We really enjoyed having the Meast named after a different person every year. Being the Steve Irwin Memorial Meast of the Week was a different honor entirely than being the Kevin Everett Meast of the Week, y'know?
That all ends today, though. This week's Meast is Sean Taylor, and with it he deservedly reclaims the name that was his all along. We salute you, original man-beast. Or moist yeast, or whatever the word's origins are.
So, to recap: from here on out it's the Sean Taylor Memorial Meast Award, though we'll leave the door open for secondary sponsorship: the Sean Taylor Memorial Meast punched to you by Chuck Norris; the Sean Taylor Memorial Meast survived by Bear Grylls; the Sean Taylor Memorial Meast built by the Home Depot. You get the idea.
The Meast of the Week column, as much as the members of the Gay Mafia try to shrug it off onto someone else, is actually one of the least restrictive features we have on this site. This is saying a lot, because as far as I know we don’t really have any rules or regulations other than incorporating the word "fag" into a post whenever traffic lags.
But the Meast is fun: just rant about something non-NFL related for a couple paragraphs, then write "This week’s meast is..." and you're done.
I volunteered for the Meast this week because I’ve got the week off from both The Prelude because of Thanksgiving and from my social life because I’m in Southern Maryland. Problem is, nothing really struck me as worthwhile to write about. This ugly streak of moderate career satisfaction means that I’m just not angry enough to rant about things that piss me off. So instead of a rage-fueled rant, here follows a cornucopia -- nay, a horn o' plenty! -- of Measty topics that I passed over because they were too petty, entirely indefensible, or just made me sound like more of a douche than I already am.
- Reasons why full-time paid blogging isn’t as fun as sneaking it in at work as an anonymous office drone
- Thanksgiving football games always suck
- Why do we perform scientific experiments on rats and rabbits when we have perfectly useless humans?
- Fuck Panera Bread. Who blocks YouTube and Blogger?
- Things that are more boring than college basketball
- Okay, ladies. You wanna prove you like the NFL? Make out with that chick.
- Big Daddy Drew’s formula for disliking something (Step 1: Find something similar yet less heralded. Step 2: Declare less heralded thing better. Step 3: Add profanity. Step 4: Disagree? Douchebag!)
- Listen, Grandma, I’m not gonna write thank you notes any more
- I try to be open-minded, but I just don’t like a finger in my asshole
- Even IF Maurice Morris got a blowjob from a random guy in Manhattan and ate that guy’s ass, that wouldn’t make me cheer for him any less
- Ya know who’s attractive enough for me to screw? Pretty much anyone famous with a vagina.
- Corner Creek: the most amazing bourbon you’ve never heard of
- A complete exposure of The Big Lead: his name and previous writing jobs, his challenging career as a news editor at People Magazine, and a link to his New York Times wedding announcement. He and his husband look so happy.
- Blowjobs are overrated. Really great, but overrated.
- Being in Hawaii: not a legitimate reason to wear a Hawaiian shirt
This week’s meast is the Cardinals’ Antrel Rolle. Like Antonio Cromartie last week, he had three interceptions. Unlike that pussy Cromartie, he took each one of them back to the house – only an unnecessary illegal block kept the last one from counting in the record books.
But you know what’s more real than the record books? A weekly blog award named after a made-up word. That is fucking edgy.
