1. Always beware the offseason winners. So the Eagles drafted LeSean McCoy (who looked most excellent catching the ball out of the backfield Thursday night) and Jeremy Maclin (who has had fumbling problems during the preseason), and traded for Jason Peters to give Donovan McNabb more protection. Plus, they have Michael Vick in to to run the Wildcat. On paper, that all adds up to one kickass offense. Few teams, with the exception of Chicago's trade for Jay Cutler, made the kind of big offseason moves that the Eagles did. Indeed, plenty of people think this is the year Philly finally puts it all together and wins the Super Bowl. Andy Behrens picked them to win it all. Vegas has them at 11-1 odds to pull it off. They're a chic pick.

Chic picks always end up fucking up. Take it from a fan of another team that made a big offseason move that will almost certainly end up becoming a flaming helicopter wreck. A chic preseason Super Bowl will fuck you in the ass. It's like those fashionable, not-quite-as-traditional college teams that are ranked in the Top 5 of the AP poll, like Georgia was last year. Teams that are "loaded" coming into the season always end up fucking it all up. And why should the Eagles be immune to any of this inevitable failed hype? After all…

2. Hey, Andy Reid's still coaching this team, right? Remember, this is a guy who failed to inform his star quarterback last year that games can end in ties. Not only is Andy Reid a poor game manager, he's an AGGRESSIVELY POOR game manager. Not only will he end up fucking up the game, but he'll fuck it up by using the most illogical strategy he can possibly devise. More importantly, he will take hours upon hours to implement that strategy. For the Eagles, huddling during the last two minutes of a game isn't an option, it's fucking mandatory. It's just the kind of team-building exercise that can really help Reid's men cope with the agony of losing yet another 4-point game that ended with Brian Westbrook getting stuffed on a power rushing play that he wasn't well-suited for.

So Philly can bring in all the fancy new skill position players they like. They won't be poised to do the team much good when there's 90 seconds left and the team is STILL FUCKING HUDDLING when everyone at the bar is shouting at the TV, "WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY STILL HUDDLING? ARE THEY FUCKING RETARDED?!" That's the true legacy of Andy Reid. It takes a special kind of coach to make every random asshole in the bar feel like they could do a better job AND be correct in just such an assumption. Worst of all, Jim Johnson is gone, and not around to be the all-purpose coverall for Reid's numerous, glaring fuckups. Speaking of Reid snafus…

3. Their active roster might be fucked up. Peter King made a good point today. Stunning, but true. If the Eagles want to use Michael Vick in the WildDog formation this fall, they have to either make him the true backup QB, or they have to have four quarterbacks on their active game day roster. All game day rosters are allowed one extra slot for an emergency third-string QB. Once the third stringer comes in, the two QB's ahead of him can't retake the field. So if the Eagles want to play Vick but want to keep Kevin Kolb as the backup (not that it would be a tragedy if Kolb were demoted), then they'd have to carry four QB's on the roster and drop a possibly important special teamer or kicking specialist. It's one of those little details that always ends up fucking a team. And with Reid in charge, those little details are often glanced over, not unlike a smack rig stashed in the upstairs toilet tank.

UPDATE: Reader John points out, "Mike Florio made this point a week ago. Peter King is still a hack." Cool!

4. Seriously, fuck that Daulerio guy. As you know, AJ ruined Deadspin. But there are so many other reasons to not like the man. He's terrible with people, for instance. He has bad teeth. His chin is all but nonexistent. He's always snickering. He's a filthy dago with dirty wop skin! He looks like a weasel! His parents are kinda racist! And he smells like burlap. WHAT AN ASSHOLE.

And really, let's just use this as a catchall to say FUCK YOU to all the Eagles fans out there right now. Oooh, you boo! You're so hardcore! I'm so afraid of your exacting standards! You should listen to those assholes on Philly talk radio sometime. Bitch bitch bitch. You people are like fucking Boston fans, only you don't know it yet. You suck, and you Pennsylvania people can't drive for shit. Do you people even use the steering wheel? FUCK YOU IN THE CHEESESTEAK.

5. AND WHERE THE FUCK WAS MAMULA ON THAT PLAY?!
Excellent DS commenter Bobby Big Wheel also had this to point out about the Eagles.
1. They're probably all going to be injured this year
2. Their fans love to brag about how fucking devoted they are
3. The loss of Brian Dawkins left a cheap shotting hole at safety.
4. They never have a fantasy receiver worth drafting. Even when Kevin Curtis had that 3-TD, 200 yard game he sucked the rest of the year
5. The city's greatest contribution to music in the past decade is now the house band for Jimmy Fallon

So suck on that.

Wanna be part of the Deadspin NFL previews? It's simple. Just email me here and give me some reasons why the team you hate most sucks. If it's because you dated a fan of the team and she turned out to be some crazy bitch who keyed your car, all the better. I'll throw any good material into the post and give you proper credit.

Daulerio isn't disappearing from the site, but he will be shuttling the weekly column he's written since June 2006. Tomorrow's the big finale, so let's all give him the "Dead People Montage At The Oscars" love we all know he deserves. Because that's all Daulerio's ever wanted: Love.

And, in case you needed one last smoky tornado fix:

Cultural Oddsmaker
Sean Salisbury, Mayor Of Miami [Deadspin]

One thing is clear: The time of the racing sausage is finished. Racing testicles are now the rage. Look for the Brewers to make the switch for next season.

UPDATE: Kissing Suzy Kolber was also there, and apparently there was a giant running lung.

Tuesday Links Of Testicular Fortitude [100 Percent Injury Rate]
Avant/Chicago
A Runner Who The Race Outran [Kissing Suzy Kolber]

Today, just a few days after he called the Eagles' PR office, Daulerio showed up at his office and was greeted by James Clark, a "security representative" of the NFL. (He was an unannounced guest.) And he had all kinds of questions.

Mr. Clark and I had about 10 minutes of conversation that he wrote down on his yellow notepad, most of which was me explaining how I found nothing in any of the conversations I'd had with other people that was worth reporting. However, Mr. Clark explained that the league had received a call from the Eagles, and that this is what the NFL does in certain criminal matters — regardless of how, in this case, unfounded or questionable the source of the allegations may be.

