0:05 – Gastineau won Superstars in 1985, joining the ranks of former champions such as Tom Petranoff, of javelin fame, and water-skiing’s Wayne Grimditch. Gastineau. Petranoff. Grimditch. Throw in Kiki Vandeweghe and that’s pretty much my sports Rushmore Everest DERP.

0:16 – Dick Enberg claims Gastineau has been reading newspaper articles about NBC’s Superstars program. There are at least two things I do not believe about that statement.

0:20 – Gastineau’s braggadocio would be more foreboding without all that dixieland jazz toodling in the background.

0:28 – Howie Long injured his ankle at the Pro Bowl– an athletic contest slightly more dubious than Superstars.

0:42 – Merlin Olsen thinks Gastineau is suppression some “emotion.” That’s what everybody called “roid rage” back in the 80s.

0:06 – I’m glad today’s players don’t wear those old-fashioned big white neck rolls. It looks unnatural for an NFL player to have a toilet seat around his neck– unless, of course, it’s Kyle Orton.

0:10 – Sweet Puma shirt, bro. You just know that in 2004 some hipster pulled that shirt off the rack at a vintage clothing store in San Marino and fell in love.

0:14 – Howie sporting the permed mullet (permullet?)

0:18 – Eulogy! YA BURNT!!!

0:20 – Howie’s benign amusement towards Gastineau’s effrontery indicates that he approves of Gastineau’s choice of pickup truck.

I’m not sure who bested whom in this clash of the wits. However, one of my long-standing beliefs has been confirmed: that ratbastard Pete Rozelle should have let Gastineau play without a helmet. Those magnificently feathered bangs should never have been denied the spotlight.

[ youtubes via ]

We haven’t done a gamebook in ages, so let’s bust one out for last night’s epic Viking BYEFAIL.

-The Land Baron had at least two balls that should have been picked off last night, and Cutlerfucker had a couple lousy passes as well. Here were some of the more delightful excuses Jaws and Gruden deployed to explain those horrid throws. 1. “It’s cold.” 2. “It’s a slick ball.” 3. “There’s dew on the turf.” No, really. Jaws said that. There was a great deal of dew on the turf, you see. Because the game was obviously being played at 8AM in the fucking morning. Listen, you two fuckhead apologists: When Purple Jesus Xenu fumbled the goddamn game away last night, I didn’t hear anyone attribute the fuckup to dew on the turf. And do you know why? Because everyone would have said that excuse was pathetic and stupid. God, I hate you both so much.

-A couple weeks ago it was, “eye discipline.” This week’s Jaws Essential QB Trait was EYE MANIPULATION. Very, very important that you manipulate the eyes. Ultra-important. If you can manipulate the eyes, you can make them do anything. For example, I enjoy telling my eyes that if they don’t loan me $5,000, I won’t bother to visit them next Christmas. I mean, I really lay it on thick. They’re helpless to resist such callous manipulation.

-Jaws has a cadence when he talks. He starts low, THEN HE GETS REALLY FUCKING LOUD. AND. TALKS. IN. STACCATO. BEATS. He’s like a System of a Down song, and man do I fucking hate that band. “You see Brett Favre going deep down the middle to Shiancoe… EXPLOITING THE SEAM. FILLING IN WHERE THE LINEBACKER WAS. JUST. PITCH. AND. CATCH.” I hate this so much, I want to kill baby monkeys. You have a microphone, Jaws. It already allows your voice to be projected to millions of people at once, in perfect clarity. You don’t need to talk louder. It’s like my mom trying to use a cell phone. FUCK YOU, YOU BIG HEADED LIPFLAPPER.

-Jon Gruden refuses to call any football team a “Team”. It’s always a “program”. “When they brought THIS GUY, Jay Cutler, into this program…” Holy underwear. Hey Gruden, this is not Boise State you’re covering. It’s not a program. The head coach isn’t sneaking into players’ kinesiology class to make sure they’re in attendance, or speaking at booster lunches, or covering up frat house rapes. It’s not a fucking program. It’s just a team.

-How the fuck does Jay Cutler see out of his helmet? He pulls it down right over his eyes. He looks like a member of Suicidal Tendencies. That didn’t stop him from tearing the Vikings apart last night, but still. Between the helmet and the bangs, the guy has a fucking blast shield over his eyes.

-Once again, we find that no broadcaster on Earth is content to merely address Brett Favre by his last name only. No, no. It always has to be his first and last name. “When Brett Favre throws the ball…” “When you have a Brett Favre on your football team…” “That’s what Brett Favre does for you…” Cockstirrers. You mentioned Favre literally every ten seconds last night. At that point, you can use pronouns. You really can. “He” will work just fine. I’ll know exactly whom you’re referring to. It’s not like you noticed anyone else on the fucking field.

