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.

I am knowing you no dlaft tarr leceivel because I terr you foll month and month no dlaft tarr leceivel.

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!

(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.

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.