[Cutlerfuckerville]

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome playoffs!
Come this way!

Fah who for-aze!
Dah who dor-aze!
Welcome playoffs!
Playoffs, yay!

[Meanwhile, on forbidding Marmalard Mountain]

[Sounds of packages being floated against the walls and cracks of thunder]

Look at them, all those Jays down in Cutlerfuckerville with their warped warbling. Droopy dregs of humanity with hangdog faces and vaginas where their penises should be. How I loathe their chokery and undeserved 4th seedery. So content are they in backing their way into the playoffs. So oblivious to the fact that the bitching hour is close at hand.

But you see, My Tiny Darren, we’re gonna steal their precious packaged playoffs right out from under their droopy sulkface noses. AREN’T WE?! FUCK AND YES WE ARE! There’ll be no Hochuli to stop us this time! No. Nothing stands in the way of King Laserface’s ascent to the top of the world! SADDLE UP YOU POCKET POOCH IT’S RIDING HIGH TIME!

Oh wow, the playoffs are coming. I’ve never experienced the magic of the postseason before, especially after we screwed the pooch the last two years. I’m like Tony Romo without the smiles.

Oh! What’s that clatter? Must be Santee Claus. I would know coming from Santa Claus, Indiana. I hope he brought me the unearned sense of accomplishment I asked for!

Hey! You’re not Santee! YOU’RE NOT SANTEE AT ALL!

Don’t touch that! That’s my division title! It’s mine! Give it!

Where are you taking me!? IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Settle, settle, widdle inferior quarterback. You’ll have more time to enjoy your Christmas figgy pudding and doodazzlers once I’ve eliminated you from playoff contention. AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT THEN TOUGH TITTYFUCK YOU TRAGIC SULKFACE THE CLOWN! THEN I’M GONNA COLD RAPE THE COLTS IN THE POSTSEASON, JUST LIKE I DO EVERY YEAR! I HOPE THE VOLEKTRICITY IS READY! WHAT? HUH? WHAT? FUCK YOU!

[And that's when Marmalard's shriveled boner grew three sizes that day]

A Merry Playoffs to All, And May You All Get Stabbed in Your Sleep By a Marlinspike!

Ya betta ask somebodddddaaaaaayyyyyyy!

(Please visit the extremely talented LSUFreek’s new site when it goes up. Thanks for the images.)

Dick Jauron: Guys, huddle up. We really need to talk about what transpired out there yesterday.

J.P. Losman: Yeah, I know coach.

Jauron: Yes, J.P., you should know more than anyone that that was a SPECTACULAR IMPLOSION! Week after week, there’s no team that comes through with soul-crushing losses like you guys.

You see, Ralph Wilson brought me in here to quash any lingering spirit in these seemingly indefatigable Bills fans so he can relocate them to another, more economically sound and glamorous, city. Like Oklahoma City, maybe. Bills fans are a tenacious lot, though. They’ve experienced so much pain. Won’t be licked easily. We did a great job of stringing these saps along, but the way we’re dropping sure victories on a weekly basis, there’s no way these fans have any semblance of patience or hope left.

Rian Lindell: I just wish we could’ve lost on a missed field goal.

Jauron: Now, now Rian, don’t be selfish. You’ve had your go against the Browns. We need to spread that ineptitude around.

Marshawn Lynch: We had lead wif the bawl and little time left. Lemme go in BEEF MOE and we woulda won that joint.

Jauron: See, that’s the point, Marshawn. We didn’t want to win.

Lynch: Didn’t wanna go BEEF MOE?

Jauron: No, we didn’t want, ahem, Beast. Mode.

Lynch: Thaf crazy, co’. Why we even out dere den? I jus’ wanna suit up and WHOOSH go stoopid out there. Make the defense go neeeeaaaahhhhneeeaaaaahhhhneeeaaaahhhhh and fall down.

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddaaaaaayyyyyyyyyy!

You know who’s a better quarterback than Cutlerfucker? Larry Johnson. You know who else? SOME DRIPPING PIG’S PENIS HANGING OUTSIDE A BUTCHER’S SHOP IN CHINATOWN!