-Jaws mentioned that Favre has audibled a grand total of ten times during the course of the season, and explained this away by saying, “That’s just not part of Brett Favre’s game.” O RLY? Oh well, that’s cool. Good to know that adjusting to a better play isn’t in his repertoire. “What’s that, coach? There are nine in the box? Well, I would audible to a quick slant, but that’s just not part of my game. What, coach? You want me to throw a screen pass? Sorry. Also not part of my game. I can fumble though. Would you like me to fumble? That’s totally in my game.”

-I can’t watch any IBM of UPS ad without hearing the phrase “supply chain” 9,000 times. “Okay, here’s your supply chain…” No, asshole. I have no supply chain. I supply nothing. I suppose, in your magical world of buzzing economic activity, I also sell widgets. First of all, you’re going to have to grease the local politicians for the sudden zoning problems that always come up. Then, there’s the kickbacks to the carpenters, and if you plan on using any cement in this building, I’m sure the teamsters would like to have a little chat with ya, and that’ll cost ya. Oh, and don’t forget a little something for the building inspectors. Then there’s long-term costs such as waste disposal. I don’t know if you’re familiar with who runs that business, but I assure you it’s not the Boy Scouts.

-I’m not sure Peterson will ever stop fumbling. Fucking idiot. THIS WAS YOUR HEEL TURN, BITCH. THE ONLY THING YOU DO ALL DAY IS LAY THE BALL ON THE FUCKING TURF.

-I have nothing else to say. My favorite team has decided to eat shit and lose three of four, and will almost certainly now end up getting trashed by Aaron Rodgers two weeks from now in the ultimate act of revenge. Goddamn fucking cocksucker cunt.

Well, I think I speak for NFL fans the world over when I say to the NFL: Please don’t go. Please. Holy shit, that game was a blast. And now it’s all over. GAHHHHHHH. It’s not right. At the very least, they should have the Chiefs play the Lions next week to get us to stop liking football for a while. Or maybe the league could taper off the action. At least show me one half of football next week, then one quarter the next, etc. Gradually lower my dosage, you bastards. Don’t just up and leave me like the hooker I rented last night. COULDN’T WE AT LEAST HAVE A NICE CONVERSATION, LYLA? MY HOUR’S NOT UP YET! YOU’RE SUCH A COLD BUSINESSWOMAN!

-From commenter Ray L. comes this this column from Providence Journal’s Bryan Rourke. Rourke, who apparently houses fresh produce in his rectum, bitches about how “unfair” it is that the Cards were in the Super Bowl. I heard a lot of that over the course of last week. Enough. Quit bitching about the fucking playoff system. It’s fine. Sometimes weird things happen and 9-7 teams that aren’t “supposed” to win, do. What do you want, for any 9-7 team that makes the playoffs to only be allowed ten men on the fucking field in the first round? GO EAT A BAG OF SHIT. The Cards gave us a brilliant ending last night, and would have been a worthy champ had they pulled it out. End of story.

-From now on, the James Harrison INT return will be referred to here as the Harry Snatch. Please note it in your KSK style guide.

-I was actually pissed when that play happened because, despite it being a fucking awesome return to watch, I thought it all but ensured the Steelers a win and presaged a boring as shit second half. I couldn’t have been more delighted to be wrong.

-Holy shit, Steve Van Zandt has some dire fucking teeth. I’ve seen nicer teeth on the Uruk-hai from “Two Towers”. He must smoke straight tar wrapped in banana leaves. He makes Mick Jones look like a Crest Whitestrips spokesman. The guy could floss with a damn docking rope.

-Why the fuck did Al Michaels say the Kurt Warner fumble at the end of the game had been reviewed when it hadn’t? That annoyed me more than the call itself. Warner’s arm was obviously going forward. The only way you could say he was fumbling was if you argue that Warner was pump faking. But even then, it’s still not a fumble under the Tuck Rule. So it should have been ruled incomplete no matter what. I don’t think that’s a huge deal, given that the Cards were unlikely to score anyway. But this was already one of the best endings in Super Bowl history. They may as well have given us the pleasure of seeing one last Hail Mary. Hail Marys rule, even when they fail. “He got if off! I think they might get ittttt… OH! SHIT THAT WAS CLOSE!”