9:04 AM Fred: hey man Landon: hey buddy Fred: another awesome day at work, eh? Landon: yeah, just found a snake in the office took a cell phone pic then it disappeared Fred: holy shit! why is there a fucking snake in your office? Landon: dunno Fred: maybe he works there you should have made him do some filing Landon: it did have a little dress shirt and tie on Fred: well at least he adhered to the dress code he might have just taken an early lunch Landon: haha Fred: that's freaky; was it by your desk? Landon: no, on the far end of the office, in a cubicle Fred: that snake should have his own office Landon: he's new you don't get the corner office your first day Fred: tell him that Landon: if i can find him if he's going to be coming and going as he wishes, I need to know that information Fred: he needs to fill out his timesheet accordingly Landon: he doesn't have the vacation built up yet to be taking half days Fred: or long lunches, either snakes these days, they think they can just slither in like they own the place Fred: send him an email
10:08 AM Landon: snake@landoncorp.com just sent it he's only 5 inches long, how long does he need for lunch? Fred: maybe it's a working lunch
10:38 AM Fred: So, did you take that from that other place where you applied? Landon: I haven't heard back yet but i would expect the decision (either way) to come very soon i'm not about to get my hopes up he and i both know i'm very green Fred: and chronically homosexual Landon: how do you think i got THIS job? Fred: tapping your foot in the men's room stall with your resume rolled up in your ass Landon: that's product placement Fred: I guees it beats the shit out of careerbuilder Landon: no kidding oh, i'll send you the pic of our new office help Fred: please do so so that I may report him to the Better Serpents Bureau Landon: the BSB doesn't take these things lightly i would have said they don't take it lying down... Fred: haha they are a serious bunch, but it takes them forever to type shit up Landon: they're reports just read "Ssssssss" hang on, fire alarm just went off Fred: wheeee
11:04 AM Landon: yeah, everyone went outside like it's 2nd grade i'm the only one in the office, so role call was easy Fred: did you touch each head as you counted? Landon: i had to, otherwise i'd have to start over Fred: well, yeah Landon: unfortunately, our new office assistant was unaccounted for Fred: shocker Landon: this is why he needs to tell me when he's coming and going if a situation like this arises
12:49 PM Landon: still on the loose. he was in the copy room, but i was unable to trap him with a file folder. he slithered under the big file cabinet. Fred: where's that pic already? Landon: i sent it to you. i'm sending you a 2nd one i just took also Fred: my phone must be slow
1:09 PM Landon: snake has been disposed of Fred: terminated? that was a short career Landon: dazed and taken outside, trapped it in a box i took the keyboard duster compressed gas thingie, turned it upside down so it became lethal, sprayed it enough to daze it, trapped it in a box, and released it into the wild. Fred: Don Rumsfeld approves of your shock-and-awe, as well your grasp of weapons terminology. Landon: as well he should Fred: By the way, your Meast for the week is Antonio Cromartie. He had three picks against the Colts. Landon: cool. Fred: Those pics still aren’t here yet. Landon: let me try it over email Fred: Fine.
This is old news, but I’d like to talk for a moment about Larry Craig, that one Senator who was busted in the airport for trying to score a quick layover motorboating. I don’t give a shit about the politics of Craig’s situation. What I care about is the fact that, in order to get laid, all Craig had to do is hop on the Internet, find a good “hot spot”, then walk into a shitter and tap his feet.
Are you fucking shitting me? That is AWESOME.
I wish I were gay.
Seriously, you gay men have it so easy, it makes me sick. I spent 20 long goddamn years trying to score with a girl before at last succeeding. And even then, it wasn’t all that great. (I blame her.)
But you, Dorothy, you can just stroll into a restroom or a local park, click your heels together, and PRESTO! A fresh cock is yours in no time. It’s like goddamn magic. We heterosexual men, we have to wine ladies, and dine ladies, and listen to them talk for hours on end about what a dick their LAST boyfriend was. And then maybe, just maybe, we get a reluctant blowjob. But you, Johnny Cakes, you don’t have to do any of that shit. You want a hot cock tonight? No problemo! You don’t even have to talk to other guy. He just strolls in, ready to bang. For free!
That is such bullshit.
We hetero gents have always dreamed of a day when women are just as horny and unselective about who they bang as we are. There are, of course, some women like that. But those women are sluts, okay? Totally undesirable. We heterosexual men need women who understand just how deep and depraved our libidos are, and are happy to indulge it. But you Just Jacks never have to worry about that. Your women ARE men! They totally get it! They’re into the latex thing! Is that worth suffering through a 100 Stonewalls? Fuck and yes.
So think about how blessed you are, gays of the world. You get more of the sex and none of the effort. You lucky bastards.
Your Meast of the Week is Matt Birk and the Vikings’ o-line.
On Sunday, they opened holes wider than Larry Craig’s bruised asshole, helping the Vikings tally almost 400 yards rushing. An incredible effort by Birk, Steve Hutchinson, Ryan Cook, and Anthony Herrera (but not Bryant McKinnie. He blows). And terribly exciting to behold. But it’s no Cock On Demand, I tell you.
We're taking a one-week respite from honoring Kevin Everett's valiant recovery to remember a fallen hero: Robert Goulet. At least Will Ferrell is still alive.
This is a tale of four hot chicks I know. Two pairs of best friends, united in their desire for matching Halloween costumes.