So, I never published the story— I had nothing, really — and, yet, the NFL felt it had just enough loosely based info to send someone over to check it out without even the courtesy of a phone call. So, either these rumors (with a big, blinking capital "R," remember) have a little more credibility than suspected, or the Eagles are completely paranoid right now and have resorted to public relations buffoonery by turning a non-story into one.

OK, this is kind of a fun game. Everybody, let's come up with "rumors" that we've "heard" about NFL players, and see if we can get James Clark to visit us.

We'll start: "Sources" hear "stories" of Jeff Reed's illegal and rampant cockfighting ring. What will the NFL do about this national disgrace?

The NFL And The Eagles Are Highly Sensitive To All Matters Dog-Related [Philadelphia Magazine]

We knew AJ was ready to stir some shit up down there, but until that picture of him and Sean Salisbury showed up in our mailbox, we had no idea how far he was willing to go. Next thing we knew, he was BLEEDING ORANGE AND GREEN, being eyed by Trey Wingo and, of course, making friends with Stuart Scott. It was a virtuoso performance ... and half the good stuff never even made it to the site. It was an epic, bravura week ... and Lemme Know remains the sordid highlight.

We're actually just using "Lemme Know" as shorthand; this nomination should stand for the whole Super Bowl trip. To keep in mind, when you vote.

But is it a Hall of Famer? Seventy five percent is the threshold for induction. Vote below: Polls will be open until next Monday morning.

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.

By the way, the lovely and talented Lady Andrea has put together a clearinghouse for all Deadspin Pants Parties. Miami, Atlanta and Las Vegas, coming up, with more on their way, surely.

There's drinking afterwards too; after the jump, AJ has all the details.

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Okay, after we'll have a room at Kildare's, Headhouse Square on Second and South, with drink and food specials. Email me if you plan on attending, so I can give them a proper head count. Also, email me if you'd like to have a Where's Mamula Sandwich so I can know how many to bring. Those will cost $3 extra, and you can pay me at the park or buy me a beer. Or, you know, gimme a handy.

Back in the feather-fluffing days of the San Diego Chicken, there might have been some allure to being a professional mascot. You're famous, ostensibly, because you make thousands of people happy. Many people are eager to have their photo taken with you. Children idolize you. Plus, you get to hang around sporting events all day, albeit dressed in a sweaty costume. But as mascots became more and more ubiquitous, with seemingly every team — from college, to pro, to semi-pro, to high school — having one, well, it has lost its luster a little bit. If you still have an overwhelming desire to be a mascot in this era, it's a telltale sign of emotional distress. If you want to be in the entertainment business — as many current mascots cop to doing — this seems like a very crooked path to take. But what do I know — maybe an ICM agent will be impressed by the way someone performs a somersault while wearing an oversized blue animal head.

Given the current state of mascots in the cultural landscape, it was not surprising at all to read the story about the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Grump mascot performer getting arrested for trying to solicit sex from a teenage boy. Mascots getting arrested for lewd, inappropriate behavior is commonplace. And with the "Furry" phenomenon in full swing, it seems odd that most teams don't do deeper psychological profiling for all prospective mascots. Especially at the minor league level, which seems to always have its fair share of deviants dressed in animal costumes.

So, this week, I'm mucking, I'm muddling, and I'm wearing my freshly ironed Anthrocon tee-shirt, and placing odds on the next minor league mascot to be arrested for dirty mascoting.

Let's yiff the shit out of this, after this jump.

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Jammer: 1/4

Part jackhammer, part Fraggle Rock reject, you can't go to anything in the Joliet area without running into the minor league Jackhammers' mascot. It seems that anything important that happens in the Joliet area, Jammer is there; from Dairy Queen openings, to used car super sales, to radio promotions, Jammer can be found bouncing around in his usual jackhammery way. However, parents beware: Do not leave your kids in the vicinity of Jammer because he may autograph their protective cups.

Steamer: 1/1

Sure, the name is a dead give away, but I find it more troubling that the fella beneath the green stove top who prances around the Altoona Curve baseball games is so active. He loves square dancing. And he also draws caricatures. He teaches cartoon classes to children. He is a square dance caller. He teaches Special Olympians to square dance. He has a letter of recommendation from Fred Rogers posted below his resume page. He is not a real person; he's a trippy humanistic hologram created by someone during the deepest throes of DMT-induced hysteria. He must be stopped.

Rocky Bluewinkle: 2/1

Long regarded as the most famous mascot in the minor leagues, Rocky's notorious for flaunting his shapely horns and bulbous blue moosedom to all of those unassuming Wilmington Blue Rocks fans. I don't know what happens to people when they put on the Bluewinkle costume, but it brings out the sexual savagery in them. Take a look at this profile of former Bluewinkle, John Farrell and his odd little statement: "They may tell you different but chicks really do dig fur." I give John credit for trying to be both self-deprecating and suave while donning the Bluewinkle costume, but then, at the same time, I really don't. Forget the Celery, fear the Bluewinkle.

Southpaw: 3/1

Never trust a mascot with a MySpace page, especially one that openly solicits dates, still in character at the end of last year's season:

"Now that baseball season is over, i have some soul searching time, some relaxing time, and some sleeping time ( i need at least 12 hours a day) However, living at a stadium that is only used for baseball is somewhat lonely. I want to make some friends, so i heard about this "my space" on the news, and i figured what the heck. I tried a few online dating servies(sic), but it seems that i am the only cat who knows how to type and talk, making it difficult to meet people. But i do love humans, and i hope to make a lot of new friends here."

Yes. Rooowwr. It could very well be possible that the Lynchburg Hillcats mascot is just out for fun and games, but read a few of the comments and it tells a different story. Like Lindsay Jamila, who simply says " I know who you are." Something tells me Southpaw enjoys his kitty cat costume a bit too much.