-However, the roughing penalty on Dansby was complete BULLSHIT. I didn’t even like the Wilson penalty for hitting Berger. It’s the fucking Super Bowl, refs. No one wants to see a goddamn flag pop out every other play in the second half. Tag the obvious shit and let the borderline plays slide. What a fucking dipshit crew.

-I work in advertising, so I’m supposed to give a shit about the ads, but… nope. No, those ads all fucking sucked. Even if USA Today tells you a spot from yesterday was good, it wasn’t. Hundreds of people from both the agency and client sides stick their noses in those ads, and the end result is almost always some slapped-together-by-committee pile of shit. Except for the Doritos garter belt lady. That’s a winning campaign strategy right there.

-And the Hulu ad with Alec Baldwin. That was awesome.

-The worst ad was that Telaflora ad where the lady opens the box of flowers and they start insulting her. I received an uncut version of this ad, and if you think the flowers were merciless in the ad, wait until you read what was left on the cutting room floor:

“YOU FUCKING WHORE! YOU FUCK LIKE A DEAD FLOUNDER! YOU HAVE BUSH ON YOUR INNER THINGS THAT LOOKS LIKE A GODDAMN BRILLO PAD! THERE ARE NO ORCHIDS IN THIS ASSORTMENT BECAUSE YOU AREN’T WORTH IT! YOUR PUSSY SMELLS! IT DOES! IT SMELLS LIKE A GREASE DUMPSTER! DUMPSTER SNATCH!”

-Al Michaels said that if James Harrison hadn’t been picked up by the Steelers after being cut four times, that Harrison said he’d be flipping burgers now. And that’s one ringing endorsement for a Kent State education right there. No wonder troopers opened fire on that campus. That’s just smart herd-thinning.

-They added an extra sideline reporter for the game. They threw it down to Alex Flanagan, who started off her report, “Al, the great F. Scott Fitzgerald said there are no second acts in life…” Hey honey, why don’t you table the fucking graduation speech and get the fuck off my screen.

-On the second play Whisenhunt challenged, I’m not sure Kurt Warner didn’t intentionally ground the ball. Dammit Al, show me the fucking replay.

-I saw two or three John Turturro ads for Heineken. And I think the most boring character you could have John Turturro play is John Turturro. Why not have John do those ads as Pino? “See those fucking moolies drinking malt lickuh over there? FUCK THOSE MOOLIES. Drink Heineken.” Or as Jesus? He could lick the bottle. Or as Bernie Bernbaum? “LOOK IN YOUR HEEAARRRTTT!!! I’M PRAYING TO YOU TO DRINK THIS BEER, TOMMY!”

-Dan Rooney’s got some highass suspenders. Your pants practically qualify as overalls when you adjust the suspenders that high. I think Rooney wears diapers. I could see him dropping a petrified log in his briefs during that Holmes catch. And then yelling BINGO while doing it.

Anyway, awesome game. It’s always nice when a game not only lives up to its hype, but also manages to strip away all your wisecracking bullshit and leave you just gaping in awe, with nothing to say except for HOLY SHIT THAT WAS COOL. Yes. Yes, it was.

Don’t leave me, NFL. Please.

Al Michaels and John Madden are back. I am pleased to report that Madden doesn’t look like the moldy marshmallow that I thought he would in HD. Michaels, meanwhile, seems to be coming up with more creative ways to conceal his baldness. Might I suggest growing a beard?

Jim Sorgi started the game for the Colts. What most people don’t know is that all 32 backup quarterbacks in the NFL make a bet for $5000 each at the start of preseason. Whoever has the best stats before the regular season starts gets all the cash. Worst stats? You have to suck off your own nose tackle.

Art Monk is finally in the Hall. As I’m seeing these guys on TV and listening to them speak, and I think to myself, not only would I listen to them on an NFL sideline, but also in a boardroom, an office, a church, a school. They strike me as genuinely good people, and I doubt I will be able to say those things when the players we’re watching now are up for induction.

This is really what I’ve been missing all season: Peyton and Eli commercials! Die, turds.

After Jared Lorenzen threw that pick-six in the third quarter, I think I could literally hear him sweating. Or maybe I heard all the barbecue joints in the Canton area simultaneously agreeing to stay open late. I need to get my hearing checked.

Yeah, we get it, Al. He recovered the onside kick at the start of the game. Enough, already.

Colt Brennan’s throwing delivery couldn’t look any more awkward if he lodged the ball up his ass and cut one to launch it downfield. But holy shit, aside from that screen pass, every toss he had was on the money.

I believe Fred Dean could eat Adam Schefter in about seven bites.

