A Twinkle in Time

AFC 1st Seed -- New England Patriots (*-0)

[Jan. 19, 2002]

Phil Simms: A season hanging in the balance. Here comes the ruling from Walt Coleman.

Walt Coleman: [On PA] After reviewing the play, the quarterback went through a forward throwing motion, brought the ball back into his body, then fumbled it. Therefore, the ruling on the field stands. First down Oakland.

Greg Gumbel: And it's all academic from here on out. Charles Woodson forces the Brady fumble and the Raiders fall on it. A fine season from New England's young quarterback, taking over early in relief of starter Drew Bledsoe, but it will come to an end here this evening. Meanwhile, the Raiders will move on to meet the winner of tomorrow's Steelers-Ravens game in Pittsburgh. And head coach Bill Belichick falls to 1-2 in three career playoff games.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Six years later]

[Quincy Bean Cannery]

Robert: Ay, ay, loogit what I found in little Tommy Brady's lockah. Under all the straaaberry rubbahs and pahsitive pregnancy tests.

Brady: Aw, come on, man. Stay out of my stuff. I'm trying to stay up on Manu Chao.

Mike: Bet ya'd like tah git ya some a'that, eh? Ya fackin' Caleefourkneeah queeah.

I know I'd tear that ass up right propah. She's good and rail thin, but she could benefit from having a little less of the ethnic in her, ya know? Waaaa's she from, Brazil? She might be some jungle bitch a' something. Have a caaaapybarrrra a' something crawl outta the cunt. Like my dick should be wearin' a pith helmet.

Robert: Ay, Brady. What'd I tell ya abaat wearing Yankees shit ahn tha jab? Ya think cause yoo use'ta play a little bawl with the Paytree-uts, the rules dan't apply to ya?

Mike: Like the Paytree-uts are even a fackin' team. I ain't never even been ta one-a their games. Fackin' loosuhs. Haaadly worthy of my loyal allegiance.

Robert: Face it: If ya ain't on the Sawx in this town, ya ain't shit, pally. If you play for the Paytree-uts, should should prahbabbly just kill yaself. Like that one colored who showed his face here last week and killed hisself by getting his car door slammed in his face a couple dozen times or so.

[both laugh]

Mike: Ay, Tommy. I need to see ya the break room.

Brady: [exhales hard] Not now, man. I'm trying to get some work done.

Mike: Am I fackin' askin' ya? Move ya shit, shitbawx.

Robert: You fackin' tell 'um, super Mike. Super Mike Forevah!

[break room]

Mike:[opening refrigerator] Those ya tacquitos right there?

Brady: [peering in] Uh, nope. Not mine.

[Mike pulls knife around Brady's neck and bends him over a table]

Mike: Good. So I'll have something to eat after ya give up that ass!

[Pulls down Brady's pants and forcibly enters him]

Brady: [stifled screams under Mike's hand]

Clarence: Ddddrrrreeeaaammmmboat.

Brady: Clarence!

Clarence: What a horrifying turn of events. I can make it all as it was, Tom. I just need to know that you've learned the values of fairplay and humility. That you're ready to stop headbutting your teammates and pretending like you're a major badass so long as you have some Norse woodsman protecting your blindside.

Can you forswear the avarice and lustful pride that twisted your once pure spirit? And for fuck's sake, are you done with the pageboy caps and velvet blazers, Nancy?

Brady: [breaths bated by the continuing penetration] Oh, I have learned those things. I am prepared to live by that code. I've changed, Clarence, really I have.

Clarence: So we're ready then?

Brady: No...no.

I'm pretty sure I'm good here, actually.

Clarence: But, but, Tom! The accolades? The titles? The fame? The glory? The Andrea Kremer restraining orders? Riches attending a legacy that will live on for generations? Don't you see a mistake it would be to throw it all away? All this you would abandon in favor of occasional coerced buttsex in a bean cannery break room by a galatically douchey Masshole?