Sergio Garcia shamed the game of golf after last weekend's loogie-hocking incident during the 13th hole of CA Championship. His smug attitude already soured some fans and media since his arrival on the tour, and now even some of his minimal supporters have turned on him. (Could you imagine if Joe Buck was broadcasting? He would've completely lost it on the air. Then gone home, punched his wife, had an aneurysm, and died.) It's a bit ironic, though, that a sport that prides itself on gentlemanly conduct is also a game that, on an amateur level, is one that promotes more public urination than any other sport. Has anyone ever played a round of golf either on a public or private course and not pissed on a tree or the side of their golf cart? But spitting — bad form.

If you look at the replay, the whole action seems rather tame. But because it's on the golf course and not, say, the spit-covered streets of Chinatown, there are more people who furiously object. Spitting in Chinatown is somewhat tolerated because — so I've been told — Chinese people believe it's healthy and, also, shoos away those pesky, demonic Grudge-like disturbances: if you hold onto your spit (or swallow it) don't be surprised to go home and find an undead Asian boy thrashing around in your bathtub. If this was Sergio's thought process, I'm sure the hefty fine he'll pay will have been completely worth it.

The reality is that incidents like Mr. Garcia's putt-and-pwooft are just endemic of the way most of our generation's professional athletes behave. If they're not spitting after a missed shot, they're attacking the fans in the stands. Or they're attacking each other at casinos. Or shooting people. Or taking pictures of their freshly shorn pubis region. Or insulting the Jews. Or forcefully entering a teenage hotel employee from behind in a Colorado resort town. Sergio's spitting, for right now, is nothing compared to what we'll see from other athletes in upcoming months, years, and generations.

So, today, I'm throwing down six bottles of Mucinex, stuffing my bottom lip with Kodiak, and calculating odds on what the next on-field appalling act by an athlete will be.

Let's go shopping for some knockoff Prada handbags and tiny pet turtles, after this jump.

Genital Exposure: 2/1

Obscene gestures are outdated. However, it's crucial to leave a lasting impression to show your frustration or to taunt an opponent. Randy Moss's fake moon ("THAT'S A DISGUSTING ACT...") showed us a new technique of how to infuriate other players, refeerees — and Fox sports broadcasters — beyond the typical endzone dancing or spiking in the face. And in professional football, where one-upsmanship is so pervasive, we're not that far removed from a player taking the 15-yard penalty and a game ejection by celebrating and in-your-facing with various parts of their anatomy. Soon, you'll have players not only grabbing themselves, but actually whipping out their monsters in exultation to show up other teams and referees. Although the fines are stricter, you're telling me if Chad Johnson scores a touchdown on a defensive back that's been killing him all day, he's going to let a fine stand in the way of showing that DB "The Gobbler"? And with defensive celebrations becoming common, we aren't too far away from Derrick Burgess unveiling the "Angry Plums" after a big quarterback sack.

Athletes most likely to engage: Chad Johnson, Warren Sapp, Terrell Owens, Javon Walker, Ray Lewis

Defecation: 4/1

These are long odds because of the amount of time it would take to actually take your pants off and poop on the field/court/ice. I'm thinking the best chance for this to happen would be in baseball — after a horribly called third strike, a close play at home plate that costs the game — where sometimes the arguments can continue for a long period of time. Plus, hockey and football uniforms would take too long to strip off. Also, dumping would be a great way to object to a call if you were on a swimming or water polo team. Just think if Michael Phelps was called for illegally using the wall (or whatever the terminology is for that foul) and been denied his world record-breaking time. Dramatic water splashing and barking obscenities would not accurately convey his displeasure. Not as much as a bobbing piece of crap.

Athletes most likely to engage: Milton Bradley, Frank Francisco, Najeh Davenport, Tara Kirk

Setting Things on Fire: 1/1

We've seen plenty of athletes (and managers) throw things on the field or the court. It doesn't take that long to conjure up a memory of a furious middle reliever pounding his glove on the bench, karate-chopping the water cooler or tearing the bullpen phone off the wall. It happens all the time and, most of the time, it's for showmanship. And who could forget when Tim Hardaway tossed the replay monitor onto the court after a bad call? If he had an incendiary device, something would've been set ablaze — perhaps Marv Albert's hair or, most likely, John Amaechi. But we've seen how far basketball players go and how, when consumed by rage, they completely forget about the safety of others. Chairs on the court, balls thrown into the stands, going after fans — what's keeping a player from heading back to the locker room and then coming back with a Molotov cocktail? If not the pros, then definitely the New York City Public League Basketball Championship.

Athletes most likely to engage: Ron Artest, Carmelo Anthony, Stephen Jackson, Milton Bradley, Kyle Farnsworth, Brett Myers

Breaking Wind: 3/1

In baseball, this supposedly happens all the time — especially if you don't like the catcher. You just step up to the plate, step out of the box, and blast one right in their face. Umpires will give a warning, and the game resumes, usually with a high inside pitch to the ribcage for the batter. In other sports, farting (or queefing) calls for automatic suspension, especially if done on another player's face, or worse, an umpire's. Yet we've gotten so far past this point in other sports that the one place it's left is another gentlemanly (genteladyly) sport, tennis. Think of last weekend's incident involving Serena Williams being mercilessly heckled by a fan in Miami for her sluggish play. At times, throwing rackets, screaming, storming off the court, or accusing fans of being racists are not enough to show frustration — especially if there aren't any calls in their favor. Soon, tennis players will be grabbing the microphone from the judge's stand, and unleashing their roaring sphincters to protest. What do you mean it didn't hit the line? Fwoorrrrrp. (Or in a lady's case: pffffffwiii-pop!)

Athletes most likely to engage: Rafael Nadal, Maria Sharapova, Justine Henin, Mary Pierce

The curious case of former LSU women's coach Pokey Chatman's retirement due to an alleged "inappropriate relationship" with one of her former players should be an eye-opener for the NCAA. The sordid details have yet to unfold — nor the name of the player — but it's safe to assume that relationships happen all the time and will continue to do so unless some sweeping behavioral changes are made; I'm sure we'll see more and more current and former women's basketball players step forward with similar stories in upcoming months. Remember what happened with the Catholic Church. It wasn't that long ago that priests were still reverential and safe, and not pedophiles with ban collars and black robes.

