Yeah, yeah, I know: despite Stefan Fatsis’ protestations, a kicker should never be named the Meast, even, if you know, one already has. This is what you might call an extraordinary circumstance. A game-winning boot, albeit a 24-yard chip shot, is pretty good on its own, but one coming a day after you’ve buried your youngest son is undoubtedly Meastian. And his honorary day in Tampa comes up in three weeks. Sure, some argue that no one would be making a big deal about Bryant if he missed those kicks. Well he didn’t, asshole.

Moreover, it’s the all the more reason not to give the award to Brett Favre, who had an okay game, I guess. Hey, Brett: does the media, as with everything you do, play up the fact that you had a great game on that Monday night after your dad died? Abso-buttfucking-lutely. Surely you’re okay with stepping aside to acknowledge another solid performance in the wake of personal tragedy. Oh, wait, you’re a spiteful dickhead. Well, whatever, diddums, it goes to Matt Bryant.

Here are some things that pissed me off this week:

- When someone’s dog is barking, and the owner doesn’t try to make it stop.

- When I’m driving in the center lane of a highway, and people pass on the right even though the left lane is clear.  Fuck you.

- Sarah Palin’s voice. Jesus Christ. Every time I hear her stupid cunty accent I want to cave in a retarded baby’s head with a brick.

- Hearing someone tell a story the second time.

- Sometimes I’ll walk my dog, and some bitchy mommy will pull her two-year-old back and be like, “Connor! Watch out, it’s a dog!” Yeah, a domesticated dog that’s better behaved than your little fuck trophy. Who’s destined to become gay, by the way.

- T.J. Houshmandzadeh. What gives you the right to have a monster day when you’re sitting on my bench? Thanks a lot, asshole.

- Contracts. Why do I have to print something out and fax it? Do you have any idea how hard that is for someone who works from home? You think they worried about this stuff in the Middle Ages? No. People just PayPal’d each other for whatever services were rendered. Like, chain mail repair and wench rental and stuff.

- Motorcycles. Do you ride a motorcycle? Guess what, you’re an asshole.

- New York City airports. You know, in San Diego, the airport is right next to downtown, on a piece of prime real estate right on the water. It’s probably a huge loss to the city in terms of potential revenue… and it is AWESOME. You can be anywhere in the city and get to the airport in, like, five minutes.  JFK and LaGuardia and Newark can all go get fucked.  I say pave Central Park and make it Ufford International.  Brilliant idea, or brilliantest idea?

Anyhoo, this week’s Meast is Ronnie Brown. 117 yards and five touchdowns to end the Patriots’ 21-game regular season winning streak with an embarrassing blowout in Foxborough?   Yep, that’ll do.

Mormons are harassing me. No joke. I somehow got on a Mormon calling list, and now I’ve been besieged by Mormons nonstop. I’ve had solicitations at my door on weekends. They called the house at 10PM the other night. They keep saying, “We understand Drew requested information about the church of Jesus Christ of Latter Saints.” I did not request such information. I could be trapped in a giant death maze filled with bloodthirsty minotaurs, where the only key to escaping lies in clues that can only be found in the Book of Mormon, and I would still not request such information.

And yet they persist.

Let me just lay down the law for you right now, Mormonfolk: GO THE FUCK AWAY. I don’t want to join your completely retarded fucking cult. The only reason you aren’t the complete laughingstock of organized religions is because Scientology is still around. The founder of your faith dictated the Book of Mormon while staring at stones he put in to his fucking hat.

What a fucking dingbat.

Actually, you know what? I have some useful information I’d like to share with YOU, you door-knocking babyfuckers. Maybe I should call you in the middle of the night to let you know your faith is based upon the teachings of a known fraud. You blond assholes.

I don’t want your books. I don’t want sister wives. I don’t want to wear long underwear when I screw. I don’t want to pretend it’s 1950 all the fucking time. I don’t want to stop being an alcoholic. Take your creepy smiles, and your golden plates, and your terrible architecture and cram it all up your ass. Go find some semi-retarded rube who will actually buy your bullshit religion. America is fucking LOADED with rural tardbillies who would love nothing more than to be brainwashed by your laughably stupid ideas. But I ain’t one of them. So kindly fuck the fuck off.

Your Mini-Meast of the Week is Darren Sproles.

Little, tiny Darren Sproles, who could have easily fit in Joseph Smith’s hat. 125 total yards. One return TD. Not a bad day of spot duty, despite the stolen victory. AND he’s not a Mormon. Thank God (God, incidentally, also thinks Mormons are imbeciles).

When someone has (not unexpectedly) already tried to capitalize on the newfound fame of Brady bounty killer and SEAN TAYLOR MEMORIAL MEAST OF THE WEEK Bernard Pollard.