But right now if the season ended today it would be the Cutlerfucker and not the Laserface who would be in the playoffs. YOU REALLY WANT THAT SULKING CUM CAULDRON IN THE POSTSEASON?! WHAT? HUH? WHAT? FUCK YOU!

That’s where you sacks of shit come in. You got Denver next week. You win, we naturally stomp mudholes in the Buttfuckaneers and I get my epic showdown with the Cutlerfucker for the division. I already lived up to my end by rallying my band of disgraceful underachievers on my aching shoulders yesterday in Arrowhead.

You think it’s easy to win when you throw the football like you’re putting the shot? NO, IT’S NOT FUCKING EASY! I’VE CULTIVATE A LASER-LIKE FLOAT YOU WOULD BE SMART TO NEVER RECKON WITH!

Jauron: We’d be happy to help you, but we’re doing good with the late-game caving, thanks.

Rivers: Hey, dreadlocked asshole. I’ve heard you like the Beast Mode.

Lynch: BEEF MOE?

Rivers: BEAST MODE!

Lynch: BEEF MOE!

Rivers: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH

Lynch: WHOOOOOOSH GOIN’ STOOOOPID! AYEAYEAYEAYEAYE

Jauron: Don’t encourage him.

Rivers: You see this Cutlerfucker?

He doesn’t want you to go in Beast Mode. He wants you to act all uppity and civilized. Maybe make you join a scrapbooking club where you share collages of your vacations to Antiqua. Teach you which one is the salad fork and shit.

Lynch: THAF NO BEEF MOE!

Rivers: No. Not at all.

Lynch: I SHOW THAT GUY! MAKE IT GO RAWR IN THE BEEF MOE! TAKE OUT THE BUCK WILD GUN AND NATNATNATNATANATNATNATNATNAT ON HE ASS!

Jauron: Shit.

Int. the Carey Household

Mike Carey: Mike Junior, I need to see you in the kitchen immediately.

Junior: Hey dad, what’s up? You must have had a pretty rough day. I saw you get run over by a quarterback, that was pretty funny. But why was that other quarterback screaming at you?

Carey: Listen, Junior, I just went over your latest algebra problem set and there are some things we need to discuss.

Junior: What’s the problem dad? I thought I got all of the correct answers this time.

Carey: Well son, your answers were correct, but more importantly, you failed to properly explain your answers.

Junior: But if I got everything right then why do I need to bother with explanations. It seems like overkill to me.

Carey: Overkill? How can you think a proper explanation is overkill? I think I need to have this chat with your algebra teacher.

Junior: But dad, you are my algebra teacher. I won’t take algebra in school for another three years.

Carey: Well good. Maybe by that time you’ll appreciate the importance of a good thorough explanation. Until then, let me explain this first one to you from the start.

Junior: Oh God, here we go.

[Door flies open]
(more…)

Two teams hanging on the fringes of playoff possibility (and the Chargers only because they play in the AFC West) meet for the first time since the Volektricity memorably backed up Marmalard’s vicious taunts of Indy fans in what was the final game ever in the RCA Dome. Now the Colts can effectively end the Chargers season and do a big favor to their own Wild Card aspirations with another road victory over an AFC rival.

But who gives a shit? We demand more cheerleader goodness, NBC. You were so good about it when New England was in town. If I have to deal with the sulking expressions of Dungy, Norval and Pey-Pey with no cheerleader chaser, so help me I’ll switch over to Dexter. I’ll do it! I mean it!

Mike Tunison: WOOOOOOOOO! Gameday, baybee! Gonna rock the shit outta these San Diego Stupor Chargers! WE’RE FROM THE TOWN WITH A GREAT FOOTBALL TEAM! BOM BOM BOM BOM! WE CHEER THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS!

[Cranks Boards of Canada album]

Jean Grey: Merrrow

Mike: Yeah hi Jean.

Jean: Merrrrrrrrrrow

Mike: What, goddammit?

Mike: What do you want? Food? Can’t you see I’m too busy writing retard Ben and racist Hines posts? Switching L’s and R’s is strenuous work. God forbid Hines wants to run another flea flicker this week. What is that…free frickel?

Jean: Merrrrrrrrrow

Mike: SHUT UP KITTEH! THAT’S A BAD KITTEH!