Of course, this is different because most of these girls are of legal age, but given a coach's position of power, the appropriateness of the behavior can still cause some emotional damage. And as I've've stated in a previous column,, a good portion of these girls are probably easy marks. But it's also not easy to recognize when a line is crossed. I've never had a coach do anything particularly shady, but there was a swimming coach in my high school that, not until a few years ago, did I realize there was anything wrong with his sophmore "swim class."

Now, this was 15 years ago, but at one time Council Rock High School required what had to be the most exploitative and demeaning swimming class as a requirement to pass gym. In this class, not only were you forced to wear these nut-hugging Speedo-esque trunks that were provided by the school, but they were all color coordinated by what size you were. So, the grossly overweight kids had to wear these brown bathing suits that completely set them apart from the majority of the class, which usually wore dark blue or purple. As if you already couldn't tell who was a little overweight while they pranced around 95 percent naked, they were also branded with a big brown reject suit.

But the most disturbing thing about this class was that before you could go back to the locker room and change into your normal clothes, everyone stood around the edge of the pool, stripped in front of the teacher and the rest of the class, tied a knot in their swimsuit drawstring and then hung them up on a hook on the way in. This was not a normal knot. This was some kind of triple-loop sailor's knot, and one that took a very, very long time to complete. Plus, it had to be inspected by this scumbag before he let you go change. So, sometimes, you'd be standing there for five minutes, wet and naked, holding up your swimsuit waiting for him to let you go back to the locker room. This was supposedly "normal" and every other class before us went through it, so it never registered as something weird to me (and a lot of my friends who took the class) until well after I graduated. But that guy is a fucking scumbag..

Anyway, the point is, that when you're a teenager — or even a 21-year-old— sometimes you overlook some wrong-doings just because the person in power is telling you to do them. You fear failure, or in this case, losing playing time.

So, this week, I'm wearing a brown Speedo for solidarity, putting on my Jim Izard mask and placing odds on the next NCAA Women's coach forced to step down due to an inappropriate relationship.

Let's show them on the doll where they touched you, after this jump.

Geno Auriemma, UConn: 1/1

Auriemma's pretty much got sleazeball written all over him, and every time you mention his name, another cowering young girl with basketball dreams gets her fanny pinched. The pedigree of players that has come out of his "Program" reads like a who's who list of WNBA royalty (or comparable noun indicating brilliant success in the professional female basketball association): Sue Bird, Rebecca Lobo, Diana Taurasi. And with so much pressure riding on incoming freshman to live up to the Huskies' teams of the past, My mythical Auriemma makes sure every incoming freshman no matter how heavily recruited has to "earn their minutes." I imagine Auriemma's like the meat packing foreman in Fast Food Nation (the crappy movie, not the non-crappy book). Don't think for a minute that some of these players had to spend extra time after practice in his office (or the back of his pick-up truck) jockeying for starting time. Hey, even Sue Bird had to start out cleaning kidneys in the Kill Room. (The two of you that have seen the movie are smiling; the rest of you, not so much.)

Brian Giorgis, Marist: 5/1

Aw, Marist is such a nice, inspiring story as a 13th seed toppling some of the bigger, sexier schools in the tournament. And during moments of extreme exultation — or trauma — there tends to be an endorphin rush so overpowering that people are put into a trance-like state. After Marist's magical run, it's safe to say that many females will look at Brian Girogis a little differently. As he will them. Because he's transformed his players into winners, and now they'll always chase that walking-on-air feeling that Giorgis injected them with — even if it's for just one fleeting, shining moment. Doesn't even matter if he looks like Rick Majerus's mongoloid younger brother. Right now, that bulbous paunch poking out the top of his zipper is a vagina magnet — and point guard Nikki Flores is falling in love.

Gail Goestenkors, Duke 5/1

Never trust a woman who looks intimidating in a giant pants suit, especially when she coaches Duke's Lady Devils. She's a coach of the year award winner (like Chatman) and also has the brashness and swagger that any poonster needs to succeed. She's like the female version of Sean Salisbury in my eyes. And we've seen how that type of presence goes over with the ladies. I wouldn't be surprised if Goestenkors sends cell phone shots of her areola to her players in order to solidify team unity. That's how you build a winner at Duke: unity through areolas.

Shirley Egner, UW-Stevens Point: 1/7

This is the all-time winningest coach in Division III UW Stevens Point history. Has she ever dated a current or former player? You decide. Go Pointers!

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him to let him know what you think.

One of the best columns I read yesterday while prepping myself for March Madness minutiae was one that only had a tenuous connection to this here whole basketball thing. It's by a woman named Liz H. Kelly titled "How to Score More "Love Hoops" During March Madness," which outlines how singles can make the most out of all the bracket-filing and bar-hopping to score themselves a date. Some of you may have seen this column because Yahoo had it on its front page for a whole 20 minutes about 11 p.m. last night, or some of you may have caught it while trolling the Yahoo Personals looking for that special someone, or, better, that special someone to masturbate to via email. Whichever the reason, those of you who did read it were probably inspired to use this weekend's basketball overload to your romantic advantage.

Ladies, keep this in the front of your mind as you're scanning the scoreboard to find out if your team won. So sayeth Love Dr. Kelly:

"Why not change your profile introductory line to say something about your favorite team? You might try, B-ball or Bust, Go Terps! Or The Eyes of March Madness. You can also search on sports terms, and then send emails to singles about their b-ball passions..."

Hmm ... sounds like a plan? I mean, guys LIKE sports. Guys really want a lady who LIKES sports. And, personally, if I received a random flirty email from "B-ball or Bust" inquiring about my "b-ball passions," well, I think that's a woman I'd like to get to know a little better, perhaps during a candlelight dinner and a carriage ride. Then we'd go nude dancing in the rain and lay down in a pasture and make gentle love under the wandering steer...

And, dudes, you too can reel in a lucky lassie this weekend if you comport yourselves appropriately:

"Men can advance by giving studly responses to bold female moves. If a woman approaches you in a bar or sends you an email online, make a bet on the game, dazzle them with trivia, buy them a drink - If the chemistry is there, go for it!"

Somewhere, Howie Schwab is purchasing himself a new bottle of English Leather and rehearsing his delivery: "You know, Oregon actually won the whole tournament in 1939 and at that time they were known as the 'Tall Firs' ..."