It’s a must-buy for any Patriots hater who has looked to diversify their wardrobe beyond the six different 18-1 shirts they’ve acquired over the last seven months. Or buy one for a Pats fan. They’re going to need a find another bandwagon in short order.

It’s been over two weeks since the official end of the season, and we at KSK are already in withdrawal from the loss of the NFL’s weekly dosage of hot measty action. As a way to stave off delirium tremens, we looked back on the 2007 season and came up with your official first-ever All-Meast Team.

Now, coming up with an All-Meast Team is no cakewalk. The six of us can barely contain our contempt for each other on a good day, so you can imagine the electronic slapfights that ensued when we brought our homeristic tendencies to a free-for-all squabble. After a lot of tears and one anonymous ballot voting for every player on the Redskins, we came to an agreement on the following guidelines.*

*I decided these would be the guidelines when I chose to write up the post.

1. We’re not limited by the number of players on the field at one time, as with All-Pro or Pro Bowl selections. Only two defensive ends? Fuck that. Everyone who deserves to be on the team will get on the team.
2. All-Meast selections must be an acceptable combination of meastiness and character-driven qualities that make the player a person of interest at KSK.
3. This team is a list of players who embody a made-up word, as judged by six people far too lazy to make something of themselves. As such, anyone who takes this seriously enough to argue about the exclusion of a player will be punched in the testicles.

OFFENSE

QB: None. Quarterbacks are gay. Purple Jesus can take snaps from the Wing-T.
RB: Adrian Peterson, Vikings — There’s been a Purple Jesus backlash from people who insist his nickname is “All Day.” Fuck those people. A nickname is whatever sticks.
RB: Brandon Jacbos, Giants — It’ not so much a vote FOR Jacobs as it is a “fuck you” to Tiki Barber.
RB: Laurence Maroney, Patriots — Despite our anti-Pats bias, we had to give it up for Kool-Aid, the man who gave us construda and begul-shitting.

FB: Eh, whatever. If we could combine Lorenzo Neal’s meastiness with Madison Hedgecock’s name, that would be KSK’s ideal fullback.
WR: Larry Fitzgerald, Cardinals — Still in search of crackers.
WR: Hines Ward, Steelers — Stirr Chlistmas Ape numbah one leceivel.
TE: Chris Cooley, Redskins — Read this.
TE: Jason Witten, Cowboys — Admitted to All-Meast Team only if he plays sans helmet.
TE: Kevin Everett, Bills — Kind of a dick move by Sean Taylor to get killed when we’d already named the weekly Meast award after Everett.
OL: Joe Thomas, Steve Hutchinson, Andre Gurode, Logan Mankins, and a right tackle of your choosing. We don’t really care all that much.

DEFENSE

DE: Osi Umenyiora, Giants — Turned on by defecating on women? Welcome to the All-Meast Team.
DE: Jared Allen, Chiefs — Credited his mullet for success.
DE: Patrick Kerney, Seahawks — He wears that tight skull cap that only black people should wear. I won’t even wear a loose-fitting white t-shirt outside.
DE: Aaron Kampman, Packers — Another white guy? What the hell?
DT: Albert Haynesworth, Titans — Last year: Booo! Hiss! This year: The Titans are nothing without him.
DT: Pat Williams, Vikings — Teammate and fellow dominant interior lineman Kevin Williams missed the cut after not carrying a gun following Sean Taylor’s death.
LB: Brian Urlacher, Bears — Still pretty good; also, apologetic.
LB: Julian Peterson, Seahawks — Single-handedly making the name “Julian” ten percent less gay.
LB: James Harrison, Steelers — Similar to Joey Porter, but less of a piece of shit as a human being.
CB: Pacman Jones, Titans — Pacman is the only selection to this year’s team who was a big enough badass to get suspended for the entire year. Let’s see YOU do that, Terrell Owens. No, seriously: we could really use a year off from you.
CB: Fred Smoot, Redskins — Oh, he’s a fucking terrible cornerback, all right. But when was the last time YOU enjoined two strippers with the same dildo?
CB: Antonio Cromartie, Chargers — We felt like at least one of the cornerbacks should have made at least one good play during the season. Cro-Mart made a bunch.
S: Reggie Nelson, Jaguars — Reggie thinks this is an okay post, but it ain’t all that.
S: Sean Taylor, Redskins — Mike Wilbon totally foresaw his selection.

SPECIAL TEAMS

None. Special teams are gay. That’s right: even YOU, Devin Hester.

I’ll admit that I’m a late adapter in personal technology, but I’m always bemused with the way new developments in home video are advertised. I was watching the DVD of Eagle vs. Shark earlier and the menu is preceded by one of those ads for Blu-ray or HD DVD discs in which they try to show you how super crisp the picture could be if only your broke ass went out and plunked down some cash on a new gadget.