[Knock on door]

Mike: Awesome! There’s the pizza.

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask somebodddddddaaaaaayyyyyyyy!

Mike: It can’t be.

Rivers: OH BUT IT IS, COCKWALLET. What the shit is this dump? You’d be better off in your parent’s basement. They got a pool table down there. I bet an actual ape lives in better conditions. THE SERVANT’S QUARTERS AT LASERFACE MANOR IS NICER THAN THIS FUCKING LITTER-STREWN HOVEL! I COULD WIPE MY ASS ON YOUR DINNER TABLE AND IT’D BE WORTH MORE THAN EVERYTHING EXCEPT YOUR LAPTOP. MAYBE I’LL WIPE MY ASS ON THAT!

Mike: How the…? What is the…? The fuck?

Rivers: The fuck is right, blog bitch. My Tiny Darren showed me how you’ve besmirched the Marmalard brand name on your web log. You can make fictional me, but you can’t make a fictional LaToeInjury who doesn’t play like an infected labia or a defense that can actually stop someone? CHEW ON And we both know I’ve never said “ya betta ask somebodddddayyyyyy” in my life.

Mike: But you just said it when you came in here.

Rivers: Look, I, what I…FUCK YOU, KISSING SUZY’S CORNHOLE BOY!

Jean: Merrrrooowww

Rivers: Awwwww, is this yo widdle fuzziewumpkins?

WHAT SELF-RESPECTING MAN HAS A FUCKING CAT!? UNLESS YOU’RE A BOND VILLAIN, THAT SHIT IS JAY CUTLER GAY! JUST LOOK AT THIS 10-POUND BAG OF FUZZY SHIT AND FELINE AIDS.

[Picks up cat and hurls it across the room. Jean floats in the air long enough to give herself a bath, then lands on her feet and walks into the next room]

I got your team today, blog bitch. You think it’s great at have a little titter at my expense. But I’m the second-rated QB in the league while Braindead Ben is hanging below Gus Frerotte. WHAT’S YOUR BLOG MOT FOR THAT. HUH? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

Mike: Well what the fuck are you doing here? The game’s about to start.

Rivers: Cutlerfucker! [Runs off down hall, knocking over pizza guy in the process]

Mike: [Writes more one-handed blog posts]

[Nondescript British pub]

Bartender: How’s the work getting on?

Patron: Could be better. I think everyone’s having a bit of the hardship these days. These are lean times.

Bartender: Not for a man of my profession.

Patron: Heh. I think you’re right.

Bartender: Care for another?

Patron: Trying to bleed me dry, are you? Sure. What’s the bother?

Bartender: Going to be checking out the American football match over the weekend?

Patron: Actually have to for a business contact. Can’t say I’m all that chuffed about it.

Bartender: You know those Yanks have to push their sports on the world. Not unlike everything else I guess.

[Vintage red phone booth flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddaaaayyyyyyy!

Patron: Begging your pardon?

Rivers: Pip pip, right-o beggin’ ya pardon, govnah. Wots a roight propur chap from the colonies like moyself doing on the Sceptred Oy-ull? It’s a curious fing! Maybe it’s me eyes, but this be a bloody country of ponces! A wee bit dodgy, it is!

Patron: Now you’re just being rude.

Rivers: Well bless me cotton socks! Right bunch of tossers you are. Finding me manner bawdy, aw ya poppet? Don’t want to set the cat amongst the pigeons, if you follow me tone.

Patron: Whatever are you rabbiting on about?

Rivers: Oh nothing. JUST TRYING TO SAVE MY TEAM’S SEASON LIKE WE SAVED YOUR LIMEY ASSES FROM JERRY IN THE GREAT SECOND WORLD WAR! CAN YOU FOLLOW THAT? PARDON? COME AGAIN? PARDON? PISS OFF!

And Fidel Goodell’s got King Philip the Laserfaced over here like some traveling circus ringmaster to get you leftside driving soccernistas to see the light. SUBMIT TO THE WILL OF OUR SPORTING EMPIRE AND MAYBE YOU’LL GET A FRANCHISE OF YOUR OWN! I can see it now: The London Figgy Puddingtwats. We’ll even give you the Cutler of your choice.