So, this week, I'm polishing up my Whispers4U profile, re-reading The Rules and placing odds on some of the other people you'll be able to score a "love hoop" with this weekend.

Wink with me, after this jump.

The Pudgy Office Manager: 1/1

Usually marked by her dowdy wardrobe, cheery disposition and canned enthusiasm about her co-workers' birthdays/engagements/childbirths, she lives for any kind of activity that gives her a reason to communicate with as many people in the office as possible on a non-work related basis. This single lady most likely has pictures of her nieces and nephews covering every inch of empty cork board or monitor space, and she's a big fan of hand-crafted broaches. (Today, she's probably wearing either a coaster-sized Bedazzled shamrock or a leprechaun made from green yarn, a popsicle stick, and a peanut.)

She's also the woman who's much too excited for her placement in the office pool at this point. If she's in the top five, she'll send out a mass email to all employees all over the country, usually with lots of exclamation marks. However, she's also picked a team with some kind of local ties (cousin attended the university, college under 50 miles from birthplace) to win it all, so this public celebration will be brief. But her disappointment will be temporary as well, because you know, there's always an open table at the Cheesecake Factory you can take her to tonight. Make her yours.

Low-Hanging Fruit Girls: 1/2

Yeeeeah! They got up at 6 a.m. to get on the Leprechaun Express and plan to rally all weekend until they can't see straight. They'll just keep screaming every time the rest of the bar does during the second round games. They'll be easily distracted, so make sure you keep buying them drinks, lest one of their girlfriends they came with, whom they haven't seen in 15 minutes, comes up behind them — then you'll be witness to a wobbly embrace between the two and possibly be forgotten. Also, watch out if Journey comes on, but if you're willing to sing "Don't Stop Believin' " in public, then you might have a shot. The real test is when she'll drag you out to the dance floor with only 58 seconds left during a tie game because the DJ is playing "Good Googly Moogly" upstairs. Hope that thang is juicy.

Hyper-Aggressive Meathead: 1/3

Baseball hats and braided belts used to be their calling cards, but this guy's advanced a bit since the Co-Ed Naked Volleyball T-shirt days. Now, he's all black tee shirts, pomade and LiveStrong bracelets. Sure, he'd love to chat you up and buy you a Miller Lite, in between yelling at the television screen just because somebody got called for a cheap foul. And you know, one of his buddies has a lot of money on this game. If his team is winning, well, shit, he'd like to buy you and your friends a shot. Enjoy that Jager Bomb. And another. That way you won't feel that violated when he starts making out with you and not-so-subtly sticks his hand down the back of your pants to check for your whale's tail.

Russell Pleasant: 1/4

Last year's ESPN NCAA Tournament Challenge winner has a bigger bank account and a newly minted expertise about March Madness, thanks to his victory in last year's pool. Russell beat out over 3 million other people thanks to his soothsayer-like abilities in selecting George Mason to make the Final Four. Sure, he's married, has five kids and lives in Omaha, but a brother's gotta eat. So, this year, ladies, head over to the Fifteen 07 Club in downtown Omah,a and you'll see Russell The Chocolate Love Muscle cold-kicking it live with his former Omega Thi Phi crew and capitalizing on his amateur bracketologist status. Joe Lunardi? That muthafucka ain't shee-yit.

Well, we're less than a month away from the start of baseball, so it's time to do the same thing in the baseball world. Every weekday until the start of the season, a different writer will preview his/her team. We asked a gaggle of writers, from the Web, from print, from books, to tell us, in as many or as little words as they need, Where Their Team Stands. This is not meant to be factual, or dispassionate, or even logical: We just asked them to riff on why they love their team so much, or what their team means to them, or whatever.

Today: The Philadelphia Phillies. Your author is A.J. Daulerio.

A.J. Daulerio writes the Cultural Oddsmaker column for this fine establishment and is a staff writer at Philadelphia Magazine. His words are after the jump.

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April 2, 2007. This is not only the kickoff of baseball season in Philadelphia, but also an unofficial "sick" day for kids aged 16- 18 in the Delaware Valley. Even though it was close to, fuck, 16 years ago, this was how the Phillies existed in my mind during those dreary years of the Nick Leyva/Jim Fregosi era. Relevant only through the first two weeks of spring, most of those teams would unceremoniously vanish, and Vet Stadium would once again become a gigantic mausoleum littered with Bruce Ruffin's ashes for most of the summer.

But on opening day, hope and mayhem both sprang eternal. At the pre-North/South Council Rock High School, it was a right of passage. You'd get up at your usual time to go to school, but instead of getting picked up to go to class, you'd wait for your parents to go to work, then raid their liquor cabinet and dump it in a thermos or a flask usually with Hawaiian Punch or some other mixer that you won't find even the dirtiest of slide rails. Then you'd head to Flap Jake's for some pre-game pancakes and eat more than usual because, come 9 a.m., the rest of the day's sustenance would mostly come from Bud Light party balls and skunk weed. Pole 19 was where we met. And suburbia's spoiled trash came by the carload, stumbling out of vehicles, in various states of buzz, wandering around Vet Stadium's parking lot for a couple of hours to, essentially, car hop to find better beer — "Hey, I see Heineken coming from that Camry!" — or the Jewish kid with the nitrous tank.

By the time the third inning rolled around, Vet Stadium's upper deck levels had turned into a Larry Clark film: tin foil bowls being inconspicuously smoked, passed out girls getting felt up, lackluster fistfights, cascading vomit — just a glorious time. The game, of course, well, nobody cared. But now, for the most part, Citizen's Bank Ballpark has established itself as a family friendly environment; even the heckling has become more manicured, almost an amusement park ride as fans can hover over the opposing team's bullpen and spew invective under the close watch of a red-jacketed security guard. It's all so stale and lifeless. It's sad, really. Pretty soon there'll be a dunk tank with Santa Claus where you can throw snowballs at him.

But even without the long-gone grit of Vet Stadium, 2007 is one of the more hope-filled years in a decade. This year, there's more polish, more shine, more hope than usual, about a team that's been a giant tease for five years straight — even though their off season moves resulted in neither a Jim Thome signing or a Billy Wagner trade.

