Steely McBeam didn’t ask to be created. He was thrust into a world not of his making; a world where those he was designed to amuse instead heap scorn and derision upon him. Steely quickly grew to loathe his creators for condemning him to a tertiary existence—not quite dead, not quite alive.

By and by Steely had a notion. If they could create Steely, then they should also be able to create a helpmate for him. Someone with whom he could share the travails of this frightening plane of existence. Someone he could lie down with at night, safe and secure, and wake up with in the morning– ready to face whatever lay ahead.

With his hardhat humbly in hand, Steely went to his masters. Please, he implored them, make me someone to love; make me someone who will love me. Steely’s creators took pity upon the wretch that they had made and knew that something must be done. They worked feverishly night and day for months– toiling to avoid the mistakes they made with Steely, yet mindful not to make something so different that it too would be repulsed by Steely’s angular visage.

Today we bear witness to the unveiling of the Bride of Steely McBeam. Look upon their works, ye mighty, and despair…

HT: The Burgh Blog via Mondesi’s House.

With Santonio Holmes matching his team record for pictures of his dick hitting the intarwebs, it was only a matter time before Steelers kicker Jeff Reed responded with more drunken debauchery.

An anonymous reader sends these pics of Jeff getting to be a pretty pretty princess for a day in Vegas.

Unrelated but amusing: A girl at the Steelers bar I go to in D.C. has several times said that her dream death would be to have Jeff Reed crush her head between his thighs. I’m going to bet he’d be willing to oblige.

Why no risten?

WHY NO RISTEN?

You see I no furr of smirre light now.

Ben Roethlisberger: O HAI HINES. WOT R WE CONVERSATIN’ ABOUT?

Hines: You, Rongrastname! You terr coach Tomrin foll month and month you want tarr leceivel. What long with Hines? You think that make smirre? Fine! I am making smirre foll you!

[Face strains from forced smile]

Roethlisberger: HARF HARF HARF. YA GOTSTA CHILL, HINES. I’M HAVING THIS GRAND THEFT AUTO IV PARTY TOMORROW. JAMES FARRIOR, JEFF REED AND CARSON DALY GONNA COME THROUGH. WE GONNA MERC SOME BUSTAS AND BUST SOME SLUTS, YOU KNOW?

Hines: Nerr! I spend time make pelfect new design for make Hines tarr. I show foll you!

You am seeing? You now folget youl Rimas Sweed. Hines Wald is tarr leceivel! Pelfect design even same corol as unifolm pant! No one can see!

When she tells this story in 15 years, she will claim she accepted the jersey under heavy pressure by Cleveland’s front four…. and a pack of rabid hyenas… and an engorged Gary Busey.

(HT: Mondesi’s House)

This Sunday’s game is billed as the last the Patriots have a legitimate shot at losing, even though they’re 10 1/2 point favorites and still have dried Tony Kornheiser spooge stains on their jerseys from last Monday. But in terms of gay mascots, Pat the prone Patriot may have finally met his match. Steely McBeam has been sculpting his pubic hair for months. He says there are some interesting topiaries down there. WHO YA GOT?

As SBXLI 1/2 occupies all discourse, both rational and Easterbrookian, this week, a few other somewhat compelling matches are getting the short shrift. Among them is a battle for the AFC North in which I have absolutely no emotion invested. No, I don’t hate Baltimore at all. I hear it’s a wonderful city to get murdered in. 500 some odd people a year can’t be wrong. So, WHO YA GOT?

I went to the Steelers/Redskins game Saturday with the D.C. contingent of that disparate collective that is Steelers fandom at the fetid and unwieldly hovel that is FedEx Field. Despite having our group mooned by a ‘Skins fan in a Randle El jersey, being feet away from two ‘Skins fans getting into a fist fight and still not getting ejected (said another of the Raljon, Md. faithful: “We just like to scrap.”) we lucked out that we didn’t have to deal with the Dead Tree Crew and, even more fortuitously, we didn’t see Steely motherfucking McBeam.

We would have torn him to yellow, simpering ribbons.

KSK Photoshoppeur Dan V. apparently finds amusement rather than thoughts of malevolence in the five o’clock shadowy, swishy figure that is Steely. In a series of pics that’s bound to ruin my season unless the Steelers win the Super Bowl, he draws back the sallow, lacy curtain on the seedy doings of Mr. McBeam.

Did you know that Steely is Karl Rove’s father?

This offseason was much more pleasant when its gayest subplot was Brady Quinn being pictured in the most compromising ways imaginable. It seems these actions only served to sow the seeds of Steely. You’ve inspired a monster, Brady.

It’s a contagion that’s sweeping the AFC North entire, even causing sworn enemies to act out in bizarre, unsettling ways.

Oh. God. No.

Steelers fans,

What the fuck are you trying to do to me? Okay, it’s not your fault the franchise saw fit to introduce some wholly unnecessary mascot to commemorate the team’s 75th anniversary, as opposed to, say, some goddamn cheerleaders. But given the chance to submit names for the Bruce Campbell doppelganger, the best 70,000 of you assholes could come up with was Steely McBeam.

Steely McFuckingBeam. See that “fucking” in there, it’s called a tmesis. I’m pointing that out to you because I’m going to try to impart a few facts in each post from now on because YOU’RE OBVIOUSLY SO GODDAMN STUPID. WHY AM I CONSTANTLY DEFENDING YOU FROM UFFORD?!

Seriously, do we really need to name the mascot the way an 8-year-old names his hermit crab?

“Look, ma! It’s Pinchy McShell!”

“Look, it’s Hermie McCrab!”

Fuck. You.