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I’d like to take a time out from the continuing horror that is life without football to issue the following FKS-style rant.

I FUCKING HATE GROUP DINNERS.

Let me tell you something. There is no way to enter into a group dinner without somehow managing to get completely fucked. Take it from someone who knows. Group dinners are usually arranged by a female, usually a friend of some girl you’re trying to nail. And that friend will pick a restaurant without any fucking regard as to where you live or what your salary is. “Oooh, there’s a hot new restaurant on Ellis Island that only serves caviar and Kobe beef! Let’s go there!”

The restaurant will be loud. You won’t be able to hear a goddamn thing. And you will be seated, invariably, next to most socially awkward people at the table. You’ll crane your neck to look down the table, seeing the people at the other end engaged in a compelling conversation. Meanwhile, you’re stuck with some asshole who’s talking about the repairs he’s making to his fucking house. I’m 31 now. People my age talk about their fucking houses ALL THE GODDAMN TIME.

“Well, when we moved in, the basement was just a wreck! So we wanted to install carpet and maybe add a sectional. But then the contractor had to rip out all this mold! And you wouldn’t believe how much the plumber wanted to charge to install a half-bathroom! There’s also been a history of flooding down there, you know…”

DIE.

The only thing worse than people talking about their kids, or their jobs, is them talking about their fucking houses. I don’t give a fuck about your house. It’s just another fucking house like every other house. It’s got a bed, a kitchen, a TV, and your stash of child porn hidden in the attic. BOTTLE IT, FUCKO.

The worst part of a group dinner is that I can’t order my own shit. No, they gotta order apps “for the whole table”. Did I want artichoke dip? No, I did not. Artichoke dip is fucking horrible. One time I went to a group dinner and the “host” ordered apps and entrees for everyone WITHOUT FUCKING ASKING ANYONE WHAT THEY WANTED. Hey cockhead, did I ask for stewed chickpeas? Take this and shove it up your gaping asshole.

Ever have to go to a group dinner at a tapas restaurant? It’s agony. You order a shrimp app, and they bring out 5 shrimp for a fucking table of 8. I’ve gone to tapas restaurants, plunked down $45, and taken a grand total of five bites. Hey Spain, if you want to starve to death, you go right ahead. The rest of us like fucking eating more than a pea for dinner. You bullfighting queers. Mata-WHORES.

The disparity in consumption also outrages me. I order a $5 beer. The jackass across the way orders a fucking $17 appletini. Or some bitch always ALWAYS orders a pitcher of sangria. If there’s white sangria on the menu for $10 more, they’ll order that. They’ll order it “for the table”. Ever pour a pitcher of anything for eight people? You get three milliliters of fluid. FUCK YOUR FRUITY WINE DRINK.

If everyone’s having just entrees, some moron will always fuck it up by ordering an app, thus driving up the tab AND making the rest of the table wait longer for the goddamn food. If I order a $15 entrée, someone else will invariably order the Chateaubriand with foie gras. No one wants to stick around for dessert, but some idiot will always pipe up, “Ooh! I just HAVE to look at the dessert menu!”

And once the tab arrives, it’s automatically assumed that the tab be SPLIT EQUALLY. Hey host lady. You see those seven daiquiris on the tab? Those are your problem. I’m not paying for that shit. Yet if I bitch about this, I’m somehow a cheap asshole. What the fuck?

Worst of all, when the tab arrives, someone ends up having to do the math to figure out how much everyone owes plus tip. Only they have to make sure Jimmy only pays for his drinks, because he showed up late and didn’t eat anything. Then that person’s gotta explain it all to the waiter, only the waiter is nowhere to be found, so they have to explain it to the busboy, who only speaks a rare Peruvian dialect.

And guess who always gets stuck with this task?

And for you people who like to order coffee at the end of a meal: EAT A PILE OF SHIT. It’s 10PM. What the fuck do you need coffee for? Order a straight bourbon like the rest of the civilized world. When I go to a group dinner, I am ALWAYS the first person to stand up, as a way of signaling to people that it’s time to end the meal. Otherwise, people just sit there for time eternal. God dammit.

No more group dinners, people. Okay? If you want to eat in large groups, throw a Bar Mitzvah. Otherwise, we’re all going to Super Chicken. Pay at the register for your own crap. Shithead.

Group dinners are worse than the Holocaust.

Fuck you, Mercury Morris. You can eat a bag of dicks. I think we were all pleased to see the Patriots go down. But YOU, you mediocre piece of shit, you are hereby ordered to pipe the fuck down with your pre-written sound bytes about how you were the best ever.

Know why? Because not only would the 2007 Patriots STILL beat your ass, so would the 2007 Giants.

And, come to think of it, so would the 2007 Dolphins. Yep, I’m quite sure the 2007 Dolphins would wad you up and shit you out like a hot turd. Did your linemen average 300 lbs.? Did your coaches study hours of tape and map out tendencies? Did your receivers do any speed training? Did the ‘72 Dolphins have access to creatine and lots of Hammer strength equipment? No?

THEN SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I’m quite sure Cleo Lemon would have a field day with your stupid fucking team. Playing your team today would be like playing a goddamn NAIA team. So shut your piehole and find a place to die quietly. No one cares about how good your team was. Everyone thinks you’re a fucking douche. EUGENE.

Nice glasses, fuckface.