Brady: That's about the [winces sharply]...ooof, the long and short of it, yeah. I mean, so long as he shares those tacquitos.

Game Time Decision: Hater's Guide To The Postseason

NFC No. 1 Seed: Dallas Cowboys (13-3)

Hello? Yes, this is Terr... [disguises voice] this is Dr. Arthur Honeycake, Mr. Owens' personal physician....yes, Mr. Owens has a sprain in his ankle and it's very bad...and I'm afraid he won't be able to play Sunday...well, we're not exactly sure how the sprain got in there...yes it's....OH WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN "YOU KNEW IT WAS ME?" Y'ALL DIDN'T KNOW SHIT. Fuckin shit, man. [Hangs up and dresses for practice]

Aaaahhhh! Oooh, oh, it hurts so much! Me so tender. I'm limping! Look at me limp! Hey, y'all come get some limp footage. Get that shit while it's hot. Aw, damn, I'm in so much pain! I can't practice on this thing, man. Shit, no. Ain't no damn way I can play on Sunday.

What's that? You want me to jog some? Sure, man, I can jog for days. Ooh, ooh. Little jolt there. Now, wait, that's not so bad. Wow, this ankle's starting to feel pretty good. Couple days of this and I'm gonna be alright. Yeah, man, come Sunday, my shit's gonna be good to go.

AAAHHAAHHHHH, FUCKING SHIT! I just stepped on a goddamn turtle! TRAINER! NEED ME A TRAINER RIGHT DAMN NOW! Man, who's letting turtles into practice, man? He from the gotdamn Morning Star or what the fuck. No no no don't touch it don't touch IT AAAAAHHHHHH OH SWEET FUCKER TO ALL HELL LISA LOPEZ!! MMMmmMpphh, shiiiiiitttt! That's it, man. I'm done. Ain't no way I can go against the Giants, man. Forget it.

What you doin? What, you taping that shit up? Wow, you're using a lot of tape on me there. I think I'm getting...wait...yes, I'm definitely getting a boost of self-esteem from all this attention. Wow, I feel the need to repay this organization in some way. Guess what, baby! I'm playing on Sunday! Getcha popcorn ready!

Game Day

[drops pass]

Aw, shit, man.

Soul for Sale: 2 BD, 1 BTH Nice Nabe

AFC 2nd Seed -- Indianapolis Colts (13-3)

[Hell, Michigan]

Dallas Fucking Clark: Y'know, I like winning as much as the next guy, but I'm pretty sure this idea is for shit.

Peyton Manning: Nobody's paying you to think, asshole. If this can work for New England, we can make it work for us.

MarHar: I know one thing: it wasn't my ass what drug us down here. Ya'll into that aloe drink? Pick it up at the Chinese grocer. Tasty as shit. Could go for some a' that right now. Hot as dogcrotch down here.

Booming Voice: SILENCE!


Satan: Who dares encroach upon my kingdom of th--

Adam Vinatieri: Hey Satan.

Satan: Oh, hey Adam.

Satan: ...my kingdom of the damned?

Peyton: We learned of the deal that you've entered into with the Patriots. I think you'll find our counteroffer enticing.

Satan: Yeah, it was your basic team of souls for a perfect season arrangement. I'll tell you right now: Matching that offer isn't getting you anywhere. The Pats have good credit here, you know. You don't know how many Southies I'm gonna get just by having Wes Welker on my side. I'm guessing all of them.

Peyton: Okay, but just wrap your mind around this...

------------------------------------------------------------

[Sunday]

Jim Nantz: And with the tackle by Bob Sanders, that will take us to the two-minute warning. The Colts, up 34-17 on the Chargers, minutes away from an epic showdown in Foxboro. Back after this.

Peyton: Hey, Peyton Manning here to talk to you about a great limited-time offer from the Prince of Darkness.

