Jon Gruden exemplified MAXIMUM DENSITY during his performance in the booth tonight. THIS GUY – he’s an outstanding proliferator of FOOTBALL PLATITUDES. First, he started in by saying that Drew Brees is “The Surgeon.” Much like Peyton Manning, another OUTSTANDING FOOTBALL PLAYER, is “The Sheriff.”

Don’t worry, fans. There was more. Mike Bell was “The Hammer.” Every tight end on the field was a “joker.” To drive the point home, Gruden donned a Batman Joker mask from the movie The Dark Knight. He leads Gotham City in malevolence. THIS GUY – HE GETS VISUAL AIDS! HE’S GOT PROP DISCIPLINE!

Did you see Roddy White cup the tits of a Saints defensive back on his touchdown grab? THAT IS OUTSTANDING REACHAROUND ABILITY, ESPECIALLY IN THE WAKE OF THE NFL’S CAMPAIGN DEALING WITH BREAST CANCER AWARENESS! You just can’t coach that. This guy – he really gets all up in there, inspecting for cancerous lumps. I’M GONNA CALL HIM “THE INSPECTOR.” If I were a cancerous growth, I’d want to stay away from this guy. He’s gonna sniff me out with extreme promptitude.

Did you see this guy sky for an interception? Brent Grimes is “The Levitator.” In all my years in the league, I’ve never seen one guy get up in the air like that guy just did. It’s like he attached a jet pack to his backside and took off. I tell you, I’m stimulated by what just happened on that play. Let me straddle my stool a little wider. You got the camera on that, camera guy? Good. I think you got a real future in camera work. I’m gonna call you “The Focuser.”

Even Suzy can’t believe Braylon caught balls tonight.

Last year with the Ravens, Rex Ryan’s defense made dolphin-filled tuna out of the Wildcat formation. Surely there was no way that Miami could win unless they did it like the Saints did last week – get more points off Sanchise turnovers than from their own offense. This time, though, the Dolphins donned their unbeatable orange duds and laid 31 points on the Pussytubers, while Chad Henne (CHAD HENNE!) registered a QB rating of 130.

“I have watched as you have grown complacent in your opulence, gringo grosso. As you have sat, dined and slobbered on your many chins, I have been at work, perfecting the deadly arts of…”

And while there was a highly entertaining affair on the field, the real contest of the night pitted the spastic Dolphins male cheerleader’s antics against the wild pom-pommed gyrations of Straw Hatted Jets Snow Blob. C’mon guys, WHO YA GOT?

Some more Miami crowd retardery after the jump.

I’m not much of a gambling man, but I’d be willing to lay down a couple grand minimum that this douche used the South Park fishsticks joke to try to get laid at least a dozen times after the game.

“Here’s the deal, Barn’ – you keep Wilma and Betty occupied while I jump in this Jetsons crossover time machine to the future so I can watch Hispanic Heritage being honored during a football game. Can you imagine, Barn’? We don’t even let Hispanics do manual labor in the Stone Age. We leave that to common beasts. These future people is just plain nutty.”

And that’s too bad, because it would have been tremendous to watch Jerry see the first two games in his Colossatorium blow up in his leathery face. Not that Romo didn’t give the Panthers a host of chances at interceptions with a raft of ill-advised throws. So we were limited to one agonized Wade Phillips hunch down of defeat.

Remember, it is only still late September. There is plenty of tantalizing Cowboys failure to come. There’s not going to be a Delhomme to deposit the ball in Terrance Newman’s chest at critical moments every week.

As for Carolina, Tar Heels season isn’t that far in the offing.

[Thanks again to reader Rafael for the .giffage]

Without a doubt, that’s the most obvious sign ever handed out by ESPN producer. HOORAY TEAM-NEUTRAL PLACARD IN SUPPORT OF THE BROADCAST THAT I’M BEING PRESENTLY FEATURED ON!

And what’s this? On the same night that promotional pendants were distributed at the gates by desperate Ford execs who have paired up with the old Double J to instill confidence in the brand? What’re the odds?

“Don’t take my Ford logo. That’s the only way you know it’s a Ford!”

Not that Jerrah was getting identified correctly anyway. HEAD TRAININ’? NOT WHEN I GOT CAGE DANCERS TO DOUBLE TEAM IN THE PRIVATE JET!

UPDATE: Here are some reader submitted shots from the game. Hooray for crowdsourced pictures people take of their TV!

No Delhomme implosion is complete until its topped off with a trademark Cajun Flail of Exasperation.

Also, apparently Julius Peppers goes from glower to full-on golf course clownmouth almost instantaneously. Observe.

Don’t think they don’t measure that reaction time at the combine.

Mayhap it has something to do with the Dolphins having a two-minute drill (actually, they started their final drive with 3:17 remaining) that makes Andy Reid salivate for something other than a 20-piece family meal from Popeye’s, plus two Quizno’s footlong mesquite chicken with bacon subs with extra meat, plus one large Trough O’ Lard. It’s that bad.