Pair of hotties #1 are best friends from college. This past weekend they wore matching slutty eskimo costumes (AKA "sexkimo" or "eski-ho"). Basically, there was a lot of fur, short skirts, and cleavage. A couple people mistook them for Mrs. Claus costumes, but really: who gives a shit what they are? They're obviously costumes of some sort, and the goods are on display. That's really all I'm askin' for.
Pair of hotties #2 work together in the fashion industry. They look down on the dumb sluts they work with, and every year put together a creative team costume that everyone thinks is really cool and no one thinks is really sexy. Last year the big hit was Wayne and Garth, which worked frighteningly well because one of them is blonde and the other's brunette. Keeping with the trend of '90s phenomena that don't need to be relived, this year they dressed as Beavis and Butt-Head.
Ordinarily, there's a little chunk of the male brain that's interested in bright women with original ideas. Halloween is that little chunk's day off. So, hot girls, take a memo: I don't give a shit unless you're showing it off. I mean, these are two prime pieces of tail -- one of whom has gigantic boobs -- and they're covering it all up to dress like dudes. Well, I can't masturbate to dudes, so until you find some trashy heels and something that gives your father a sleepless night, go to hell.
This week's Meast is Antonio Cromartie. He scored two touchdowns in the Chargers' blowout -- one on a muffed snap on special teams, the other a pick-6. Also, after drinking three Gatorades and a case of Miller High Life, he extinguished two acres of burning underbrush in San Diego County with his mighty hose.
We've reached our threshold for discussing how much we hate New England's fans, at least for the remainder of the week. Maj will probably chime in with something on Sunday when the Pats beat the Redskins 600-6. Until then, allow us to totally disrespect New England by turning our gaze toward some of the other NFL teams.
We've gotten scads of comments and e-mails from Patriots fans accusing us of being jealous, resentful haters who despise them for their freedom, righteousness of spirit and ability to engage in reasoned arguments. As a Steelers fan, I'm the only truly unabashed Patriots hater among our cadre of cocksmen. Ufford actually likes them, that stupid contrarian. He should go write for Slate or something.
Yes, I'm bitter about the two AFC Championship Game losses at home and I'm envious of their recent success. But mostly it's everything we've covered at length over the last five or so posts. They're all terrible people and I hope their kids grow up to be Yankees fans and vote Republican. I can only thank Yahweh that the Ravens blow goat nuts or my life would be totally devoid of meaning.
Anyway, your Meast this week is the Seahawks' Darryl Tapp, who nearly doubled his previous career total of 4.5 sacks with another four against the Rams, as well as contributing a forced fumble. All with a broken hand. He was busy fisting your mother with the other.
This week's Kevin Everett update is the best one yet: the Bills tight end with the broken neck is now walking on his own.
Allow me to rephrase that: HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT. To recap, this is what doctors predicted:
And this is what's going on:
Yeah yeah yeah, the doctors get some credit too, but there is no denying that Kevin Everett is about as measty as a human being can be. Stay tuned for next week's Everett update, in which he does one-armed push-ups and satisfies a nurse and a candy striper simultaneously.
There was plenty of meastiness around the rest of the NFL this week, to the point that we actually felt the need to recognize several of the individual efforts we witnessed.
Third runner-up is Marion Barber, whose two-yard, two-point-saving run is reminiscent of Barry Sanders -- if Barry ran over people instead of around them:
Second runner-up: Devin Hester. With two 80-yard-plus scores, Hester reiterated that (a) all offensive plays should be designed to get him the ball until Cedric Benson can get more than two yards a carry, and (b) any special teams coach who elects to kick to him is interested in working elsewhere next year.
Our first runner-up is vintage 2006 LaDainian Tomlinson, who torched the Raiders for 198 yards and all four Chargers touchdowns. Fun fact: Dan Shanoff has LT2/LDT in our Yahoo! fantasy league, and he still lost.
Predictably, here's this week's Meast:
We needn't go over numbers or game impact here; however, I feel compelled to respond to Michael David Smith's missive (or should I say dismissive?) that asked Is Adrian Peterson Overrated?
Now, I craft my responses to fellow bloggers carefully. The person known as "Matt Ufford" is a surprisingly affable sort who rarely, if ever, publishes a negative response to a neighbor in the blogorhood.
Captain Caveman, however, is a real asshole.