Up to your asshole in debt? Finding payday advance loans and armed robbery to be too much of a hassle? Maybe just want some arbitrary bullshit?

Ever thought of selling your soul to the Devil?

Whoawhoawhoa. Hear me out. And you'll discover why there's never been a better time to sell than now.

Don't be duped into selling your everlasting essence to one of those big corporations or, even worse, some Portuguese guy who promises you a bigger dick. Go with the fictive religious entity with a couple thousand year track record of eternal bargains. We're offering low introductory rates.

What are you using it for anyway? Why not make that soul work for you?

[cut to family trying to pack their car to go on a vacation]

Mom: The car's full. We can't fit anymore.

Dad: If only we didn't have these damn souls weighing us down!

Peyton Manning: That's right. They'll even take Hindus, Sikhs or B'ahai and shit. Whatever it is dark-skinned worship. It's all good. Believe it or not, but your souls are worth only marginally less than a real person's.

Tony Dungy: But don't none a' ya'll faggots try to peddle your swishy souls 'round here.

Peyton: He's just kidding. They took mine, after all.

The Unbearable Whiteness of Being

NFC 2nd Seed -- Green Bay Packers (13-3)

Mike McCarthy: I know we shouldn't be peering into the future at a time like this but, unlikely though it may be, if we are to advance far enough, this could be the final year with Brett as our quarterback.

[waves arms down to quell obvious excitement]

Now, now. It's not going to be an easy transition. The improved quarterback play by young Aaron will, at least for me, alter the entire playbook in painful, soul-wrenching ways. But for the sake of revenue and keeping the fanbase in its pallid lunacy, some people are going to have to take on a few of Brett's extracurriculars next season.

Atari: You have a hilarious name that resonates with people who don't get out of their houses. That'll help some.

Atari Bigby: Actually, it's the Japanese word for "attack."

McCarthy: Well, it's an American word for playing Missile Command whilst double fisting Fiddle Faddle in your basement. They teach that in the high schools 'round me.

But that won't do much to assuage the media fluffers. Who will they turn to in their moment of ejaculation?

Aaron Kampman: Madden already seems to like me okay. And I'm white. Easy peazy.

McCarthy: Good, good.

What about crazy wives? We got anymore of those? Preferably with a sympathetic disorder of some sort.

A.J. Hawk: Uhhh, check.

McCarthy: Okay. Okay. Nice. Now all we need is to capture the stubble quotient. Preferably covering a face at once alluring and non-threatening to homely white women.

James Van Der Beek: I'm your man, coach!

[A door quietly creeks open]

Brett Favre: What's going on here, guys? Some kinda team bonding exercise? We gonna start wrasslin' soon? Get into some monkeyshines? Rent some scary movies? Talk of days gone by?

Hmmm. Somethin's a lil' amiss.

Waitaminnit.

I think I know what you're doing.

You-you're planning for my retirement, aren't you? AREN'T YOU?

Mike McCarthy: No.

Nononononono.

Aaron Rodgers: [standing by depth chart that has him as starting quarterback] Not at all.

Greg Jennings: [wearing a toupe while icing a Brett Favre retirement cake] That's crazytalk, man.

Al Harris: It's just, you've been going through this whole song and dance for a few years now and -

Favre: You shut up, Al! I was just coming to tell you guys I was gonna stay. We were gonna be Packers forever. Remember when I said you were the most talented team I ever played with? I meant that. It came from here, here in my boyish, gunslinging indefatigable heart.

[door flies open]

Peter King: WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT HAPPENED? My Favre Monitor showed your heartbeat was quickening! Are you in fine fettle, my frisky Favre?

Favre: They're conspiring toward a future in which I play no part. A farewell to gunslinging!

Peter King: [furiously jabbing finger in McCarthy's chest] You-You-YOU UNCONSCIONABLE MONSTER! I voted you Coach of the Year! You made my Bretty Boy a factor again. Now I see it was just a big power grab, wasn't it? WASN'T IT?