But how the fuck is my dated DVD player supposed to illustrate that? If anything, I’m thinking “Hey, that looks remarkably similar to the picture my DVD has. The fuck needs this Blu-ray shit?” We already went through this once with the videotape-to-DVD transition. I remember, beginning around ‘98, every movie would come accompanied some annoying intro that began, “Dee. Vee. Dee. Welcome to the future in home entertainment.” Then they’d show a bunch of clips of classic movies, as though the picture had somehow improved. That’s probably why I waited until last week to get one.

The same thing applies with HDTV. Stop showing footage of supposedly enhanced video on my television, only accompanied by sweeping audio whooshes that are supposed to trick me into thinking it’s different.

Anyway, the remainder of this post is in KSK HD (wwwhhhhooooosssshhhh), so the typos and bad jokes will be all the more glaring.

Your NFC co-Meast is Plaxico Burress, who pretty much made Packers’ corner Al Harris his simpering mange-infested bitch to the tone of 11 catches for 151 yards, despite Harris having to resort to tackling Plax in coverage and flashing his dong as a feeble attempt at establishing dominance.

Much is being made of Eli Manning’s arrival as something above a self-immolating squash player moonlighting as a quarterback, but, to this Steelers fan, seeing Burress having a big game when it counts is no less mindblowing (or rankling).

Your AFC co-Meast is Philip Rivers, who - whether you think he was helping his team or not - played through an entire playoff game without an ACL (pfft — Hines Ward does that all the time) in his right knee.

Deprived as well of a healthy Antonio Gates, Rivers struggled in the redzone but still nearly pulled off the upset. Meanwhile, pussyfooting, three-pick-throwing Tom Brady had his Australian booting shoe on after a pumice foot scrub gone awry. Perhaps it was his first foray into foot binding. How else will he fit into the new spring fashions?

Earlier this week, we had a bit of fun with our Tom Brady retirement hoax. It really, really pissed some people off on the ol’ message boards. Here are two fine examples:

This is just another Pats hater wanting to see the end of our success.

How big of a fuckin dweeb is big daddy drew? He writes angry. I bet he got head slapped in high school by guys that actually got real pussy. He’s still bitter. Also; I think it’s awesome when KSK plays at the Deadspin controls all weekend and links themselves.

Oh yeah. That’s-a good hatin’. But you know, there’s no reason YOU can’t get in on the fun as well. Lots of people like to wait until April 1st to spring a practical joke. Well, that’s just dumb. Everyone KNOWS it’s coming then. No, no. Far better to just do it out of the fucking blue. I’ll give you an example from about five years ago. One day, apropos of nothing, I dialed up my friend Jeremy at work.

Jeremy: Hello?

Me: Hey.

Jeremy: Hey.

Me: Dude, did you know Joe Montana died?

Jeremy: He did? When?

Me: Just saw it on the news now. Dropped dead of a heart attack. So sad.

Jeremy: Jesus, that sucks. I don’t see it on cnn.com.

Me: Eh, probably just breaking on TV. I’m sure it’ll be online soon. Anyway, gotta go. Just wondering if you had heard.

Jeremy: Okay, bye.

Jeremy then told everyone in his office the news. My phone rang ten minutes later.

Me: Hello?

Jeremy: Dude, why are you such a fucking asshole?

You see how that works? It helps if your friend is incredibly gullible, as Jeremy is. The secret is to make sure it’s not someone obvious who died. Like Britney Spears. That wouldn’t work. But Dennis Miller? Oh yeah.

So go forth and piss someone off today, you merry pranksters, you.

Your Meast of the Week is Atari Bigby Ryan Grant of the Packers.

Atari hits people really hard, and I like that. Grant ran for 201 yards and scored three touchdowns. Very measty. Did you know he died yesterday? It’s true!

It’s firing season in the NFL, and I’m disappointed to see that only FOUR coaches thus far have been fired, or resigned, or left their earthly bodies to rise up to heaven and toss lightning bolts at gays, as Joe Gibbs has. “Oh thank you, Coach Gibbs! For all you’ve done for Washington!” Pfft. Whatever. That guy’s a fucking dork.

This is unacceptable. We need to see more coaches fired. I know personally, there’s nothing more exciting than when a coach is fired. Yeah, I know this is a man with a family losing his job, but whatever. It gives me a solid day of chatter, and that’s all I care about. Why did he get fired? Was it because he sucked, or did people just hate his fucking guts? Did players start to tune him out? Did he refuse to fire that one shit QB coach? Did he think he was coming back only to be completely blindsided? I love it when that happens.

