, even worse, some Portuguese guy who promises you a bigger dick. Go with the fictive religious entity with a couple thousand year track record of eternal bargains. We’re offering low introductory rates.

What are you using it for anyway? Why not make that soul work for you?

[cut to family trying to pack their car to go on a vacation]

Mom: The car’s full. We can’t fit anymore.

Dad: If only we didn’t have these damn souls weighing us down!

Peyton Manning: That’s right. They’ll even take Hindus, Sikhs or B’ahai and shit. Whatever it is dark-skinned worship. It’s all good. Believe it or not, but your souls are worth only marginally less than a real person’s.

Tony Dungy: But don’t none a’ ya’ll faggots try to peddle your swishy souls ’round here.

Peyton: He’s just kidding. They took mine, after all.

NFC 2nd Seed — Green Bay Packers (13-3)

Mike McCarthy: I know we shouldn’t be peering into the future at a time like this but, unlikely though it may be, if we are to advance far enough, this could be the final year with Brett as our quarterback.

[waves arms down to quell obvious excitement]

Now, now. It’s not going to be an easy transition. The improved quarterback play by young Aaron will, at least for me, alter the entire playbook in painful, soul-wrenching ways. But for the sake of revenue and keeping the fanbase in its pallid lunacy, some people are going to have to take on a few of Brett’s extracurriculars next season.

Atari: You have a hilarious name that resonates with people who don’t get out of their houses. That’ll help some.

Atari Bigby: Actually, it’s the Japanese word for “attack.”

McCarthy: Well, it’s an American word for playing Missile Command whilst double fisting Fiddle Faddle in your basement. They teach that in the high schools ’round me.

But that won’t do much to assuage the media fluffers. Who will they turn to in their moment of ejaculation?

Aaron Kampman: Madden already seems to like me okay. And I’m white. Easy peazy.

McCarthy: Good, good.

What about crazy wives? We got anymore of those? Preferably with a sympathetic disorder of some sort.

A.J. Hawk: Uhhh, check.

McCarthy: Okay. Okay. Nice. Now all we need is to capture the stubble quotient. Preferably covering a face at once alluring and non-threatening to homely white women.

James Van Der Beek: I’m your man, coach!

[A door quietly creeks open]

Brett Favre: What’s going on here, guys? Some kinda team bonding exercise? We gonna start wrasslin’ soon? Get into some monkeyshines? Rent some scary movies? Talk of days gone by?

Hmmm. Somethin’s a lil’ amiss.

Waitaminnit.

I think I know what you’re doing.

You-you’re planning for my retirement, aren’t you? AREN’T YOU?

Mike McCarthy: No.

Nononononono.

Aaron Rodgers: [standing by depth chart that has him as starting quarterback] Not at all.

Greg Jennings: [wearing a toupe while icing a Brett Favre retirement cake] That’s crazytalk, man.

Al Harris: It’s just, you’ve been going through this whole song and dance for a few years now and -

Favre: You shut up, Al! I was just coming to tell you guys I was gonna stay. We were gonna be Packers forever. Remember when I said you were the most talented team I ever played with? I meant that. It came from here, here in my boyish, gunslinging indefatigable heart.

[door flies open]

Peter King: WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT HAPPENED? My Favre Monitor showed your heartbeat was quickening! Are you in fine fettle, my frisky Favre?

Favre: They’re conspiring toward a future in which I play no part. A farewell to gunslinging!

Peter King: [furiously jabbing finger in McCarthy's chest] You-You-YOU UNCONSCIONABLE MONSTER! I voted you Coach of the Year! You made my Bretty Boy a factor again. Now I see it was just a big power grab, wasn’t it? WASN’T IT?

LOOK AT ME!!!

[Fighting tears]

Come away, Brett. I feared this day would come and now it has. We’ll find a home somewhere where dreams never die and the sweet song of Number Four will play as a paean to puckishness everlasting. The rigors of old age will never cut us down. We’ll be dewy fresh for now and always. This was not a world made for lovers, its searing sneering cynicism was made to siphen the ardor of the warmest heart. You know this, as do I. Only together can we find this place, can we discover it within ourselves.

Favre: I might like that, Peter.

AFC 3rd Seed — San Diego Chargers (11-5)

[A quiet dinner party]

Sarah: This one time, when I was little, my family was on a road trip and me and my brother were acting up. So my parents just pulled over to the side off the road and let us out.

Dan: Whhhhhaaaaaaaaaaat?

Sarah: I mean, they did come back, like, five minutes later. They just went to the next exit then doubled back and got us. But we were terrified. Just sitting alone at this rest stop.