LOOK AT ME!!!

[Fighting tears]

Come away, Brett. I feared this day would come and now it has. We'll find a home somewhere where dreams never die and the sweet song of Number Four will play as a paean to puckishness everlasting. The rigors of old age will never cut us down. We'll be dewy fresh for now and always. This was not a world made for lovers, its searing sneering cynicism was made to siphen the ardor of the warmest heart. You know this, as do I. Only together can we find this place, can we discover it within ourselves.

Favre: I might like that, Peter.

An Overflowing River of Douchejuice

AFC 3rd Seed -- San Diego Chargers (11-5)

[A quiet dinner party]

Sarah: This one time, when I was little, my family was on a road trip and me and my brother were acting up. So my parents just pulled over to the side off the road and let us out.

Dan: Whhhhhaaaaaaaaaaat?

Sarah: I mean, they did come back, like, five minutes later. They just went to the next exit then doubled back and got us. But we were terrified. Just sitting alone at this rest stop.

Lori: You totally should have just told somebody. You could have gotten your parents in a shitload of trouble. "Hi, our parents abandoned us!"

Sarah: I know, but I...

[A knock at the door]

Lori: I'll get that.

[door busts open]

Philip Rivers: Hey hey, betta ask someboddaaayyyy! What's with all the long faces, lookie fucking loos? Heh. Heh. Heh. Funny fucking anecdote the famous athlete must've interrupted, huh? I'm sure it's everyday a starting NFL quarterback barges in your place. Whoa, where's the goddamn party at?! I don't wanna blow my fucking Wednesday night for shit.

[Someone emerges from the kitchen]

Rivers: What's this cheap shit you got here?

[quaffs entire bottle, spits half on the floor]

Rivers: God, that fucking sucked.

[Throws bottle in high arch toward wall. Bottle doesn't hit wall for a full minute]

Rivers: What? You got a problem with an NFL QB trashing your place? I might as well sign the shards of fucking glass. YEAH, THE FUCKING GLASS! What's this you got on the wall? A Degas print? Aren't you such a sophisto?

Rivers: Me? I don't get art. Art is for fags. Even people named Art are incredibly fucking gay, y'know. RIGHT!? This one's okay though 'cause it's got Mr. Miyagi in it. God, that's so fucking funny. MR. MIYAGI!!! Teach those dancing bitches!

[slaps nearest person on back, laughs in their face]

Rivers: I fucking love Karate Kid. That's why I love Bill Simmons so much. Because he devotes column themes to old fucking movies like Rocky III like it's fresh material. The divisional round column will be about the crappiness of airline food or the quality of computer porn.

[slaps nearest guy on back]

Rivers: This guy likes porn. Huh? Buddy? Huh? FUCK YOU.

Rivers: I don't need this shit.

[Whips out cell phone. Holds it to his ear impatiently for 20 seconds]

Rivers: Fuck you, LT. Pick up your fucking phone. Why is it ringing through? Dick.

[Rivers surveys the increasingly impatient crowd]

Rivers: But, yeah. I gotta get going. It's been fun and shit.

Aren't you gonna offer me some food to get me on my way? Isn't that what considerate hosts do for professional athletes who grace their lame parties? Or is this just a get-together, so the rules don't apply? HUH? WHAT KIND OF SHIT IS THIS? WHY YOU CAN GET-TOGETHER MY BALLS.

[Storms out]

[LaDainian Tomlinson emerges from behind couch]

LT: Is he gone?

Rivers pic sent by reader Roger R.

You Know, When I Look Back At It All, I Wish I Had More Time

NFC 3rd Seed -- Seattle Seahawks (10-6)

Mike Holmgren: I know this: At the end of the season, I am very much wiped out. You play your last game and you fall apart. You get a cold, you get all screwed up. The losses, and I've said this, are much harder than 10 years ago for me. Much harder. I lose my patience, I get more angry.