Big additions this year? Freddy Garcia, Adam Eaton and, uh, Wes Helms, who's essentially a less expensive David Bell. However, they kept Aaron Rowand, whose face-plant into the center field wall has secured him a place in Philadelphia hearts, regardless if he hits .260 for the rest of the season and has a pool noodle for an arm. Jimmy Rollins has suddenly established himself as the team's cocksure mouthpiece and, of course, Ryan Howard is here to save the city and baseball with each mighty swat. These "moves," along with fact that they have six starting pitchers and a six-fingered reliever, has almost made the Phillies on the precipice of trumping the Eagles in popularity, which hasn't been the case ever since Buddy Ryan first waddled to the press conference assuring us that we've "got a winner in town."

The biggest jolt to the Phillies lineup this year, however, has to be Pat Burrell's engagement. The stories of Burrell's swordsmanship are legendary in the Philadelphia area. You can't bump into somebody within a 50-mile radius of Philadelphia who doesn't have a story. They all start the same: At a club, usually involving a 20-something stunner sidling up at the bar, then, enter ... the Bat. Next thing you know, she's got herself box seats behind home plate and is hanging out with Burrell and Jason Michaels 'til 4 a.m. doing kamikaze shots down the Jersey Shore. One friend-of-a-friend story included Pat leaving her a present the next day after one drunken libidinous night with The Bat — his Valtrex. But an even more vintage Bat story is this second-hand gem:

The story goes: A few guys were on a business trip in Pittsburgh. A couple of the guys knew the Phils were in town, so when they all spotted Burrell at a club there one night, it wasn't a total surprise. Pat ended up taking a liking to one of the girls in their group. She thought he was hot but didn't follow baseball. He took her back to his hotel room, and a make-out session ensued until she alerted Pat that she would NOT do him. Not fazed by this, Burrell seemed to respect her chastity, and rather than force himself on her or fly into a blueball rage, he asked a simple question, glancing down at his engorged pants: "Mind if I take care of business?"

The horrified woman didn't stay the night, letting Pat, take care of his business on his own.

Without these weekly distractions, there has to be a boost in confidence and plate discipline, no? We'll be able to tell as soon as Burrell sees his first low outside slider. But congratulations on the engagement!

And to make this 2007 Phillies season even better, the fine folks at Mastero's on the Avenue, at 2216 West Pasayunk in South Philly, are offering a new special that starts Opening Day and is available every home game. The "Mamula" sandwich, consisting of pork, sharp provolone, on a soft roll, with a soda and a pickle, for $5.

All you have to do is enter the store (or call: 215-465-2701) and ask "Where's Mamula?" for the deal. Yep.

It's good to be home...

Unlike Shaquille O'Neal, who signed up for a reality show to highlight the obesity problem in children, I've never been much of a caring person. I never volunteered, donated money to causes or adopted starving fly-riddled children from Haiti. Basically , anything that would characterize me as a good-hearted human being I've ignored, but on one occasion, I broke character.

One of my first jobs in print media was at Montgomery Newspapers, venerable publisher of weekly newspapers that cover the local pie eating contests and municipal board meetings of the small Montgomery County towns surrounding Philadelphia. One of my first weekend assignments was to go cover a Special Olympics trial event for teenagers in the area held at local high school. I knew I was possibly the worst person to put on this assignment, but it's not something you can really opt out of. What could I possibly say was the reason for me not to cover this event? Because Down Syndrome children give me nightmares? Because I'm afraid I might startle one and they'll pounce on me like a berserk chimpanzee? There was no way out of it.

And just as I'd suspected, the gym was crawling with them. Everywhere you looked there were events going on with contestants wearing crude biking helmets, grunting, screaming, hugging themselves, eating stuff off the floor, hugging trashcans —the nightmare was afoot.

Luckily, I'd come to the tail end of the event, and I propped myself in the corner, scribbled in my notebook and asked some of the "coaches" the names of various event winners, trying desperately to convey that this assignment needed to be immediately filed. But the coach sensed something different from my body language and sweaty forehead — he thought I needed more information and offered me an interview with one of the athletes. Soon, I was face to face with a 14-year-old Down syndrome girl, wearing a weight belt and fingerless gloves, who'd just incline-pressed 150lbs and won the competition in her age group. The coach stood beside her and helped her answer the questions and tell me her name. I pretended to write everything down he was goading out of her, with the hopes that it would end as soon as possible. But as soon as it did, there was another boy standing behind me as I tried to head out the door. "Are you from the news?" he said, his upper lip dried, chapped and his right nostril clogged with booger crust. I told him I was, and attempted to leave, but he persisted.

"Can I say hi to my mom?"

"Sure", I said. I sat there with my notebook, stupidly waiting for him to say something, but he just stared, his arms now behind his back, apparently waiting for me to go get the camera man. I sighed.

"Why don't you just tell me her name?" He obliged and watched me write down the name of his mother. Then he ran off and yelled to his group of friends and screamed " I just got on the news!" which, in turn, resulted in half the participants galloping toward me for their turn to get on the news. Pretty soon, I was surrounded, with Montgomery County Special Olympians, three-deep on all sides, asking me if they can say hi to their sister, their brother, their teacher ... anyone they could think of. I felt like Indiana Jones holding the shackle keys to the mob of Indian slave children who'd just escaped from the Temple of Doom. An hour later, I finally left. I just couldn't walk away from those kids.

So, you know, I know where Shaq's coming from. Kind of.

And I have a feeling Shaq's show will result in spin-offs, most notably from other high-profile athletes who will try to develop their own reality shows featuring children who'll need some guidance.

So I'm dusting off my Fu Shnickens record, making a kitten helmet out of my UNICEF box and placing odds on the next athlete reality shows aimed to help create awareness for unique children who deserve a better life.

Let's slam it (wuh), jam it(unh), and make sure it's broke, after this jump.