And it was kind of amusing to watch, this Dolphin failure, if you could block out the forthcoming analyst pant-moistening at Pey-Pey winning DESPITE HIS OFFENSE HAVING THE BALL FEWER THAN 15 MINUTES!

Or, conversely

MANNING
NURSING HOME
FROTTAGE

More wack-wack-wackiness after le jump.

MIAMI MAGE CASTS A SPELL OF MUDDLE ON YOUR HURRY-UP OFFENSE! INFLICTS +6 SLOWNESS UNDER PRESSURE!

This had nothing to do with the game but I found it most enjoyable nonetheless, as I expect you did as well.

Is this a game going against the wrestling broadcasts? Break out the luchador masks!

Submitted for your fapping pleasure.

Submitted for your rhyming edification. Riff Raff and Roadblock bow to your greatness, but not kowtow to this lame mess.

In the immortal words of Nasir Jones, “F*#k Jay Z.” Sure, Jay can still bring it, but if everyone listened to him we wouldn’t have a gem like this from DJ Steve Porter. The video is heavy on AI (with good reason) before venturing into our domain. First comes the remix of Jim Mora’s legendary “Playoffs?” explosion, then there’s Mike Gundy’s fantastic rant. Eventually (around the 3:30 mark) we get to the good stuff. Namath. Kolber. Autotuned. Enjoy.

Thanks to reader Tomas for sending this our way.

I know it’s the Bears and the Packers and therefore it’s sepia-toned gritball voiced by John Facenda, but goddamn do all of their fans brag about nothing else but their tolerance of cold weather? We get it, you’ve acclimated yourselves admirably to harsh weather conditions. Just shut the fuck up about it already.

Seriously? You brought a wall thermometer to the fucking game? That must have been a funny stroll through security. “No, no, I only have it so I can point it at the camera like a douche. Oh, and if it drops below six degrees, I explode into cancerous spores, so I gotta keep an eye on that.”

Good team, bad team, whatever. We don’t give a shit about football. We’re only a 60,000-plus member chapter of the Polar Bears, boisterously shaming the rest of the nation for not being dumbfucks out in the cold like us.

If it isn’t Tommy from Quinzee’s Windy City cousin, Eddie from [Chicago-area locality where douches breed, fill me in, I don't know]

More shirtless cockwallets! More! This time carrying Sprite bottles no doubt filled with laced soda.

Wasn’t this guy punching chicks in Wicker Man?

Move over, John Wayne Gacy. Chicago’s got a new ultracreepy serial killer on the prowl. Holy hell, this fucker probably had an infant’s corpse concealed inside that bear costume.

See, that’s more like it. This guy’s no danger to anyone but himself. That and the person he probably keeled over onto in the 4th quarter, but only after exposing them to his basso profundo rendition of Bear Down, Chicago Bears.

Tomorrow marks the fifth anniversary of the Namath-Kolber incident, otherwise known as the namesake for this fine Interblog dickjokeacoppia we run here. Let us all get in the Matron Saint’s Day spirit by drunkenly hitting on people in horrendously inappropriate and possibly scandalous ways, which should be a huge departure from how readers of this site typically act.

Despite being described by some as “thick in the britches,” the Matron Saint is seldom given her due as an objet du sexy. Blasphemy, if you ask us. Therefore, in observation of this most holy day on the KSK calendar, we offer some sexified images of other holy women in her honor.

Enjoy the weekend and a most bibulous Matron Saint’s Day.

Sweet interminable birth of Baby Jesus, that game went on forever. I mean, all the interceptions the Eagles threw in the endzone were kind of amusing, even if the air of inevitability of an Eagles win hung over the Linc from even before the opening kickoff. And Ken Dorsey is a rousing one-man band of suck. Still, this thing couldn’t have been more plodding if it were a Bergman film. If it weren’t for generous cheerleaders shots, I might have gotten slightly more impossibly tanked.

Kevin Kolb, looking only slightly less unkempt than KSK live blog participants. Very kind of you to spot Cleveland a courtesy pick-six, quarterback fuckwitted Philly fans would like to start for them.

Is it really a good idea to show up in a Santa-like hat in a Philadelphia stadium, no matter even if the rest of your body screams Green Man.

You know, I sat through the entire ponderous spectacle that was Texans and Jaguars on Monday night and I can’t remember anything beyond an endless procession of turnovers and a bunch of scores after the game was already decided. In my drunken haze, I still managed to get a few amusing crowd shots and allow me to share them with you.

Gotta love the two-toned Oilers/Texans helmet. I’m surprised Laura Quinn hasn’t whipped this one out yet.

And we all know Texans fans have graduated from Bovine University.

Feather boas, they’re the hottest football viewing accessory since the team logo garter belt.

The star-faced sneetches, the only Dr. Seuss creation to root for unwatchable football teams. Except the Lorax, everyone knows that fucker loves the bird teams.