Matt Hasselbeck: Quick, coach! I need a playcall! 2nd and 3! 2nd and 3! I've got the Redskins defense flummoxed with my elaborate disguise.

Holmgren: Oh, lost bucket. Have I truly abandoned all hope of finding you in my silly quest for gridiron success? How many years has it been? 10? 15? I remember you cylindrical shape as though I were wrapping my flippers around it now.

Deion Branch: C'mon, coach. Play clock is running out!

Hasselbeck: Perhaps I shall capture fair maiden and bind her to the train tracks with this section of rope? That will leave her woefully imperiled by a likely death by locomotive! Mwahahahaha!

Holmgren: When one reaches an advanced age such as I have, it dawns on you all the experiences you may have missed while tilting at the windmills of life. When I think of all the things I've yet to eat, all the buffets I've yet to buffet with my jaws...

Marcus Pollard: Fuck! We just got six delay a' game penalties!

12th Man Flag: [flaps in breeze in manner that sounds like booing]

Hasselbeck: Perhaps Master Wayne is in need of his morning abultions. I say, for a crime-fighting mastermind, one would think he could properly bathe himself. In all my years...

Holmgren: I was chatting with Brett Favre the other day. It'd been a while since we caught up. He was telling me about all the wondrous things about retirement and how I should never think of doing them so I can hang around for another decade and torture my team's fans.

Shaun Alexander: All this standing around has got me tired out. Can we just form a pile so I can dive into it?

Hasselbeck: You know, perhaps I should just do away with this silly playoff beard. I doesn't seem to be doing me a lick of good.



Ben Roethlisberger: YU CAWL THA PLAYLOFT BEERD? HARF HARF HARF HARF


credit Sportable for the Hasselbeck pic

Sean Mahan is Killing Me, Slowly and Painfully: The Hater's Guide to the Postseason

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Okay, well, lust probably won't do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.


AFC 4th Seed -- Pittsburgh Steelers (10-6)

I've never hated a Steeler as intensely, as quickly as I hate Sean Mahan.

I realize it makes little sense. He's only in his first year with the team and hasn't done much that anyone who doesn't follow the Steelers would notice. It took me years to sour on Kordell Stewart, someone whose failings and messy sodomy everyone in the league would be familiar with.

And other than the general, staggering crappiness of his play, I know nothing of the guy. His Wikipedia entry is three sentences long, but handily contains the telling phrase "no notable achievements." He did go to Notre Dame, though, which is pretty close to guaranteeing he's a junk grabbing douchebag (sorry Bettis).

Of course, what really rankles me is his place in history. The Steelers have had three starting centers in the last 33 years and they've all been very good to great: Mike Webster, Dermotti Dawson and Jeff Hartings. The three combined for 14 All-Pro selections from 1975 to 2006. It's pretty central to their whole identity as a smashmouth team. That's like following three Drew posts with an Ape post.

This year, however, the line is beyond porous and has given up the second most sacks in the league. To be fair, that's not all Mahan's fault. You can't tell me that, though. Any time Roethlisberger gets dropped, I'm yelling at Mahan, even if the rusher came off the corner beating Willie Colon. Or if Ben is doing that thing where he runs around the pocket actively looking for defensive linemen to bounce off of.

It's gone full-on irrational, this Mahan Mahating. The assessed value of my apartment has dropped? I know Mahan's shitty blocking is driving the real estate crash. Rejected for that promotion? Mahan's giving scoops to other papers. Can't bed that girl I'm going after? Mahan probably turned her off guys.

Just take a look at that lumpen asshole. He looks like Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky after he got his face jacked up.

He looks like the putzy dad on a CBS sitcom. He looks like he has minimum three balls in his mouth.