After explaining that no one had seen Peyton Manning all week, Al Michaels makes the comment, “How do you lose anything in Terre Haute?” C’mon, you can lose lots of things in Terre Haute, whose French name literally means, “I left that shit RIGHT HERE a second ago…”

Why is Jason Taylor still wearing his Dancing With The Stars costume?

Darrell Green played in the League for 20 years. He waited the mandatory five years and got in the Hall on his first ballot. But I bet he still gets carded when he buys beer.

Gary Zimmerman: Hall-of-Famer, and one ugly motherfucker. And he was the white guy!

Did you say something? No? Okay, never mind then.

This was actually a pretty entertaining game. Football is back, so leave your best impressions of last night’s game in the comments.

Me: HOLY SHIT.

Friend: Unbelievable.

Me: Fucking unbelievable. UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE

Friend: Holy fuck.

Me: Can you fucking believe that shit? I mean, HOLY SHITBALLS

Friend: Unbelievable. WOW. Shit.

It’s always nice to experience a sporting event that leaves you and everyone you know completely retarded in its wake. And you know what the scariest thing about the whole amazing night was? That Reggie Nelson was right!

-This edition of the Gamebook took place in Georgetown, with Ape, Maj, and a host of revelers. The spread consisted of wings, chili, crab dip, spinach dip, and the like. Then, our host pulled something I couldn’t recognize out of the oven. It was a bright orange substance in a Pyrex dish. I asked what it was. She said it was buffalo chicken dip. That’s right. Buffalo chicken DIP. Now, I am an unhealthy person. There’s no debate about that. But even I trembled at the sight of this concoction. I’m shocked a black hole didn’t appear in the room once it appeared. It appeared to be something that, left unattended, might grow multiple times over and take on new forms. I made the executive decision not to risk it. The solid stool in my toilet this morning let me know I made the right choice.

-What was with the fucking clock last night? Sometimes it stopped running after a running play. Sometimes it kept going after an incompletion. Then it ran off at the end of the game after the ball had turned over on downs, only to be reset by Mike Carey. Was there some sort of WWF-style celebrity timekeeper for the event? Was it someone born without thumbs?

-You might know Christmas Ape as one of the more erudite members of the KSK staff. And, with 15 beers in him last night, his mastery of the English language really came to the fore. Any time the Giants made a good play, here are some of the bon mots our normally reserved man came up with:

“FUCK YOU BRADY! I HOPE YOUR FUCKING KID DIES!”
“FUCK YOU, BRADY! TAKE IT IN THE FUCKING ASS!”
“YEAH YEAH! EAT A FUCKING DICK, BELICHICK! I HOPE YOU DIE!”

The man knows how to work a room, I tell you. In fact, I argued with Ape that he was more pleased the Pats lost than when his Steelers won the Super Bowl two years ago. And that’s all right. If you’re a fan of most any team, your chances to experience the thrill of winning a championship are few and far in between. That’s why it’s so gratifying when a team you hate does a total fucking gag job. It gives you something to root for during those years when things don’t quite work out for your boys. Take it in the ass, indeed.

-I don’t know if Osi Umeryiora ever found a hooker to poop on. But I’m willing to wager there’s a lady or two in Long Island now that would be willing to let him squeeze out a yellow submarine on them for next to nothing.

-There was much debate prior to the game as to whether or not the Giants were a better team without Jeremy Shockey. I think it’s pretty obvious now that the Giants not only need to cut Shockey, they also need to key his car and burn any of his property left in the locker room. SHOCKEY BLOWS. In fact, why not ship him to New England? They love overrated white players there.

-Do you take steroids? Do you beat your girlfriend? Then Under Armour has a sneaker for you!

-I was happy for Eli Manning last night, but it was hard not to want to slap the shit outta him and the rest of the team for wearing those t-shirts OVER their shoulder pads during the postgame celebration. Hey guys, you won. You can take your fucking pads off now. You looked like Fred Gwynne in that shit.

-Here’s your Simmons douchebaggery for the day:

“Our underdog opponent gained confidence, punched us in the mouth a few times, kept punching and punching, caught a few breaks, threw a few more punches, ran out of gas near the end, looked to be done … and out of nowhere, rallied for a miracle drive to steal the championship.”

Yes, yes. The championship was STOLEN! From a team that for two straight games had played flat, uninspired football. In a game where Tom Brady threw the ball with all the accuracy of Tarvaris Jackson. Yeah, they really deserved that win. Assbag. Commenter King of Pants said it best:

“Dear Bill Simmons:

Did you ever realize, when you spent the entire season comparing the Pats to the Cobra Kai and masturbating to pictures of WIlliam Zabka, that at the end of the movie, they lose to the skinny out-of-nowhere underdog from New York?”

