Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Pittsburgh Steelers.

[The Steelers new head coach Mike Tomlin retires to bed after a wearying day of draft board analysis and administering Kendall Simmons' Flintstones chewable insulin.]

Mike Tomlin: If I get one more letter written on a Primanti Brothers napkin demanding we draft Paul Posluszny, I’m going to exude quiet confidence in a slightly less cool fashion. Like I imagine Delroy Lindo might if he got gyped on ketchup packets at a Chick-Fil-A.

Maybe there’s a possible compromise with Levi Brown. That way, we can drop Max Starks off the Clemente Bridge, and the braying yinzers get their Penn State prospect.

[Tomlin yawns, shuts eyes]

…

…

[Jarring sound of chains rattling]

Tomlin: Ahhh! Fuck! That better not be you again, Colbert. I swear to God, I’ll tell the Rooneys to send you back to Detroit.

Apparition: No, it ain’t the GM, man.

Tomlin: Oh shit! A ghost! A ghost of a nondescript black man! You’re scary because you have higher blood pressure than regular ghosts!

Apparition: I can’t believe you don’t recognize me.

Tomlin: Beasley Reese?

Apparition: Fuck no, I’m not Beasley Reese. You never heard of Jefferson Street Joe Gilliam. I used to be the quarterback of the team you’re now coaching, way back in the ’70s.

Tomlin: Oh, right. The Jeffersons were huge in the ’70s. That Wheezy was a trip.

Gilliam: Okay. You clearly have no idea who I fuck I am. But you would if the Steelers had kept me as the starting QB like they should have. The Steel Curtain won four rings with a mediocre hick who only had two more career TDs than picks. Who knows how many more they could have gotten with me? That could be my bloated ass during movie scenes in a whirlpool with Kathy Bates.

Tomlin: Okay, maybe you were better than Bradshaw. What does that have to do with me?

Gilliam: You gotta draft a black quarterback. Trade up and get Russell.

Tomlin: But the Steelers already had a black starting QB for five seasons. I mean, shouldn’t I just promote Charlie Batch to first string? It’s not like Cowher shouldn’t have done it at least five different times last year. He did play better than Roethlisberger.

Gilliam: That light-skinned motherfucker? Your white QB is more mobile than he is. And don’t try that Kordell Stewart shit on me. That was like Hattie McDaniel winning an Oscar for Gone With the Wind. She only had to play a servant. I’m pretty sure Kordell was servicing Cowher thrice daily. I’ve been waiting for decades for this team to get a black head coach so the Steelers could get a respectable black QB under center. I had to trade my Super Bowl rings to get crack rocks, man. But because I wasn’t starter, I only got two rings. Think of all the rocks I lost out on.

Tomlin: But, see, here’s thing and I’ve given this some thought: a successful black QB would be nice but it’s no longer a novel thing in the league. No, I’m implementing the blackest, gay-bashingest defense ever seen in the NFL, Tony Dungy’s Tampa 2. For too long, this team and its cavalcade of crusty white defensive coordinators have embraced the wan, soulless 3-4 scheme. Nothing would more subvert the anglocentric status quo than if I took a defensive end like Adam Carriker in the draft, thus changing the beloved defensive set to a 4-3 and imposing a system forged from superior black intellect.

Gilliam: Dungy? I remember hearing about that cat on the Steelers a few years after I left. Smart, smart guy and just about the most harrowing menace to homosexuals I’ve seen outside of a Joe Gibbs team. I like your thinking, Brother Tomlin.

Tomlin: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Gilliam: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

[Gilliam's ghost slowly dissipates]

Tomlin: Fuck that shit. I’m taking a cornerback. Ike Taylor can eat a decade-rotted dick with extra cajun cocksauce.

One thing I think I should quickly clear up for people considering running a marathon is its origin. Sure, we all know it’s about some low-level Greek functionary who runs 20 some odd miles to tell some more important Greek that their army has defeated another army or some shit. But here’s what they don’t tell you:

The traditional story relates that Pheidippides, an Athenian herald, was sent to Sparta to request help when the Persians landed at Marathon. He ran the 34.5 km (21.4 miles) from the battlefield by the town of Marathon to Athens to announce the Greek victory over Persia and died on the spot.