And as Captain Caveman, on behalf of the KSK Gay Mafia, I can say, "Hey, MDS. Slate called. They were looking for a contrarian poindexter to stir up pointless debate." And so we respond to the Tim Duncan of blogging, FanHouse's blandly efficient MVP, thusly: No, Adrian Peterson is not overrated. He's really fucking good. He's called PURPLE JESUS for a reason.
Today is 20th annual National Coming Out Day, in which "members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and tranny hooker communities and their supporters (often referred to as "allies" or, if you're the Dead Tree Crew, "FAGGOTS") show pride and wish for planets full of unicorns. It is highly encouraged for participants in this movement to wear identifying symbols, such as the pink triangle, Ravens jerseys, the Greek letter lambda and rainbows, in jewelry and on their clothing, to demonstrate their presence in all walks of life, all ages and all ethnic groups."
I know, I know. Hold off on the predictable jokes about Jeff Garcia and the Mannings for a sec, won't you, Tony Dungy? We're here to honor people like Ufford, possessed of homicidal rage but comfortable enough in their sexuality to wear pinstripe pants and pink shirts.
This week's Meast is Mike Sellers, who, despite having played in the CFL, is a killer of men, tamer of Lions, and also an accenter of beards. It's those small stylistic touches that nicely top off a measty two TD performance against Detroit. He also has several new tattoos on his left arm: three large "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" skulls accompanied by the words "Fear No Man," and a dark script of his nickname, "Dat Boy." See, Sellers doesn't fear the gays. Joe Gibbs and his band of parking lot degenerates could learn something.
It’s my birthday this weekend. I’ll be 31, which is pretty uninteresting. I’m always baffled as to what to do with my birthday. If you tell people it’s your birthday, you run the risk of being one of THOSE people. You know, those people that make their own birthdays a huge deal. I fucking hate people like that. It’s usually a chick. And she usually rents out a room for herself at some tiny bar in an inconvenient, shitty section of town and makes you come pay homage. Only there’s no open bar, and they only have Heineken (and it’s $10), and none of the chairs have proper lumbar support. Annoying.
But, if you don’t tell people it’s your birthday, then they get strangely pissed. “Shit man, it was your birthday? I could have made a token gesture of niceness to you in the hopes that you would reciprocate to me on my birthday! Fucker.” And people at work get super annoyed. “Hey, we could have had CAKE, asshole.” So there’s that.
I also fuck up my presents every year. My wife asks me what I want, and my brain comes to a dead stop. I know there’s SOMETHING I want. I just can’t get it to show up in my head at crunch time. So I end up getting a shirt. Only five weeks later will I remember, “FUCK! I wanted noise-canceling headphones!” Same thing happens at Christmas. I should write more things down. But I DID manage to get my wife to switch from watching "Grey's Anatomy" on Thursday nights to watching "The Office". So that's a present of sorts. And no, I don't have a DVR. Go fuck yourself.
When I was a kid, my mom would always bake me a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and candy corns on top for my birthday. It was kind of a tradition, one that my wife has happily continued throughout this 31-year extended childhood of mine. But this year, Mrs. Drew had other ideas.
Mrs. Drew: Can we have something else besides that candy corn cake this year?
Me: Fuck you.
Mrs. Drew: C’mon. Live a little.
Me: If you don’t like the candy corns, get a chocolate cake, and a separate bag of candy corns, and then I will sprinkle candy corns on my own piece. And then everyone will be happy. Especially me. Because I rule.
Mrs. Drew: Oh, for fuck’s sake.
That’s the key to a good marriage, kids. Compromise. Maybe the Cutlers could learn a thing or two from me and my old lady. Your Meast of the Week is Osi Umenyiora of the Giants.
Six sacks? Well, that makes my selection process easier. I think Winston Justice should be nicknamed EZ Pass.
We've been so engaged in mock-sincere recriminations over who is most slighted, black quarterbacks, white receivers, Asian claims adjusters or half-German and half-Brazilian big tittied personal palm frond wavers that it seems that we've lost sight of what matters most. Sunday, it was reported that this year's Meast namesake Kevin Everett made still more remarkable progress when he was able to lift his right arm and give paralysis the finger.
It makes you think of all the parallels with Christopher Reeve, like how they both wore red and blue outfits, and sucked stem cells dry to reach an arduous recovery.