Rivers: I, for one, don’t want it to happen. How can it when your food fucking sucks the grits out of my shit. I can’t even get my Piggly Wiggly here. WHAT DO YOU HAVE AGAINST PIGGLY WIGGLY, YOU TWEEDY TOFFEE-NOSED CUNTFOUNTAIN CUTLERFUCKERS?! YOU ASSHOLES DON’T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT DOWN-HOME ALABAMA SEVEN-LAYER CASSAROLE! THAT’S WHY THE PILGRIMS LEFT YOUR GODDAMN COUNTY! NO PIGGLY WIGGLY! THAT’S YOUR PROBLEM, YOU POXY PRATS!

And what’s this shit?

Your goddamn newspapers are written in a cockamamie tongue that’s harder to read than the Bills defense. What the fuck does eggy mean?

THAT’S NOT A WORD! SPEAK AMERICAN!

[Balls up newspaper and throws it across the bar. It hangs in the air so long that it disintegrates before it hits the ground]

Bartender: Right! I’m gonna have to ask you to leave this establishment!

Rivers: I’ll take off when I’m good and fockin’ ready, boyo.

Bartender: I think you should be taking your leave now while you can.

Rivers: Why? You got some burly Brit you think can move me? What’s he gonna do, kick me in the shins? Yae mus’ be takin’ the piss wif me, chappo.

Bartender: Not exactly.

[Porticullis flies open]

Shawne Merriman: GWWWARRRR! FOUND USEFUL OUTLET FOR FORCED ENTRY OUTSIDE FOOTBALL!

Rivers: Shit.

The once-awaited rematch of the five-interception tour de felch that was last year’s AFC Championship Game has paled a touch in the past month, given the usual early-season stumblings of the Chargers and Bernard Pollard’s neutering of the Patriots, still manages to be one of the more exciting games of the week. Cassel represents a wholly douchey team while Rivers represents most of the doucheiness within his own squad. It’s a contrast in styles, but hopefully a still-watchable game. So, WHO YA GOT?

[Hardbodies]

Ed Hochuli: Ouf.

ErrrrrrrMmmmmem.

Ahhhh

Whew. Powered through that set.

Chad: Gotta make sure to hydrate, Ed.

Hochuli: I will.

Chad: …

Hey Ed. You know anything about blackmail?

Hochuli: No.

Chad: Hmm. That’s too bad. [Checks heart rate on watch] ‘Cause I am in a real spot here.

Hochuli: Wish I could help. In a bit of hot water myself lately.

Chad: [Swigs entire bottle of Vitamin Water] Oh yeah?

Hochuli: Had a bad day at work the other day, I…

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddddaaaaaayyyyyyy!

Chad: Hey, man. I’m gonna need to see a pass.

Rivers: OH, I HAD PASSES A-FUCKIN’ PLENTY ON SUNDAY BEFORE THE INCREDIBLE HOCH OVER HERE ROYALLY BUTTFUCKED MY TEAM OF SUPER SOLDIERS! BUTTFUCKED THEM IN THE BUTTFUCKING BUTT!

FUCK!

Chad: So, wait, where’s your pass?

Rivers: The only person worse at his job than you is Jay Cutler’s barber. I’m here to have a chinwag with my buddy Whistlin’ Pete over here.

THAT OKAY WITH YOU COCKHOLSTER? HUH? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

Hochuli: Son, I don’t know what more I do in the way of contrition. I already admitted that I was in the wrong and have faced discipline from the league. Honest mistake, I mean it. My professional pride is seriously hurt.

Rivers: I see. Okay. All’s well that ends well, huh?

Hochuli: I hope so.

Rivers: WELL I HOPE TO SHOVE THAT WHISTLE UP YOUR PEEHOLE. THE ONLY THING MORE VEINED THAN YOUR BICEPS IS THE THROBBING COCK I’M GONNA STICK IN YOUR SISTER.

Hochuli: I don’t have a sister.

River: Mom?

Hochuli: Dead.

River: Look…I…F-FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!

[Rivers picks up a 25 lb. free weight and throws it at Hochuli. It floats it the air for 30 seconds and Hochuli sidesteps it when it finally reaches him]

Hochuli: I don’t think this is going to get us anywhere.