HA!

-I went to godaddy.com to watch that Danica Patrick EXPOSED video. Turns out it was a gonzo movie of her getting an anal cream pie from a 400 lb. Latino man. Now THAT is racy advertising.

-The number of hot women on the field during the Petty set was more than the cumulative number of hot women to see Tom Petty live over the past 15 years.

-I had no particular rooting interest in this game. Yes, we have our fun with Pats fans here, and part of me wanted to see the Giants pull off the upset. But another part of me wanted to see the Patriots pull off what now has to be considered a damn near impossible feat. So I watched the game with a fairly level head. But, when the Giants won, I realized that we are ALL better off for it.

I don’t want to live in an NFL world where I have to wait for Tom Brady and Peyton Manning to retire before my team has a realistic shot of winning the title. If the Giants, who I saw completely destroyed by the Vikings early in the year, can get their act together in the last month of the season and plow through the playoffs like that, and outplay and outcoach a fucking 18-0 team, then that bodes well for all us NFL fans.

It was assumed that the Patriots had found a way to dominate even in the supposed age of parity. But they didn’t. Parity came back and clamped down on their asshole. And that was pretty cool to see. Hooray for clamped assholes.

-Dark M&M’s are good. Very good. It’s like an orgy in my mouth, and everyone’s invited.

-Finally, it’s time to start making fun of Giant fans. Yes you, Giant fans. You bridge-and-tunnel, bad French manicure-having pieces of Jersey trash (Maj’s lady and our friend Becky excepted). Like Patriot fans, you too can also suck our collective balls, because it is company policy here to hate EVERYONE. And, since you guys are the big winners now, I hope you fall out of a hot air balloon. Oh, you like Eli now? TOO LATE! Eli says you can choke on his load. Take your Shockey jerseys, head to Sbarro’s at the mall, and shut the fuck up.

-Last night’s game featured the Vikings in purple pants. They looked like gay Ravens.

-Nothing says the holidays quite like the word DUH. As in, “It’s obvious… that these Hyundai ads are getting really fucking annoying. Shame on you, Jeff Bridges.”

-They showed Adrian Peterson’s dad in the stands last night. He looked about 2 years older than Purple Jesus. Which reminded me of this:

-I think I’ve had enough of Dewey Cox for right now. “Walk Hard” looks funny and all, but we’re getting into fucking “Bee Movie” terrain with this promotional shit.

-I know we rip on ESPN a lot here, but I thought last night’s telecast was pretty damn good. Yeah, the game was a total fucking abortion. But what was nice was that Tirico & Co. happily acknowledged it. One time after a Bears penalty (their 5,000th of the evening), Tirico blurted out, “This offense is AWFUL.” When the fuck did Mike Tirico become an interesting person? That sounded more like the Mike Tirico that wants to fuck women on top of cars. I want to get to know THAT Mike Tirico better.

-Apropos of nothing, I am far too liberal with wiper fluid. If there’s a particle of dust anywhere one the windshield, I fucking crank that shit for all it’s worth. I think I just really like watching it squirt out. I must be gay.

-Kyle Orton looked exactly like Martin from “Knocked Up” last night. No, Coach Smith, Kyle didn’t have pink eye. He was just really hiiiiiiiiiigh.

-I have a friend who has another friend who is roommates with Orton. Apparently, Orton was very displeased about the prospect of starting for the Bears, because it meant the end of the gravy train. He knows he isn’t good enough to be a pro QB, and that he looks far more appealing on the bench than in a real game. I love Kyle Orton.

-I find it funny that IBM’s new tagline is “Stop Talking. Start Doing,” yet their ads don’t sell any kind of actual product. In other words, they’re just bullshit. I’m not sure any company has spent more on advertising without actually selling something than IBM.

-One of the fun things about being a fan is, when my team plays well, I say to myself, “Holy shit! They’re fucking great! They’re never gonna lose!” Then the next week they play like shit and I say to myself, “God, they fucking SUCK. They’re never gonna get better unless they fire everyone. FUCK THEM.” I have no attention span at all, despite knowing better. But I think that’s what I LIKE about being a fan: The ability to turn on my team at the drop of a fucking hat. It’s really quite fun. My Vikings suck, by the way.

-I saw Krayzee Eyes Killah in a K-Mart ad last night. He did not ask the big blue light if he liked to eat pussy. Though I bet the blue light could do quite well down there, what with the illumination. He knows where he’s lickin’!