Derek Jeter For Craniodiaphyseal dysplasia: 3/1

Jeter's leadership, charisma and popularity make him an obvious choice to host one of these shows. And as a player with abnormally round face, he'd be the perfect candidate to help kids suffering from CDD, otherwise known as "lionitis," "Rocky Dennis disease" or "Smushy faced demon syndrome". Unlike Rocky Dennis, who had to gain his confidence from a wayward biker gang and an easy-access mother, Jeter can serve as an admirable replacement and offer guidance to those kids suffering from this forget about the mask that hides their glory.

Sidney Crosby for Feral Children: 5/1

No professional athletes are usually kept in darker more depressed seclusion than that of the young hockey prodigy. They're best friends are usually zamboni drivers, and their first kiss usually comes from a Koho. Not unlike feral children, who when not being coddled by wolves or kept indoors for most of their young life, can never fully develop as human beings. Enter Crosby, who'll befriend a mangy batch of shut-ins and try to teach them that they can become functioning members of society once they escape their cages.

Marvin Harrison For Ectrodactyly Disease: 3/1

The man with the best hands in football knows that there's a receiver in everyone — even children with the dreaded lobster claw syndrome. In this show, Harrison will travel the country with his gaggle of scissor kids, putting on demonstrations of their untapped athletic prowess by making them run button hook patterns in front of horrified high school students to prove that, creepy hands aside, they can play sports too. High two!

Sun Ming-Ming for Progeria: 8/ 1

Hey, Shaq's not the only big man with a bigger heart. What better way to showcase Sun Ming-Ming as a viable NBA commodity than to unleash him to the American public via reality television? Put him together with a gang of kids that resemble little old goblins, and there's a show that both teaches, entertains, brings people together and ensures America will never look at 8 ft. Chinamen the same way.

It's prime time for Spring Break, and who deserves a wild weekend, meet-and-greet with some of its fans more than the staff of ESPN? That's right, Orlando, lock up your daughters: It's ESPN the Weekend. This is year four of the event that takes a bunch of current athletes, former athletes and ESPN personalities and unleashes them upon Disney's landscape. And, you, YOU, lucky fan and admirer of the WWL can interact with these people in a Magical Kingdom, within groping distance of all of these sports luminaries and dimly lit sports reporting personalities.

Notables from the sports world scheduled to appear include: Ben Roethlisberger, David Robinson, Drew Brees, Roger Clemens, Devin Hester, Roy Oswalt and, amazingly, former Dodgers manager Swirly Lasorda. Mangia!

The ESPNers scheduled include: Peter Gammons, Mike Golic, Dan Patrick, Lemme Know, Linda Cohn, Karl Ravech and El Wingo.

Noticeably absent from the ESPN promo team? Salisbury and Berman. Salisbury, well, he knows Orlando is Cougar central, and he likes them a bit younger, so he's probably going lone wolf in Bristol this weekend, maybe taking in a matinee of Wild Hogs. But Berman? He's emceed a bunch of these things, but you're telling me that the man who is arguably the most recognizable face on the Network is unavailable to attend a meet-and-greet with a delirious family-friendly fan base? Really. He's not into that sort of thing? Weekender in Florida with all of his buddies and hanging out doing the New Year's Eve countdown at Pleasure Island every night? Yeah, I'm sure he voluntarily sat that one out.

As most of us know, any kind of work trip or class trip usually has its own little cliques. And most of the fans this week who've plunked down their hard-earned cash to, hopefully, ride Space Mountain with Chris McKendry (not a euphemism — well, maybe it is) will naturally gravitate toward the athletes/ESPN personalities they find most recognizable and appealing. That'll result in very lonely moments for some of the lesser known, lesser liked personalities who will find themselves sitting in the Mad Teacups all by themselves this weekend as Stu Scott fights off the boo-yahing hordes and Dan Patrick tries to close the deal with Snow White.

So I'm putting on my Captain Neo glasses, maxing out my Dick's Sporting Goods gift cards and placing odds on the ESPN personalities who'll be the least popular at the WWL's Disney Weekend.

Let's pants Mike Greenberg in the Hall of Presidents, after this jump ...

Eric Karabell: 2/1

When he's not being mistaken for John Clayton's son, Karabell will most likely be spending a lot of his time trapped in his hotel room because, unfortunately, he's got his Northeast Regional 5x5 Elite baseball draft this weekend and he's determined not to let Howie Kendrick slip past round six this time. So, he might catch up with some of the guys later on Saturday night, but he has to get up at the crack of dawn Sunday morning to drive down to Clearwater because Cole Hamels is supposed to be throwing BP. And how could he possibly miss that?

Orestes Destrade: 3/1

Even though he's become a major contributor to "Baseball Tonight," Destrade is kind of caught in the middle between unmemorable major league baseball player and not-so-recognizable ESPN personality. Plus, it doesn't help that he's probably the nerdiest looking Cuban ex-baseball player on the planet. So, in order to not feel out of place all weekend, he'll most likely spend a lot of time with his family, standing in line at EPCOT Center and spending thousands of dollars to get his wife and children matching leather Universal Studios jackets. You're a stud, Orestes. A big fucking Cuban stud.

John Seibel: 2/1

You may not recognize John Seibel, but you'll be able to pick him out by the "I'm sorry, who are you again?" responses he gets when he attempts to get special treatment at all Disney events this weekend. It won't help that Steve Phillips still think he's the summer intern and keeps asking him to call the front desk at his hotel to make sure he's got enough pillows.

Skip Bayless: 1/1

"Hi. My name's Skip. I work for Cold Pizza. Do you want a picture with me?" His enormous ego will get the best of him, and Bayless will find it unconscionable that some of the fans down here for The Weekend wouldn't want him to accompany them in the Haunted House. Look for Skip to follow around a bunch of the better known ESPNers, inserting himself into pictures and chastising people who don't know who he is. I'm Skip. Skip Bayless. Cold Pizza?

Howie Schwab: 1/4

Ugh. Is there ever a situation in life where this guy would ever be a welcome addition to your social circle? I'm sure Stu Scott will be trying to shake Howie all weekend, or else he'll spend his after hours at 8 Trax trying to lasso Orlando ponies with a wingman who'll try to seduce women with his ability to name every Hartford Whaler from the 80s in alphabetical order — backwards. If you're heading down to Orlando, expect to find Schwab spending a lot of his downtime wandering around Tomorrowland by himself after he was told that "everybody was meeting up there around 9 p.m." Plus, when he does get recognized, it'll be by a bunch of meatheads, grabbing their crotches and yelling "Hey Schwab! Stump this!".