NO FUCKING CRIS CARTER IN THE HALL, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES?!!! What, since Art Monk got in you filled up your COMPLETELY IMAGINARY, ARBITRARY AND FUCKING IDIOTIC RECEIVER QUOTA?! No room for the greatest sideline receiver in NFL history?

I hope you get fucking angina.

Hey, Hall of Fame voters, I’d like to induct you into my asshole. Be sure to wear a yellow blazer and a protective helmet, you fucking fucks. I watched every game this asshole played for 11 goddamn years AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM. What, does everyone have to wait to get their just due now? Five years not enough? Is this the fucking Oscars now?

AND ANDRE TIPPETT GETS IN OVER DERRICK THOMAS?!

Kiss my fucking dick.

I’ve been trying to rein in the ol’ Simmons-bashing of late. It just makes me look like I’m being a whiny asshole with nothing better to do. Which is true. But no need to belabor the point. Besides, I think we’ve already spent enough time trying to prove Simmons (pictured above. Oh wait, that’s Dane Cook. Oh well, same thing) is an arrogant cockhog. You make fun of him enough, and soon YOU start to come off the one who’s repetitive and annoying, so I think I’ll take the high road and…

And that’s not where the similarities begin and end with the ‘86 Celtics and the ‘07 Patriots.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. Why do you make it so hard for me, asshole? Just when I was trying to swallow my pride and appreciate the Patriots run, along comes William Of Greenwich to bring my acid reflux back.

When the Colts ducked the AFC Championship Game with an indefensible choke job against San Diego, many die-hard Boston fans thought the same thing: Ralph Sampson.

And by many fans, he means ONE.

Look, I’m not saying the ‘07 Colts or ‘86 Lakers openly chose to lose. They just took the easy way out. Subconsciously, they were probably thinking, “Deep down, we know we’re not winning the title this year,” and responded in crisis with the appropriate amount of urgency.

Wow, what an amazing analysis of the collective psyche of 50 to 60 players and coaches on the Indy sideline! I’m sure they subconsciously really wanted to lose to avoid your precious Patriots. No competitive fire in that team! What’s the view like inside your own large intestine? Is it shiny?

In the process, they cheated two unforgettable teams of punctuating unforgettable seasons by topping their natural rivals.

Oh, poor you! You get to go 19-0, just not against the teams you wanted to go 19-0 against! Oh, you poor millionaire you! You were so cheated! IT’S ALL SO UNFAIR!!!!

On top of that, (Brady) excelled during an unhealthy era in which we digest sports through various mediums, argue about them constantly and pick athletes and coaches apart on a 24/7 basis.

It’s true! If only it were like back in the old days, when people couldn’t write columns on the Internet! That was really the beginning of the end! It’s also terrible when people can anonymously rip other people online, like the Sports Gal does!

He has the same satisfied smirk on his face that someone has when they’re meeting the boyfriend of a kinky ex-girlfriend, like he’s particularly delighted to make eye contact for that split-second as they’re shaking hands.

“Kinky women usually leave me for other men because I play a Dictaphone of Adam Carolla reading my columns, and I make them wear a Kimmel wig! I also like to give smug glances to other men, just to be a fucking prick!”

I have this one on tape — in the second half, the entire Celtics team morphs into Clint Eastwood during the final 15 minutes of “Unforgiven.” It’s incredible to watch. This game should run on ESPN Classic once a week.

Because Boston fans would really enjoy it! And they’re the only fans that matter!

The ‘86 Celtics had one of the most significant home court advantages in sports history, finishing 50-1 at home (including the playoffs) and breaking records for “Most times a group of fans recognized that a great pass was about to happen even before it happened,” and “Most times a crowd has ever lifted a team from one level to another.”

Because Boston fans are smarter and better than regular fans! In fact, they’re so good, they can literally improve the athletic potential of the team! But that’s not all! Boston fans can also turn lead into gold! And heal by touch! And when they take a shit, little animated birds appear from out of nowhere to wipe and powder their asses clean!

You can’t say enough about that gag job by the defending champs. What a disgrace. Part of winning a title is defending the title after you win it … and that wasn’t anything remotely resembling a defense.

So true. If you don’t do well the next year, your title shouldn’t really count! Like when the Patriots when 9-7 in 2002 and failed to make the playoffs! So weak!

Whether it’s a team or a player, the test remains the same: Will you be bouncing your grandkids on your lap some day and telling them how great Player X or Team X was? (Note: I always thought this would be a great way to decide the Hall of Fame — if somebody doesn’t pass the Grandkids Test, they’re out.)

I see someone is taking notes at the Woody Paige School For Idiotic Hall Of Fame Selection Methodology.

You know, I started off liking Simmons because I thought he was different from every other sportswriter out there. But he’s fucking EXACTLY like them all. He only gives a fuck about HIS team, HIS life, HIS opinions, and getting you to side with him. And all the old Rocky III jokes in the world (“Oh look! Two men hugging! That’s so funny! Don’t you think it’s funny that I find that funny?”) don’t make a goddamn difference. Know why I can’t ignore Simmons? BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO. I want to be reminded exactly of what it’s like to be some self-satisfied asshole who doesn’t give a shit about entertaining readers.

So, to that end… WE’RE UPPING THE BOUNTY!!!!

Twenty-one whole dollars to take out our man’s hands (NOTE: Offer not valid). He’ll never type or stroke his fingers through Wes Welker’s hair again. That’s the price you pay for making me root for fucking Marmalard, assfuck.