Colts lead 16-14 at the half.

We could use a laser toward Saturn right about now.

Update from DC: Drew wants everyone to know that “Prince fucking ruled!” Seriously, he’s still sporting a bulge.

This is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen on network television (and that includes Grey’s Anatomy) .

Quoth Drew: It’s like a French abortion.

My take is more sinister. I’m convinced that Roger Goodell is actively trying to ruin my life.

We’ll be back throughout the pregame/game/halftime ceremony with our thoughts. Join us in the comments.

Re: Marlee Matlin signing the national anthem
Drew: Write that down so we can make a deaf joke later.

It’s good to be amongst friends.

Nice work by Joel on that anthem, short and sweet. Sure am glad I didn’t bet on that fucker.

Patrick Manley has a manly mustache. Who the fuck is Patrick Manley?

HOLY FUCKING SHIT! DEVIN HESTER FOR PRESIDENT!

I hope this doesn’t play out like the Florida/Ohio State game. I’m just glad I didn’t go out for that cig.

Nice toss Peyton

DREW at 6:37: REX IS FUCKING GOING DEEP.

It’s 3 p.m., and I’m just now making the transition from drunk to hung over. Kind of like yesterday. No chance of me writing a real post, as I barely have the motor skills to type.

It’s raining here in Miami, which is proof that (a) God likes me this this shade of pale, and (b) He likes seeing Sarah Spain wet. But then, who doesn’t? (I guess I should mention that I met her Saturday night, briefly. She is attractive and nice. Her friends: also attractive and nice. She was also hammered, though possibly less hammered than I. Her medical student date whom she chose over me was with her, and he seemed a little too handsy with her, if you ask me. And he was all, “I’m NOT a child molester!” and I was like, “Sure buddy.” More on this later. I have like 8 posts of material from this weekend.)

ANYWAY, I’ll say this: Bears are the new Steelers. With my steely, precise mind of science, I’ve calculated that a full 90% of NFL fans here for the game are Bears fans. Which is just one more reason to root for the Colts — I want to see an entire city of crushed souls.

Oh, and here’s a picture from the Penthouse party.

Those referee chicks were annoying. They kept blowing their whistles, and I was like, “You’ve really gotta stop doing that.” Then they blew their whistles some more.

NOTE: This post also published on With Leather.

And, so: this. Our long, but not long enough, season’s journey into night has come and we are left with a contest of wills between two Midwest teams with black coaches. One quarterback has megacephalous and wants Chesney “deep in the Manning vault.” The other has extended his bloodline further than Genghis Khan.

Here are our plans for today:

Caveman, as you know, is an asshole partying it up in Miami with hookers, C-list celebs and Joe Namath. We hope he pulls as Agent Zero and gets arrested in hilarious fashion. Or, you know, gets in the stadium. Either way, we’re gonna be in need of some material soon.

The D.C. KSK Contingent (Unsilent, Drew and myself) will be watching the game at Unsilent’s Mary Beth-El Orthodox Temple of Football, where he’ll do regular readings from the Torah, or the ‘Skins 700 page playbook; that is, when we’re not on the look out for commenter Clint burning crosses outside his front door. I’ll be groaning that this whole Super Bowl thing should have ended with Forty. Good news for our female commenters: There will be butter involved, but likely it’ll just be used for Drew’s breadwiches.

Punter will have the game on just loud enough in the background so as to overly disrupt his donkey porn and Challenger disaster viewing.

And flubby will be leaving flowers at Falco’s unmarked grave, which means he’ll just drop them on some arbitrary patch of dirt during halftime and leave it at that.

Leave any and all comments on the game, commercials, your hatred of Norbit and whatnot.

…and all the stars are laying their bets.

“When you put it on something happens”

Welcome to the Super Bowl edition of Always Be Covering. It’s been one long fucking season and like my bff I’ve been grinding it out Joey Knish style. Well there’s no time left to dick around; this weekend I plan to win enough money to cover the upcoming expense of my fantasy baseball team. That means I need to raise a few hundred bucks plus a season’s worth of transaction fees (and I transact more than a Bristol coke dealer in the early 80′s…you remember svelt Berman don’t you?).

Every week I’ve been here offering guidance to the masses–don’t thank me, it’s a matter of noblesse oblige. Given my Kreskin-like ability to predict the outcome of NFL games you should feel entirely comfortable with your wagers. I’d post my record for the season but it’s simply not necessary, this is a matter of trust. Besides, I’m way to lazy for all of that math and it’s probably closer to the Washington’s winning percentage than Chicago’s (I’m a motherfuckin’ expert!).

Barring some unforseen spurt of ambition in the next couple of hours, you are reading what will be our last workday post of the 2006 season. After all the games, the posts, the cheerleaders, the bukkake, we’re down to our last game, and it is the biggest game of all.