-They went through all the Bears QBs since McMahon last night. Each of them makes an excellent “Use an obscure player as a punchline” reference. Steve Stenstrom? Oh, that’s funny.

-There were black Viking fans!

-Brad Childress apparently showed the team a video of a group of water buffaloes scaring off a lion before the game. What better way to motivate the team than to ask them to emulate an animal so weak and pathetic it needs 30 of its kin to fend off ONE other animal.

-Look out! It’s the Fastest 3 minutes in sports! The highlights are shaking! They’re using filters to make the games look grainier! Oh my God, IT’S SO INTENSE!

-And you thought I overpraised Adrian Peterson. Holy shit, did he enter Favre and Vick territory last night. I’m surprised they didn’t have an ice sculpture of him in the booth with them. Jesus.

I’m spending the week with my sister and her husband in southern Maryland. It’s nice here: lots of trees, and I get to spend a lot of time with my niece. Other than that, it’s hard to find nice things to say about the area. We’re at least an hour and a half from the nearest train station/airport/urban center, and getting a wireless signal is goddamn next to impossible. And my sister has two cats. I’m allergic to cats. Every time I visit it’s a non-stop search for the right cocktail of antihistamines that allow me to breathe without feeling like someone’s sitting on my chest. Fucking sweet. Anyway, I watched most of the game last night.

- I tune in at 9:00 p.m., just after the Stokley catch-and-run TD. The Broncos’ Glenn Martinez gets sprung by a monster block by the Jamie Winborn that actually takes out two Titans. It’s great to see Hispanics making it in the NFL. All those Spanish telecasts are really paying off.

- An all-new Grey’s Anatomy event! Thursday on ABC! There’s an ambulance crash, or something! Not shown: estrogen-fueled blubbering.

- “Sam Adams the player, not the beer I should point out.” – Tony Kornheiser. Nice one, TK. I made that joke in 1994 when the Seahawks drafted him. I was in high school.

- Bo Scaife: definitely the name of an American Idol contestant.

- I stop by the living room where my sister and brother-in-law are watching television. “Is this Two and a Half Men?” I ask, incredulous. “Dancing with the Stars went to commercial,” they reply. Oh, well now it makes sense.

- End of first half – Shanny attempts the infamous clock block timeout. Bironas misses the first attempt, then makes the second. Fuck you, Shanahan.

- Halftime has the “Fastest 3 Minutes in Football.” What’s the fucking rush? How about a nice, leisurely ten minutes of highlights? This goes for you, too, Sunday Night Football. If I wanted to watch people flap their cockholsters I would have gone to law school. So just shut your fucking mouths and play the highlights.

- A lot of people really don’t like Kornheiser in the MNF booth. I’ll admit he’s not perfect, but Jesus Christ: remember Joe Theismann? Remember Theismann with Mike Patrick? Mike Patrick makes Tony Siragusa look like William Safire. I refuse to file an official complaint about Jaws and Tirico with TK.

- A VY pass deep down the seam goes straight through Bo Scaife’s hands and hits him in the face before falling incomplete, at least the third crucial drop of the night. It’s like Seahawks-era Joey Galloway, Koren Robinson, and Jerramy Stevens have reunited in Titans jerseys tonight.

- Martinez fumbled punt + short field + VY TD after review = 27-17 Broncs. I leave to walk my dog.

- End of the 3rd quarter. Despite an early evening Claritin, I’m still laboring to breathe like Big Daddy Drew on an elliptical machine, so I take a mild “Anna Nicole Kennedy”: NyQuil flu gel-caps chased by whiskey. I don’t have much interest in seeing how the game ends anyway.

- Who is Andre Hall, and why did he just run for a 62-yard touchdown? If there were Wi-Fi in this godforsaken house, I could pick him up for my fantasy team, where he could do nothing at all in the coming weeks. Damn you, Shanahan!

- The Broncos have the ball at midfield with a two-touchdown lead at home with ten minutes remaining. The Titans could come back… but they won’t. I’m going to bed.

-Okay, Cadillac. I have an answer to your question. If the car in question is a fucking Cadillac, then no.

-Seriously, those ads are starting to get on my fucking nerves. It’s hard to fuck up an ad when you put Kate Walsh (above) in it. But I should never underestimate the gross incompetence of American automakers. And if I don’t get the Kate Walsh ad, then I get the ad with the other, random guy, asking the SAME FUCKING QUESTION. “The question is: when you turn on your car, does it return the favor?” Not that big red fucking boat you’re showing me right now, my man.

-Emily Deschanel plus Wonder Woman costume = boner

-KSK readers have feuded for a while over which Deschanel is superior: Emily or Zooey. I’m firmly ensconced in the Emily camp, but let’s go to the red carpet!