Lori: You totally should have just told somebody. You could have gotten your parents in a shitload of trouble. “Hi, our parents abandoned us!”

Sarah: I know, but I…

[A knock at the door]

Lori: I’ll get that.

[door busts open]

Philip Rivers: Hey hey, betta ask someboddaaayyyy! What’s with all the long faces, lookie fucking loos? Heh. Heh. Heh. Funny fucking anecdote the famous athlete must’ve interrupted, huh? I’m sure it’s everyday a starting NFL quarterback barges in your place. Whoa, where’s the goddamn party at?! I don’t wanna blow my fucking Wednesday night for shit.

[Someone emerges from the kitchen]

Rivers: What’s this cheap shit you got here?

[quaffs entire bottle, spits half on the floor]

Rivers: God, that fucking sucked.

[Throws bottle in high arch toward wall. Bottle doesn't hit wall for a full minute]

Rivers: What? You got a problem with an NFL QB trashing your place? I might as well sign the shards of fucking glass. YEAH, THE FUCKING GLASS! What’s this you got on the wall? A Degas print? Aren’t you such a sophisto?

Rivers: Me? I don’t get art. Art is for fags. Even people named Art are incredibly fucking gay, y’know. RIGHT!? This one’s okay though ’cause it’s got Mr. Miyagi in it. God, that’s so fucking funny. MR. MIYAGI!!! Teach those dancing bitches!

[slaps nearest person on back, laughs in their face]

Rivers: I fucking love Karate Kid. That’s why I love Bill Simmons so much. Because he devotes column themes to old fucking movies like Rocky III like it’s fresh material. The divisional round column will be about the crappiness of airline food or the quality of computer porn.

[slaps nearest guy on back]

Rivers: This guy likes porn. Huh? Buddy? Huh? FUCK YOU.

Rivers: I don’t need this shit.

[Whips out cell phone. Holds it to his ear impatiently for 20 seconds]

Rivers: Fuck you, LT. Pick up your fucking phone. Why is it ringing through? Dick.

[Rivers surveys the increasingly impatient crowd]

Rivers: But, yeah. I gotta get going. It’s been fun and shit.

Aren’t you gonna offer me some food to get me on my way? Isn’t that what considerate hosts do for professional athletes who grace their lame parties? Or is this just a get-together, so the rules don’t apply? HUH? WHAT KIND OF SHIT IS THIS? WHY YOU CAN GET-TOGETHER MY BALLS.

[Storms out]

[LaDainian Tomlinson emerges from behind couch]

LT: Is he gone?

Rivers pic sent by reader Roger R.

NFC 3rd Seed — Seattle Seahawks (10-6)

Mike Holmgren: I know this: At the end of the season, I am very much wiped out. You play your last game and you fall apart. You get a cold, you get all screwed up. The losses, and I’ve said this, are much harder than 10 years ago for me. Much harder. I lose my patience, I get more angry.

Matt Hasselbeck: Quick, coach! I need a playcall! 2nd and 3! 2nd and 3! I’ve got the Redskins defense flummoxed with my elaborate disguise.

Holmgren: Oh, lost bucket. Have I truly abandoned all hope of finding you in my silly quest for gridiron success? How many years has it been? 10? 15? I remember you cylindrical shape as though I were wrapping my flippers around it now.

Deion Branch: C’mon, coach. Play clock is running out!

Hasselbeck: Perhaps I shall capture fair maiden and bind her to the train tracks with this section of rope? That will leave her woefully imperiled by a likely death by locomotive! Mwahahahaha!

Holmgren: When one reaches an advanced age such as I have, it dawns on you all the experiences you may have missed while tilting at the windmills of life. When I think of all the things I’ve yet to eat, all the buffets I’ve yet to buffet with my jaws…

Marcus Pollard: Fuck! We just got six delay a’ game penalties!

12th Man Flag: [flaps in breeze in manner that sounds like booing]

Hasselbeck: Perhaps Master Wayne is in need of his morning abultions. I say, for a crime-fighting mastermind, one would think he could properly bathe himself. In all my years…

Holmgren: I was chatting with Brett Favre the other day. It’d been a while since we caught up. He was telling me about all the wondrous things about retirement and how I should never think of doing them so I can hang around for another decade and torture my team’s fans.

Shaun Alexander: All this standing around has got me tired out. Can we just form a pile so I can dive into it?

Hasselbeck: You know, perhaps I should just do away with this silly playoff beard. I doesn’t seem to be doing me a lick of good.