In honor of said fucktaster, I've taken to calling broken condoms Mahans, for poorly inspired protection joke reasons. I'd say Jamie Lynn Spears was the victim of a Mahan, but I'm pretty sure she was more a victim of being a Spears, which means going without a connie, ya'll. If the term stuck as with Santorum, that'd be cool, but I'd rather the guy be on the first trebucket ride out of town.

Get fucked and get gone, Sean Mahan.

The People Vs. Heinz Field: The Hater's Guide to the Postseason.

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Okay, well, lust probably won't do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

AFC 5th Seed -- Jacksonville Jaguars (11-5)

"Heinz Field is terrible. That's a lawsuit pending" -- Fred Taylor 1/1/08

Plaintiff's attorney: On numerous occasions the conditions at Heinz Field have been found to be substandard, on others disastrously uninhabitable. My client asserts that the grounds have left him subject to permanent injury. What have you to stay to that?

Heinz Field: glug glug glug glug glug

Defense attorney: Objection! Point of fact: Did not Fred Taylor rush for 147 yards and a touchdown at Heinz Field not more than a month ago? And has Fred Taylor not been injured by the following things throughout his career: Popsicle stick houses, the blown seeds off a dandelion, dust mites, tall grass, fallen Jenga blocks, taking off his socks and tripping on the end of an escalator?

Plaintiff's attorney: My client's history of impairment is immaterial to the downright neglectful and irresponsible tending of Pittsburgh's playing surface. What matters is that on any carry this weekend he could sustain a career-ending injury for no other reason than the field is a sloppy midden heap.

Defense attorney: I wish to call to the stand Hines Ward, a player who has competed on the surface without incident since the stadium opened in 2001.


Defense attorney: Hines, would you describe the turf at Heinz Field as substandard?

Hines Ward: Rrrraaaahhhhh. That so sally! Almost ridicurous! Seen many worst condition than that. Back home, each leceiver get sampan when go out on route.

Hines Ward: See? He wide open for super fantastic catch! I think Fled Tayrol is just lazy pampered Amerrrcan. He no know meaning of hard work.

I can smirrre now?


Plaintiff's attorney: Very well. I have someone of my own who I would like to call to the stand: Troy Polamalu, who has played his entire career with Heinz Field as a home stadium, has been dogged by knee injuries this season, most likely caused by the shoddy playing surface at Heinz. Troy...



Polamalu: (speaking softly, inaudibly)

Plaintiff's attorney: You're gonna need to speak up, Troy.

Polamalu: Help, sinky sand!

The Bucs Are In The Playoffs? Cool. But I Can't Fit In Those Seats!

NFC 4th Seed -- Tampa Bay Buccaneers (9-7)

I'm so happy the Bucs are in the playoffs. But if they think I'm heading to that stadium on Sunday, they're drinking crazy juice! I can't fit in those seats! The armrests are way too rigid. I need them to have some give. And lots of my Tampa-area friends agree. We were just talking about it the other night while dining at Houlihan's. We're not European, you know. A 20 1/2" wide seat isn't gonna cut it, Buccies!

Plus, the stadium is so big! I can't walk all those long concourses! They have mild inclines! No thank you, sir! Catwalks make me dizzy! They confiscated my inhaler last time. I nearly choked on my own larynx.

So I'm super happy you're in the playoffs, Bucs. But no way I'm making it to the game. Take heart, men. I'll be cheering you on from my orthopedic chair!

You Mean There's More?: The Hater's Guide to the Postseason

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won't do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.

NFC 5th Seed -- New York Giants (10-6)


[Raymond James Stadium]

Eli Manning: What is this shit? I thought the season was done last week. We played the Patriots, right? That was our Super Bowl. I actually tried and everything. I imagined it to be a really important squash game, with the loser having to pony up for all the POM Wonderful after the match. But we lost and that's it, right? Then why the fuck am I stuck down here in godforsaken Tampa Bay?

Eli: Fine. Someone get open. C'mon. Plaxico, where are you?