This is an easy call for me, but perhaps not for you. Emily’s got height on her sis. And she has more, uh, you know, ampleness. Whereas Zooey (on the right) has the ankle tattoo, so you know she’s up for giving you a wild ride. Plus, she does a lovely “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. Still, I remain firmly in Emily’s corner on this one. Perhaps a duel of the boners is called for. My penile epee will outpoint you any day of the week.

-When the Patriots play another team, the other team may as well not fucking exist. I’m not blaming the announcers here. It’s hard to talk about the other team when they aren’t doing anything. I think the Patriots might break a bigger sweat in practice. In fact, I’m convinced of it. And yes, the Brady bounty will be increased later this week. Fucking Brady and his functional body.

-If you saw any of Romeo Crennel’s locker room speech after the Cleveland win, you wouldn’t have been very inspired. I didn’t know you could say “all right” that many times in one minute. Romeo’s clearly a big Johnny Two Times fan. “All right, men. All right. Good win, but we’re not done. All right? We’re not done. We’re at 4-3, 4-3, and our head’s above water now. All right? OUR HEAD IS ABOVE WATER! All right, but we’re not done. Our head is above water, but we’re not done. All right?” All right, coach.

-Also heard Braylon Edwards in the postgame say the Browns needed to “forget about tomorrow” and concentrate on the Steelers. Hard to do the latter when you do the former, Braylon.

-Eek! The FOX football robot has a jack-o-lantern head! And he’s demanding robot candy! (Robot candy, if you were unaware, is made from human plasma.)

-If Budweiser is the Great American Lager, then Newt Gingrich’s “1945” is the Great American Novel. In Gingrich’s book, the Germans win. Terrifying!

-Next week’s Colts-Pats game is a regional game. If you live in Houston or Oakland you don’t have a satellite dish, you’re probably not going to be very happy come Sunday at 4:15PM. Unless you enjoy watching Daunte Culpepper try and grasp a football with his tiny little midget hands.

-I listened to some of yesterday’s Redskins game on the radio. The Redskin radio analysts, in case you did not know, are Sam Huff and Sonny Jurgenson, who between them probably own 15% of a functioning human brain. I have to say, it’s almost BETTER when the two analysts are senile old guys. At least they have an excuse. And at least their early onset Alzheimer’s makes for fun exchanges. Like this one, which happened on the Redskins’ opening drive:

Sam: This is good. The defense is getting a rest.

Sonny: The defense hasn’t taken the field yet!

Sam: I know! They’re getting rest!

I bet that booth has a chamber pot in it.

-I watched the Eagles-Vikings game yesterday, and I really have nothing to say about it. Except that Brad Childress needs to be shot dead and left in a ravine.

-I have the good fortune of having Sunday Ticket, but since we were out of town for the weekend, I was forced to go to a bar to watch the games. The one great thing about going to a bar to watch the games is that there are enough TV’s to show every game. I only own two TV’s, and my wife did not allow me to put them in the same room. When I grow up, I’m totally buying a large bank of nine TV’s. It’ll be just like the bonus round on MTV’s “Remote Control”. Only, instead of Suzanne Vega videos, they will show football. I also want the option of showing a single game across all nine monitors. I’d totally feel like a Bond villain if I had that. On non-football days, I’d put porn on all the TV’s and turn my living room into my own peep show booth. You know you’ve made it when you’re your own jizzmopper.

-The other bonus of watching the games at a bar is that you can tell when something interesting is happening in some other game simply by the sound cues. If the Eagles fans start going apeshit, you know it’s time to turn your head. If Browns fans start shouting, “Oh, fuck!”, then you know the Steelers have scored again. If Chiefs fans start shouting, then that means… just kidding. Chiefs fans didn’t say a goddamn word all day. And so on and so forth. You can absorb the important stuff from most games without diverting attention to your game.

-Then again, watching from a bar gives you far too many opportunities to cheat on your team’s game. I was watching Falcons-Vikings. Apart from any time Adrian Peterson touched the ball, this was not a terribly exciting game. So my eye drifted from time to time. Then I had to guilt-trip myself into looking back. I feel like such an infidel.

-Dear Bill Simmons: You do not fucking deserve to enjoy Randy Moss being on your team. Seriously, fuck you.

I watched the game at my friend Jimmy’s house, where he has a big plasma surrounded by three smaller plasmas in the kitchen (where all the food is)

Gee, I wonder who your friend Jimmy is! And I’m so awed at how great your TV-viewing experience was! Your life is so awesome! Fucking arrogant cocksucker. I hope you get raped by a fucking truck.