Then there’s all the speculation of who gets to replace the asshole who got canned. Pete Carroll? Really? Isn’t he just a male cheerleader with a headset? Bob Stoops? Fuck that. He’d never leave. Or would he? Oooh! Oooh! What about Jimmy Johnson? Can anyone get him off his fucking boat? I hear Jason Garrett is a hot name, and not just because of his fiery red hair! MARTYBALL COULD BE BACK!

You see? Coaching changes are crazy fun. Except for the coach. And his assistants. But fuck them. If they didn’t want to get fired, they shouldn’t have sucked so bad. If I owned a team, I’d fire my coach every year. Just to keep things intriguing. Can’t have things get stale.

Every year, towards the end of the season, I run down all the teams and try and figure out just which coaches could be potentially fired. Then I root for ALL of them to go down. It never happens, but come on, owners. There are plenty of shit coaches out there you can still send to the dole. Rod Marinelli? Really? He gets to keep his job? He blows. And so does Shanahan. And Childress. And Marvin Lewis! Holy shit, I wouldn’t hire Marvin Lewis to park my fucking car! FIRE THEM ALL! It really fills the week nicely!

Anyway, your Meast of the Wild Card round is Maurice Jones-Drew.

Two TD’s in a road win over the Steelers will get you that title. Call him mini-meast.

Did you ever wonder to yourself, “Man, the Pro Bowl sure is useless. I wonder if there’s something even more useless out there.”

Well, you’re in luck. Because today is the Iowa caucus. Yes, the Iowa caucus. It’s like a PTA meeting, only with politics! Lest you thought the Iowa caucus was some kind of statewide tailbone, I’m here to enlighten you as to just how the process works:

1. People gather in a room
2. Cheese danishes are shared
3. Chris Matthews stands by breathlessly and watches, while simultaneously masturbating using own brow sweat

And there you go. To call it meaningless is to insult other meaningless things, like Harry Knowles’ life, or the lyrics to a Sting song. Yet this shit gets covered like a Ritz cracker on Planet Unicorn. Well, here’s what I have to say to you, Iowa caucus: Fuck you. Fuck your counties. Fuck your arcane process. And fuck corn.

Your Measts of the Week are Trent Cole of the Eagles and Jared Allen of the Chiefs.

These are retroactive meast awards. I’m not even sure how both men played on Sunday. All I know is that, outside of Pat Williams, these were the two best defensive players I saw all season long. So there you go. Enjoy your award, men. It’s certainly got more meaning than what some dry-crotched schoolmarm in Des Moines thinks.

I don’t know shit about music, so self-indulgent and recherche year-end lists only give me a host of things to download and inevitably become disappointed by. Don’t feed me that LCD Soundsystem bullshit. I got duped by the fawning praise accompanying their first album and fucking hated it. Drew and Ufford loved them some The Hold Steady last year and I could never get into it.

Movies are another matter entirely for me. I glory in compiling ten best lists and breathlessly debating them with my friends. I worked as a film critic for my college paper, which was fantastic. I never had to go to the newsroom, except to swipe screening passes and I saw everything those two years.

The frustrating aspect of film lists is that you maybe get three or four potential good-to-great films before October. So everything is packed into a three month period when movies are battling with football for weekend free time.

I’ve painstakingly, despite not seeing all the movies I’ve wanted to see this year, narrowed down my list. Here goes:

1. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
2. Juno
3. No End in Sight
4. American Gangster
5. No Country for Old Men
6. Ratatouille
7. Breach
8. Zodiac
9. The King of Kong
10. Knocked Up

Honorable mentions: Superbad, 300, Eastern Promises and Darjeeling Limited.

Commenters would like to add that 3:10 to Yuma, Gone Baby Gone and Once - none of which I saw - are worthy of inclusion.

I’m trying to save room for There Will Be Blood. Feel free to tell me how wrong I am in the comments. At least Drew isn’t around. If you ever meet him, let him know how much you love the movie Brick.

Anyway, your Meast is Ben Roethlisberger, partially because I’m doing all the posts this week and I can pick anyone I damn well choose and also because he put up his NFL record-tying third career game with a perfect rating against the Rams, which was also his second this season. All that, despite the fact that he’s the most frequently sacked QB in the league this year and his offensive line is composed of gauze and Alan Faneca. He may even get an MVP vote. Huzzah!

Bill Simmons likes to harp about Roethlisberger being referred to only as “Ben” by the announcers, because Simmons’ mind has been eaten away by feline AIDS and being penetrated in the ear by J-Bug. Perhaps this grating-only-to-Simmons phenomenon has to do with the announcers not wanting to slow down the flow of the game calling by having to pronounce his four syllable last name in every sentence.