But the debate hung over everything this week, especially the selection of the Meast. You knew we had to honor someone from the Eagles for their -temporarily- season-saving, face-melting 56-point performance against Detroit Sunday. With McNabb and Curtis canceling each other out with outstanding but co-dependent performances, it was the open field running of Brian Westbrook that proved most deserving of our recognition this week. We don't care how many yards you had, Ronnie Brown. Fucking loser.
The Eagles' back gained more than 200 total yards and had three scores, in the process getting an abdominal strain from eating so many Lions' players souls.
And, hey, we didn't pick a Patriot this week! There's another "disrespect" card they'll shuffle into the deck.
Having sufficiently honored our bestingraychested Memorial Meast Steve Irwin, we're re-naming KSK's most prestigious honor after Kevin Everett, who we think is a total fucking badass for shattering his neck vertebrae and then having the constitution to not be totally paralyzed. We'll be rooting for you all year, Kevin (plus well into the future after that).
Pick six.
Adalius Thomas did it, man. He lived the dream. He found a ball lodged in his grill and delivered it to the promised land before 10 am the next morning. He also had three tackles, and then after the game he ate five pizzas and took a shit the size of Muggsey Bogues. Simmons would probably suck him dry were it not for his deep-rooted fear of larger black gentlemen.
Yeah, we just picked a Patriot for the Meast for the second consecutive week. But before you polish up your pitchfork, consider that these Patriots have already slapped around two good teams. At least, they were good last year. Who knows, they might not be worth a shit in '07. Adalius is the black guy, by the way.
Actually, Adalius always wanted to play quarterback in the NFL, but a bunch of my white friends got together and stopped him. We didn't want him in that position.
Having sufficiently honored our bestingraychested Memorial Meast Steve Irwin, we're re-naming KSK's most prestigious honor after Kevin Everett, who we think is a total fucking badass for shattering his neck vertebrae and then having the constitution to not be totally paralyzed. We'll be rooting for you all year, Kevin (plus well into the future after that).
You'd think that because we've re-named the award the Kevin Everett Meast of the Week, we'd adopt a more politically correct stance with regards to cheering for injuries. Absa-fuckin-lootly NOT. Are you kidding? Cheering for injuries is part of the fan experience. Listen, we ALL feel badly about Kevin Everett. Nobody wanted him to get hurt. But his injury shouldn't necessitate us feeling guilty about our schadenfreude about other players' injuries.
Take Big Daddy Drew (PLEASE! -ed.), a former Tiki Barber fantasy owner. He has long cheered for Brandon Jacobs to get a knee injury. Actually, that's not true: he's wished for much, much worse. Well, last weekend that vulture finally got his comeuppance. And again, it's really too bad about Kevin Everett, but that fucker Jacobs had it coming. We can't let every somber event get in the way of every long-fantasized fantasy football injury.
So, let's go ahead and re-open the gates on cheering for injuries. From here on out for the rest of the season, go ahead and insert this standard preface into every I-hope-Player-X-gets-injured joke: "The horrible event of Kevin Everett's injury notwithstanding..."
To warm you up, please practice by putting that statement in front of the following bits of evil that we jokingly (but not really) wish would happen.
...I can't wait until Trent Green gets another concussion. ...if Derek Anderson breaks something, really: Who cares? ...I'd love it if everyone packed into Heinz Field for a Steelers game contracted ebola. Except Steely McBeam. ...I have Michael Turner on my fantasy team, and it would really help me out if LaDainian Tomlinson got hit by a car. Or a bus. Or a train covered in cobras. ...I wish people who take the time to write emails of complaint to bloggers would all die in a government-sponsored fire. ...Terrell Owens is way overdue for karmically-triggered season-ending injuries. ...I hope Green Bay fans who are still fervently devoted to Brett Favre choke on a big silver platter of steaming cock. Your lives are small, meaningless, and not worth prolonging. Do your part to save humanity and kill yourselves.
That's the spirit!
This week's Meast is Randy Moss. He was thrown to nine times for nine catches and 183 yards, including the 51-yard touchdown catch to where he outraced -- ho-hum -- triple coverage.
As with most Measts, though, it's not the numbers we're impressed by, but the meastiness. Moss provided a true statement game, and that statement was, "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you're cool, and fuck you. I'm out!" Simply put, Randy Moss's performance was neck-breakingly impressive.
(Oh, fuck off. The Everett preface is supposed to be automatic.)