Rivers: Oh it’s gonna get you somewhere. Somewhere in the ER, Cutlerfucker!

Get him, my tiny Darren!

[Dog door flies open]

Darren Sproles: [Charging at Ed] YYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAYAYAYAYAYAYA

[Hochuli stops Sproles by pressing his hand to Sproles' forehead, holding him at arm's length while Darren flails his arms harmlessly]

Hochuli: Is this all really necessary?

Rivers: Goddamit! This isn’t over, Hercules! YOU HAVE A BLOOD DEBT! AND I PLAN TO COLLECT! There are more midget running backs where that came from! They can fit under your bed! Don’t sleep, zebra. The jungle is fiercest at night!

[Runs out of gym, yells at someone spotting a lifter]

Marcus: LaDainian, LaDainain, LaDainian, do sit for me a moment. I hope the day finds you well. Please, have a profiterole. They’re as good as original sin.

I have taken your specifications and implemented them into the Air Force 1s. I think you will agree it is a masterstroke on par with the Dancing House and that new chicken sandwich at McDonalds.

LaDainian Tomlinson: Yeahyeahyeah, but is it fresh?

Marcus: In a minute you will have the chance to take them into your own hands. First you must know that despite the spare schematics you gave me, this was no small challenge for me. I toiled for hours while I could have been to the Gossip Girls DVD. The kids at the maquiladora, in particular, had a devil of a team sewing your initials in the heel. Many lost fingers. They’re a pain to clear off the floor, you know?

Anyway, te presento!

Tomlinson: They look nicest when you hold them like a waiter holds a salver.

Marcus: Oh yes, I agree. The pastel. The white croc upper accent. Very gustatory. The alimentary system is practically engaged through your feet.

Tomlinson: Which part of the alimentary system gets the girls wet?

[Door flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddaaaayyyyyyy!

Rivers: “Oh, loogit me: I’m an injury prone running back with fancy shoes and fitted hats that still have the label on them.” GET BACK TO PRACTICING YOU LIMPDICK HOBBLEBACK!

Tomlinson: So you like the shoe?

[Rivers grabs the pair and hurls them out of a window, they hang in the air for four and a half minutes before coming to rest draped over a phone line]

Rivers: NO, I DON’T LIKE YOUR COCKDAMNED SWISHY NIKE SWOOSH SHIT! AND FUCK THAT EXTRA POWDERY BLUE ACCENT! It looks like the 18 rooms in my house my high school sweetheart wife had painted for my kids. Those fuckers are supposed to be confined to the servant’s quarters until they’re 12 and she knows it.

Tomlinson: Doesn’t mean you need to be barging in on my private shoe unveiling. This was reserved for me, Marcus, and 34 of the freakiest underaged girls he could find.

[34 underaged freaks cower in the corner]

Tomlinson: See what you did?

Rivers: Unless one of those overpriced moon boots can cure a torn knee ligament we got ourselves a bit of an issue, Mr. Backfield Receiver.

Tomlinson: I thought you rehabbed those. Like, you had Nate Kaeding scrapbook the whole thing.

Rivers: Not mine, Scroter Rooter. We got a raping, ‘roiding linebacker with a loose wheel that stands to jeopardize our whole season of redemption. Where you are during all this? Farting around with a bunch of faggy sneakerhead bottom twirlers.

Marcus: Actually we have a number of styles that can be of some assistance to those ailed by such infirmities.

Rivers: WHO ASKED YOU TO SPEAK, BUMFORD? HUH? WHAT? HUH? FUCK YOU!

Tomlinson: I think he just tried to give you some useful information.

Rivers: An easier way to hit Antonio Gates in triple coverage? Ways to yell at the crowd without attracting media scorn?

Marcus: Not exactly. But these shoes may help your rapacious friend.

[River snatches the box away and charges out of the door]

Tomlinson: Can those shoes actually do that? Cause you might need to slide a few my way.

Marcus: Oh heavens no. Though I imagine this Merriman fellow will a touch displeased when the shoe doesn’t deliver on its promised properties.

Tomlinson: A touch displeased? The only way Shawne’s displeased is if it’s just one touch.