Our hero will attempt to vindicate his gunslinging self, and the infamous Fetus Head and his band of minions will attempt to thwart him. Yet we are hopeful. We gently cradle a bastion of hope in our hands and cautiously await fulfillment, as our champion waits to throw a laser to two toward Saturn one final time.

Just to set the record straight, we’re not going anywhere during the offseason. We may let Drew sleep for a couple hours and maybe start a search for Falco’s body when we get around to it, but we intend to provide the same perspective on pro football (and maybe a few other things) that you’ve come to expect from this crazy-assed cadre since our parade of phallic escapes began just seven short months ago.

In celebration and in lieu of our standard Friday cheerleader fare, we present these images from the New As-Good-As-Defunct Masturbator’s Pastime, the Lingerie Bowl. The third renewal of legacy of tackle tits-and-ass will be sure to still give us a solid halftime viewing alternative on Sunday, not to mention a solid chubby.

See you next week.

This is Katie Couric. I fucking hate Katie Couric. I don’t know when this deathless monotone was labeled perky, but I can’t think of a worse descriptor. Katie Couric is as perky as I am classy. She exhibits all the warmth of a fucking emperor penguin. The mom in Ordinary People was more caring. I know trees that have more spontaneity.

If you plan on watching CBS’ Super Bowl pre-game telethon (and I do not), you better get used to seeing this vacuous harpy on your TV screen. That’s right, Couric has butted her way into CBS’ pre-game show in order to do a piece on Hines Ward returning to Korea with his mom. And nothing gets you psyched for this year’s Super Bowl like a story from last year’s Super Bowl. I can easily wait.

What Katie Couric needs is a good old-fashioned hate fucking. And I know exactly the man to give it to her. He’s the guy who managed to string together four consecutive decent passes in the NFC title game, a rare personal feat. He’s this week’s Meast. But, more importantly, he’s the guy that would shatter Katie Couric’s vertebrae driving her into the headboard. I think you know exactly who I’m talking about:

Courage. Bitch.

NOTE: Special thanks to Nick K for the t-shirt design. We will be coming up with our own very soon.

COACH MCCARTHY: Here’s one. What’s his cap number for 2007, eh?

GM THOMPSON: Ninepence.

DEAD PERSON: I’m not dead!

GM THOMPSON: What?

COACH MCCARTHY: Nothing. Let’s cut him while we’re all here.

DEAD PERSON: I’m not dead yet!

GM THOMPSON: There. He says he’s not dead!

COACH MCCARTHY: Yes, he is.

DEAD PERSON: I’m not!

GM THOMPSON: He isn’t?

COACH MCCARTHY: Well, he will be soon. He’s very old.

DEAD PERSON: I threw for 3885 yards last year!

COACH MCCARTHY: No, you didn’t. You’ll be stone dead in a moment.

GM THOMPSON: Oh, I can’t take him like that. There’d be an uproar. And it’s against regulations.

DEAD PERSON: I don’t want leave my pedestal of pristine glory!

COACH MCCARTHY: Oh, don’t be such a baby.

GM THOMPSON: I can’t take him.

DEAD PERSON: I feel fine! Pass the vicodin, please!

COACH MCCARTHY: Well, do us a favor.

GM THOMPSON: I can’t.

COACH MCCARTHY: Well, can you hang around a couple of weeks? Won’t be long.

GM THOMPSON: No, I’ve got to go the Robinsosns’.

COACH MCCARTHY: Well, when’s your next round?

GM THOMPSON: Preseason.

DEAD PERSON: I think I’ll go for a walk.

COACH MCCARTHY: You’re not fooling anyone, you know. Look, isn’t there something you can do?

DEAD PERSON: [singing] I feel happy. So happy. [he gets hit in the head]

COACH MCCARTHY: Ah, thanks very much.

GM THOMPSON: Not at all. See you in preseason.

COACH MCCARTHY: Right.

Original scene written by Graham Chapman, John Cleese, Eric Idle, Terry Gilliam, Terry Jones, and Michael Palin

Ladies, Gentlemen, and Spiteful Voyeurs- We have arrived. No, we didn’t win another award (yet) and we haven’t been nominated for an Oscar (Rexy Back is eligible for next year’s Best Short category).

Yesterday KSK (and some other site about leather goods) got a little bit of love from our good buddy Jamie Mottram on ESPN’s Cold Pizza. You hear that Simmons? He’s our buddy, we totally called dibs. Imagine, this whole time we thought the Worldwide Leader had something against us. In case you have a job and were unable to sit home watching tv in the middle of the morning we’ve got the video evidence right here.

That’s right Dana, we love you too.

I strongly suggest you check out Jamie’s site to see him getting prepped for the camera.

He’s a slippery bastard, Joe Willie Namath. His handler was pulling him away after an interview with Sporting News Radio, and I didn’t get a chance to ask him any questions. He almost got away without a picture.

Almost.

NOTE: He did not want to kiss me.