Plaxico Burress: Wha-huh? Nah, man. It's the playoffs. And I got no love from that drunk bitch last night in Ybor City. You're on your own.

Eli: Shiiiiit. Shitshitshitshitshit.

Wait.

No. It can't.

It can't be.

What the fuck is that?



Eli: Tiki! Oh, Tiki, my sweet prince, you've come back to me!

Ronde Barber: Actually, I'm -

Eli: No time for apologies. Just take the ball.

[Ronde runs the ball back for a touchdown]

Brandon Jacobs: The fuck you doing, man?

Eli: Don't be sore, Brandon. You've done well as the feature back, but it's back to the TD vulture role for you. Tiki has returned. And none too soon. I feel as though my bonhomie of the sport has risen anew.

Tom Coughlin: SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM

[Eli throws seven pick-sixes to Ronde on consecutive offensive snaps]

Tom Coughlin: SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM GET PEYTON ON THE PHONE!

Peyton Manning: 'Sup numbnuts. Heard you've got yourself in a spot of trouble.

Eli: Hey snotbreath.

Peyton: Think I could interest you in The New Razor from Sprint?

Eli: Maybe. It would go well with a Citizen Eco-Drive Watch. How many can I put you down for?

Peyton: The ultra-thin, sleek design of the A900 by Samsung is enough to turn heads, but this phone is not just another pretty face. Coupled with the great features of the Sprint Power Vision Network, Bluetooth Wireless technology, and megapixel camera it is the perfect blend of fashion and function.

Eli: Yeah, well, Citizen has now gone high-tech with its new line of solar powered wristwatches. These new Eco-Drive watches will never need to have the battery replaced. And they come in a wide variety of styles for both men and women.

Peyton: That sounds like a right fine idea. Perhaps I could put it on my Mastercard. You know I have something of an ad campaign going on with them, don't you know?

Eli: We all know about your stupid pep talks, Pey-Pey. Well, me and dad got this thing going with BankPlus. They've got 61 offices in 34 Mississippi communities.

Peyton: Holy shit. That's it? You're hawking a crappy community bank with dad? What's wrong, the Honda dealership near the highway turn you down?

Eli: Credit cards are predatory, anyway, buttrash. They charge outrageous interest rates and they dupe college kids and the feebleminded by giving away T-shirts.

Peyton: Speaking of T-shirts, maybe you could be the next Snorg girl.

Eli: They get a squash shirt and we'll talk.

It Could be a Fractured Ulna, I'm Afraid You Forfeit: The Hater's Guide to the Postseason

AFC 6th Seed -- Tennessee Titans (10-6)

Gentlemen, I'm well aware that we are trying to qualify for the playoffs tonight, but I'm going to have to excuse myself for a moment. My quad is feeling a tad lugubrious this evening. I may have aggravated it ever so slightly yesterday at my salsa dancing class. Allow me to beg off for a few minutes. Don't worry though, I shall pass the time in my period of serious injury by engaging in a series of vigorous calisthenics here on the sideline. First... ten Iroquois Twists, one hi-yi-yi... two-hi-yi-yi.... I beg your pardon? You are requesting my presence in the locker room for further medical care? No need for a wheelchair my good man, though severely injured I will gamely make that journey under my own power. Steady, steady....

[sprints to locker room in 5.9 seconds]

It appears that despite the dedicated ministrations of our able medical staff, my affliction persists unabated. O, cruel fate! I fear my playing days may be through. Let's return to the field so I may observe firsthand Mister Collins' performance in my stead.

[sprints back to field in two shakes of a lamb's tail]

It appears that under the besotted stewardship of Kerry Collins victory is assured. Huzzah, good sirrah! Don't let the soup-line quality stubble and roguish sobriquet of "Cocktail Kerry" deceive you, this chap knows his way around the gridiron. I will celebrate our good fortune by spending the final four minutes of the games on the stationary bike recreating my recent journey down the bucolic Rappahannock Trail.