That’s right, the motherfucker gets there and immediately drops dead. Didn’t see that in the race packet when I signed up. Didn’t see that anywhere in Runner’s World. Don’t see that in the myriad Nike or New Balance commercials.

So, as I mentioned last week, I ran in the Marine Corps Marathon yesterday, during which two people had a heart attack and one of them died, so maybe they should put that advisory in there after all.

And yeah, I boasted that I’d do in under three hours, but that plan was scrapped somewhere around mile 16 when my legs went and, well, died. So I finished with a solid 3:49:35. For a first marathon, not bad.

Let’s review my collapse:

Mile 5 - 33:26

Hey, look at Mr. Hot Shit with the 6:35 mile pace.

Mile 10 - 1:08:28

Okay, you’re still at a 6:50 mile. Hang in there.

Halfway mark - 1:31:32

Slipping a little. A little over a 7-minute mile. But if you duplicate this in the second half then you’re right at three hours. So far, so good.

Mile 15 - 1:47:16

Alright, I’m reading the tea leaves here and I’m not liking what I’m seeing. Creeping a little further over a 7-minute pace. You’re just a little tired. It’s still good, it’s still good.

Mile 20 - 2:38:04

Aaaaand, you’re Rumphed.

I have to say that I made a new enemy yesterday: runners who write their names on themselves before races. Fuck you and your energy gel utility belts, you attention whores. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it on its face, it’s probably great motivation for the person (let’s call this person Jeff) to hear people chanting their name throughout the hours of running. But what if you’re the person running alongside Jeff for 8 miles? You hear nothing but encouraging words for Jeff and big fat squaddo for yourself, because I’m sure it’s easier for someone watching the race to cheer a name rather than to yell, “go number 1247!” or “go guy in the red shorts and grey top!” But it wears on you in that exhausted state, to the point that eventually you want to kick Jeff in the back of his knee or step on his heel and rip his ACL. Seriously, fuck Jeff.

Ah, but there’s more to this post than me gushing about my marathon performance. There’s Steelers sulking to be done and, luckily for our readers, this is most likely the last Christmas Ape Steelers homer post of the year, because Pittsburgh’s season is officially over.

After the race yesterday, my better judgment was telling me to fall into a sweaty heap in bed and wake up sometime Thursday, but my Steelers fandom demanded that I head to the bar, what with the game not being televised. And, as usual when the two square off, fandom wins hands down. Even though they were playing the Raiders and there was no urgency for me to watch the game.

I limped my way to my car and arrived at the bar just after kickoff. The regulars had a pretty uniform reaction. “Hey, that’s great. Congrats. And you’re still here? Wow. You’re a true fan…and a fucking idiot. Seriously, dude, go lay down. Jackass.”

Rather than further draw out an already long post with further description, allow me to summarize the few conclusions I can draw through the wall of rage: Ben won’t throw to a receiver unless there are at least three opposing players around his target. Ben will never throw the ball away. Before every sack, Ben will hold the ball for three Bledsoes (a Bledsoe being defined as a unit of time equal to five seconds in the pocket). A backup quarterback with a 136.8 QB rating under no circumstances should ever warm up when the starter, coming off a concussion, has thrown four picks, two of which having been returned for touchdowns. Charlie Batch has probably slept with Cowher’s wife and at least one of his daughters. Our defenders get flagged for coughing after the play. Russ Grimm, and hopefully not Ken Whisenhunt, will be coaching this team next year. (Living in D.C., it would be fun watching the ‘Skins fans get all in a lather about one of the Hogs coaching the Steelers.) And our special teams needs lots and lots of help. Lots.

The cuts to the near catatonic looks on Al Davis’ ghoulish visage peering from the owner’s box as the Raiders neared victory were almost as unsettling as the outcome itself. He looks like my legs feel.