-I’ve got you figured out, small beach resort towns. You can’t fool me. You’re all the same and I know it. I even found the template for your design:
-One homemade ice cream shop
-About 75 novelty t-shirt shops (“Freelance Gynocolegist”? That’s fucking GOLD!)
-One surf shop with bathing suits starting at $75 and up
-About 95 candy shops. I’ll take your chocolate-covered gummi bears and raise you a 5” diameter chocolate-covered pretzel rod.
-At least one shop that sells nothing but seashell windchimes
-At least one arcade, exclusively populated by people who are far too old to be hanging out in an arcade
-At least 10 restaurants that only serve food that is “flash fried”. I don’t believe this is any different from normal frying. It just sounds more impressive. Wow, flash fried! They must fry that shit up lickety split!

-I spent the majority of my time in the ocean diving underwater and then pretending I was Adrian Peterson running in a slow-mo NFL films clip. I also wore a pink Vineyard Vines bathing suit that my mom bought for me at Marshall’s. Who’s Brady Quinn’s next boyfriend? –>this guy<--

-Speaking of gay, joining me at the bar was none other than Jamie Mottram, complete in a “Frerotte Is Fr’Real” t-shirt. Jamie is a handsome fellow. I’m glad he counterbalances it by wearing shirts that make him look like a complete tool. Watching his face when Jon Jansen went down with a brutal ankle injury? Priceless.

-I have no relevant football insight this week, not that I ever do. The NFC is awful and any team, literally, can win it. The Patriots and Colts are clearly better than everyone else. And if Brady Quinn isn’t on the field by next week, you Cleveland folks have every justifiable excuse to burn your city down. Please do so.

UPDATE: Now THIS is a Mottram t-shirt I can support.

-Last night’s draft (pictured above!) was done entirely via conference call, with 6 of us in DC calling in from the lovely Buffalo Billiards in DuPont Circle (where else would you expect a Gay Mafia to congregate?). And if you thought conference calls with your sales team were a complete clusterfuck, try drafting on the phone with 14 other assholes shouting out joke names like “RICK ANKIEL!”. No wait, Leitch actually drafted him.

-UM picked players who had already been drafted on two separate occasions. Each time, I cried out, “Party foul!” and made an L on my forehead, which might make me the biggest douchebag in recorded history. I was also wearing a pink shirt.

-Biggest gaffe of the night: Jamie Mottram taking Carson Palmer in Round 2, then Tom Brady in Round 3. And that’s before he started drinking. I blame the fact that Mottram wore a Smoot jersey to the draft. When you wear a Smoot jersey, you want two of everything.

-UM tried to pull a fast (and some might dare say Jewy?) one by drafting Darren McFadden with his final pick. You’ve never seen someone so thoroughly exalt in their own cleverness. He was shouted down like the retard that he is. He’ll be drafting Cody Paul next year.

-One of my favorite things to do during a draft is to shout out, “That’s a horrible pick” any time someone who is not me selects. I think it really lends an air of professionalism to the whole proceeding.

-Sarah, our contest winner, promised she wouldn’t draft like a girl. And yet, the evidence is clear: she totally drafted like a girl, constantly asking who had been taken, drafting a D too early, doing everyone else a favor by taking Cadillac Williams (the player no one wanted to draft), and drafting Jared fucking Lorenzen (and not even in the last round!). But she did draft Rex Grossman. She’ll be pregnant by October.

-I was gonna have taquitos at the bar last night, but I audibled to wings at the very last second. It seemed almost heretical to NOT order wings during a football draft.

-My favorite pastime during this draft was to get my hopes up for one particular player falling my way, only to have him taken a few picks earlier, then getting on the phone and screaming FUCK YOU to whoever picked him. I didn’t get why these people in front of me kept taking players with good value. Fucking dicks. Sometimes, the shoe was on the other foot and I took someone who was coveted by another. I got two FUCK YOUs myself, and that was really rewarding.

-No one except for Punter realized until the middle of the draft that our league only starts one RB. Rob Iracane, who drafted 3 RB’s in the first four rounds, would probably like a do-over.

-I drafted Bernard Berrian. I wonder if he’s Armenian.

-For half the conference call, some kid screamed bloody murder in the background. Apparently this was emanating from the bodega / refugee shelter / crack-house where Sarah was making her “picks.”

-I reached for Adrian Peterson in Round 2. And you know what? I don’t mind. It’s a keeper league, and I’m about to go All Day on everyone’s asses for the next decade. WOO HOO, bitches!