[pedals furiously for 30 minutes straight]

They Won By Sean Taylor!: The Hater's Guide to the Postseason

If you find yourself confronted with an NFL postseason without a rooting interest and unmoved by Don Cheadle soliloquies, you must draw from the well of that most powerful of human emotions. Ok, well, lust probably won't do here. But the second most powerful, hate, will serve as a fine proxy. This is the first in a series of posts filled with bile, spleen, vitriol and all-around nastiness toward all the teams involved with the sordid roundelay we know as the NFL Playoffs.


NFC 6th Seed -- Washington Redskins (9-7)

There are several factors that might make it difficult for me to root against the Redskins: the death of Sean Taylor, the fact that Shawn Springs went to my high school, that my mother, uncle and many of my friends are fans. But it is, in truth, not really all that hard at all.

There's always the all-too-easy litany of charges against them: the megalomaniacal imp Dan Snyder (who blocks out other games in the time slot when the 'Skins are on), the team's racialist name, its fanbase of Blackberry-toting doucheocrats, the Dead Tree Crew and FedEx Field being a slightly more unpleasant experience than Dachau and about as easy to get to as the Kwik-E-Mart corporate headquarters.

If that doesn't prove sufficient, I can always draw upon this chestnut: In January of 1992, when I was in 4th grade, the week before the Redskins beat the Bills in Super Bowl XXVI, my school had an assembly where we did nothing but sing "Hail to the Redskins" for an hour. ON LOOP. FOR A FUCKING HOUR. The song is less than two minutes long. Such is the torpor-based education you get in public schooling in Maryland, I s'pose.

Did you know they won their playoff clinching game by 21 points? And that Sean Taylor wore the number 21? You know who'll be sure to remind me? The woman who rings up my groceries. The UPS guy. The guy who hits me changing lanes on the Beltway. My drug dealer. Someone looking at DVDs next to me at Best Buy. The stick up kid who steals the DVD from me when I leave the store. The cop who takes my statement. The guy at the gun store. The people who I rob when I turn into a vigilante.

Even God Himself Can't Stop the Patriots From Going 19-0

That's right, God. Sorry, you can't do it. We defy you to try, but it's futile. An undefeated season is inevitable now. We guarantee it. Might as well start playing that annoying music from "The Departed" on loop in heaven.

The Science of Sneaking In

With two short weeks left in the regular season, the playoff picture is coming ever more into focus, but that doesn't mean this postseason Gordian knot is all the way untangled. Four teams in each conference are in, but four coveted spots remain. What follows are some scenarios in which the following teams can back their way into opening round losses.

NFC

The Giants can clinch a playoff spot if:


Eli Manning's Citizen Eco-Drive watch instructs him how not to implode drives.

OR


Sinorice Moss applies backward running skills to backing into playoffs.



The Vikings can clinch a playoff spot if:

Knute Rockne disinvents the forward pass.

OR

Bill Simmons concocts an even gayer nickname for Adrian Peterson.




The Redskins can clinch a playoff spot if:

They rally around the memory of Sean Taylor.

OR

They aren't overly burdened by the loss of Sean Taylor.



The Saints can clinch a playoff spot if:

Electrifying back Aaron Stecker continues to live up to all of his draft day hype.

OR

Martin Gramatica enlists cadre of Gramaticas to kick the teams ahead of them in the shins.

AFC

The Steelers can win the AFC North IF:

They're interested in preventing a Christmas Ape killing spree.

OR

Sean Mahan gets breast implant tattoos on his arms to distract the rushers he can't block.





The Browns can clinch a playoff spot if:

Romeo Crennel's decision-making coin tells him so.


OR

I jerk it for a while to this girl and it happens while I don't notice.








The Titans can clinch a playoff spot if:

Fuck. Again? I just blew my load on the Browns girl.

OR

Neither of these teams have fans this attractive.