There were few bright spots for Pittsburgh fans Sunday during the comedy of errors that was the Steelers depantsing by the Bengals. One of the highlights, aside from that series where Carson Palmer fumbled twice and threw a pick on consecutive plays, was Ryan Clark, late of the Washington Indigenous Peoples, arresting the progress of the jailingest of the Jail Bengals, Chris Henry, with the force of three sobriety checkpoints. A shame he was knocked on his ass, because all the weed in his shoes would have cushioned the fall.

The Bengals and Steelers this weekend renew the rivalry that wasn’t really a rivalry until about a year ago when the former team decided to be good again after 15 seasons of NFL laughingstockery.

Much of the attention lavished upon the resurgent Bengals has focused on the Chad Johnson New Millennium Minstrel Show and the loverly Cincinnati ghetto anthem “Who Dey?” Setting aside the obvious debt the chant owes to JT Money’s painful 1999 semi-hit “Who Dat,” it wasn’t immediately clear to what it was referring.

Was it a vaguely self-deprecating inquiry of just who these gang of upstarts are that are lifting playoffward a team with a dismal recent history? Was it an attempt to brush up on their knowledge of the history of the Ottoman Empire? Sadly, instead, the complete chant, “Who Dey, Who Dey, Who Dey, think they gonna beat them Bengals?” decodes as something to the effect of, “I say! Who are these ruffians, who, in their temerity, believe themselves capable of besting our squadron in a contest of American footballing?”

How these Bungalites took umbrage when their noble, solemn cry was co-opted by one of their arch-villains, Trap-Jaw. But, as these things go, the mocking of “Who Dey?” has turned into that most boomeranging (read: overblown) influences - bulletin board material - The Cincinnati Enquirer explains:

Cowher first borrowed the line in the postgame celebration after the
Steelers defeated the Bengals 31-17 in an AFC wild card playoff game Jan. 8 at
Paul Brown Stadium.

“Who dey?” he yelled to his players.

“We dey,” they screamed back in unison.

Bengals coach Marvin Lewis, a Cowher assistant coach for four seasons in Pittsburgh, showed film of Cowher’s cheer Wednesday morning to his players.

Bengals wide receiver Chad Johnson saw the video Wednesday for the first time. “I didn’t like it,” Johnson said. “It was very rude.”

Johnson later said the actions of the Pittsburgh fans were “not cricket and rather unsporting…HUGH!!!!”

He then wandered off aimlessly to, he said, prepare an endzone celebration involving a Terrible Towel, a Segway, some parkour kids and the corpse of recently deceased Pittsburgh Mayor Bob O’Connor.

The batshit craziness that affects the (5-time Super Bowl Champion) Pittsburgh Steelers’ fans in relation to the vicissitudes of Ben Roethlisberger’s health has extended to the team’s players as well. Roethlisberger, who practiced for the first time Wednesday since his appendix was removed like a champion on Sept. 3, should play this week against Dan Shanoff’s favorite team. Fortunately, for the more superstitious among us Stiller fans, the team’s replacement for the Destroyer of All Things Carson Palmer drew on the crazy voodoo Mormon powers he attained at Brigham Young University to ensure Ben’s future is full of furburgers - and not hospital furburgers.

From the Post-Gazette:

Defensive end Brett Keisel, who said last week that Roethlisberger is cursed, tried to remove that curse yesterday by giving Roethlisberger a bottle of “lucky” water. The quarterback called it half full, rather than half empty.

That’s some nice skepticism on the part of the reporter, there, with the dubious quotes surrounding the luck-enhancing properties of the half-consumed bottle of water. Care to ask why Keisel can’t give him, say, a full bottle of water? Can we expect a lot of half sacks out of him this year?

Also to be admired is the Pollyannaish sentiment of Ben. We’ll see if the optimism holds the next time he gets hurt and misses work and can be heard rebuffing Keisel’s black magic by saying, “Fuck you, Jobu, I do it myself.”