Ben Roethlisberger: YU CAWL THA PLAYLOFT BEERD? HARF HARF HARF HARF

credit Sportable for the Hasselbeck pic

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Okay, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

AFC 4th Seed — Pittsburgh Steelers (10-6)

I’ve never hated a Steeler as intensely, as quickly as I hate Sean Mahan.

I realize it makes little sense. He’s only in his first year with the team and hasn’t done much that anyone who doesn’t follow the Steelers would notice. It took me years to sour on Kordell Stewart, someone whose failings and messy sodomy everyone in the league would be familiar with.

And other than the general, staggering crappiness of his play, I know nothing of the guy. His Wikipedia entry is three sentences long, but handily contains the telling phrase “no notable achievements.” He did go to Notre Dame, though, which is pretty close to guaranteeing he’s a junk grabbing douchebag (sorry Bettis).

Of course, what really rankles me is his place in history. The Steelers have had three starting centers in the last 33 years and they’ve all been very good to great: Mike Webster, Dermotti Dawson and Jeff Hartings. The three combined for 14 All-Pro selections from 1975 to 2006. It’s pretty central to their whole identity as a smashmouth team. That’s like following three Drew posts with an Ape post.

This year, however, the line is beyond porous and has given up the second most sacks in the league. To be fair, that’s not all Mahan’s fault. You can’t tell me that, though. Any time Roethlisberger gets dropped, I’m yelling at Mahan, even if the rusher came off the corner beating Willie Colon. Or if Ben is doing that thing where he runs around the pocket actively looking for defensive linemen to bounce off of.

It’s gone full-on irrational, this Mahan Mahating. The assessed value of my apartment has dropped? I know Mahan’s shitty blocking is driving the real estate crash. Rejected for that promotion? Mahan’s giving scoops to other papers. Can’t bed that girl I’m going after? Mahan probably turned her off guys.

Just take a look at that lumpen asshole. He looks like Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky after he got his face jacked up.

He looks like the putzy dad on a CBS sitcom. He looks like he has minimum three balls in his mouth.

In honor of said fucktaster, I’ve taken to calling broken condoms Mahans, for poorly inspired protection joke reasons. I’d say Jamie Lynn Spears was the victim of a Mahan, but I’m pretty sure she was more a victim of being a Spears, which means going without a connie, ya’ll. If the term stuck as with Santorum, that’d be cool, but I’d rather the guy be on the first trebucket ride out of town.

Get fucked and get gone, Sean Mahan.

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Okay, well, lust probably won’t do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

AFC 5th Seed — Jacksonville Jaguars (11-5)

“Heinz Field is terrible. That’s a lawsuit pending” — Fred Taylor 1/1/08

Plaintiff’s attorney: On numerous occasions the conditions at Heinz Field have been found to be substandard, on others disastrously uninhabitable. My client asserts that the grounds have left him subject to permanent injury. What have you to stay to that?

Heinz Field: glug glug glug glug glug

Defense attorney: Objection! Point of fact: Did not Fred Taylor rush for 147 yards and a touchdown at Heinz Field not more than a month ago? And has Fred Taylor not been injured by the following things throughout his career: Popsicle stick houses, the blown seeds off a dandelion, dust mites, tall grass, fallen Jenga blocks, taking off his socks and tripping on the end of an escalator?

Plaintiff’s attorney: My client’s history of impairment is immaterial to the downright neglectful and irresponsible tending of Pittsburgh’s playing surface. What matters is that on any carry this weekend he could sustain a career-ending injury for no other reason than the field is a sloppy midden heap.

Defense attorney: I wish to call to the stand Hines Ward, a player who has competed on the surface without incident since the stadium opened in 2001.

Defense attorney: Hines, would you describe the turf at Heinz Field as substandard?

Hines Ward: Rrrraaaahhhhh. That so sally! Almost ridicurous! Seen many worst condition than that. Back home, each leceiver get sampan when go out on route.

Hines Ward: See? He wide open for super fantastic catch! I think Fled Tayrol is just lazy pampered Amerrrcan. He no know meaning of hard work.

I can smirrre now?

Plaintiff’s attorney: Very well. I have someone of my own who I would like to call to the stand: Troy Polamalu, who has played his entire career with Heinz Field as a home stadium, has been dogged by knee injuries this season, most likely caused by the shoddy playing surface at Heinz. Troy…

Polamalu: (speaking softly, inaudibly)

Plaintiff’s attorney: You’re gonna need to speak up, Troy.

Polamalu: Help, sinky sand!