You see, AJ Daulerio is leaving his loyal comrades in New York City this week for his hometown of Philadelphia, where he will be working for Philadelphia magazine. (Don't worry, Cultural Oddsmaker will continue.) So Friday night, we gathered for a surprise roast of the Deadspin cult hero who is, in fact, the balls.

We were the host of the gathering, but other roasters included Aileen Gallagher, Eric Gillin and Amy Blair of The Black Table, Lindsay Robertson, Matt Dorfman and Deadspin design savant Jim Cooke. Above are the video highlights of the evening, shot and edited by the outstanding Richard Blakeley.

If you're a regular Cultural Oddsmaker reader, you won't be surprised that AJ urinates on his roommate's computer, attempts to pick up girls with the promise of a "smoky tornado" and tries to stick suppositories in his anus while in cabs. We tried to hire Stuart Scott to join us, but he was too expensive. Witness the madness above.

Full pictures from the manic evening are found right here, and Daulerio's response to the evening is over at Gawker.

Good luck in Philly, Daulerio. Don't burn the place down.

AJ Daulerio Going Away Roast Photos [Flickr]
Former Gawker Guest Editor, Noted Skirt-Chaser A.J. Daulerio's Video Goodbye [Gawker]
Cultural Oddsmaker: What Will Happen At The LeBron Roast? [Deadspin]

Dancing With the Stars is, amazingly, back for a fourth installment, pitting more athletes and C-list celebrities against each other for another round of tango-to-the-death with a whopping two-hour season premiere. I've got nothing against dance shows. I was a big fan of Dance Fever and Danny Terrio. And you couldn't go wrong with Solid Gold. (NOTE: Excluding Dancin' On Air from this was shameful of me. I agree. I even had an Eddie Bruce autograph when I met him after a Sha Na Na show at the Valley Forge Music Theater. That's even more shameful. )Hey, there's a reason I won the Churchville Elementary school moonwalk competition in 5th grade. And did it in sneakers, not socks. If I had practiced enough spin moves on a broken down cardboard box or my parents ever bought me those parachute pants I begged for, I could've been the white Turbo.

Emmitt Smith's remarkable victory over A.C. Slater last season has legitimized DWTS as a way for other former athletes to make some extra money post-retirement. She-boxer Laila Ali, speedskater Apollo Anton Ohno and Clyde Drexler have all signed up to battle for a shot at soft-shoed supremacy. But the most interesting addition to this year's cast has got to be the one-legged wonder that is Heather Mills. She's been, um, pegged the "sentimental favorite" by host Jerry Springer, due to her deformity, and it seems a bit unfair that she'll go in there with that kind of emotional advantage. If she starts doing a Riverdance routine, is there anyway the judges could vote against her?

And if she does win, well, that would open up next season's DWTS to an even more diverse group of competitors. Like, handicapped athletes, for example.

So, this week, I'm firing up my Rascal, repositioning my neck halo and placing odds on some of the next Dancing With the Stars athletes you'll see in future seasons.

Let's Paso Doble, after this jump.

Mark Zupan: 3/1

Coming off the success of Murderball, Mark Zupan doesn't have to prove anything to anybody. Would you fuck with this guy? Not really. And he's proven he can do more sitting in a chair than most people can do ... sitting in a chair. However, can he rumba? Absolutely. He's also confident enough in his own masculinity just to go out there and prove that there's nothing he can't do. And one poor grade from the judges, and he's ramming that wheelchair of his right into their table. You don't give Mark a "7" in the cha-cha. Not a chance.

Kenny Walker: 4/1

Even though he's legally deaf, Kenny Walker overcame his disability and spent a couple years in the NFL, infuriating coaches by staying on the field too long, but otherwise, proving to be a serviceable defensive lineman as a Denver Bronco. What would stop him from joining DWTS? Surely he's seen Mr. Holland's Opus. All he has to do is put his head to the ground right before the music starts and then he can show off his swift movements to the vibrations. His partner can let him know when the music's stopped so he can dip her and direct him when he starts fox trotting even though he's supposed to be waltzing.

Bobby Martin: 5/1

Bobby Martin says I'll see Heather Mills' one leg and raise you ... no legs. Even though most of his routines would probably be performed while stuffed in a knapsack that would be attached to a baby harness of his partner, Martin could still win some points for creativity by performing the meringue while sitting on his hands. The capper to the routine could be when he lays on his back, holds a scarf between his teeth and then is spun on the floor by his partner like a human dreidel. Let's see Ian Zeiring do that.

Jason McElwain: 6/1

Made famous for his 20-point performance as member of Greece Athena High School last year, J-Mac has become a symbol of hope to many autistic people all over the world. His inspirational story and his nifty jump shot makes him a perfect DWTS candidate. Obviously, he'll need a partner who's strong enough to pull him through some of the routines just in case he starts head butting her midway through the song or chewing on her frilly costume. However, if he does become distracted and spastic, he should have a partner savvy enough to improvise the routine. I'm thinking the chest-thumping, pogo-stick routine popularized by Chris Penn's character in Footloose. That'll get the crowd pumped.

Since the Super Bowl ended and the swirling madness of March has yet to come upon us, those interested in professional sporting activities have had limited big-time events to occupy our time, evidenced by "SportsCenter"'s increased NASCAR coverage over the last few days. The one event earmarked to break up the doldrums has been the NBA All-Star Game, which promised to be even more of a glitzy, half-court alley-oop, behind-the-back pass spectacle than usual, thanks to its relocation in Las Vegas. David Stern braced himself for gambling blowback, hooker buffets, and all of the other sinful accompaniment that could potentially derail this firecracker weekend, only to have John Amaechi's gayness and Tim Hardaway's allegiance to the Westboro Baptist Church tripwire the event before any of the players even sasquatch their way on to the Vegas tarmac.

Now, Stern has a public relations staff working overtime to ensure that anyone affiliated with the NBA has to keep their comments about the Hardaway/Amaechi slap-fight to a minimum - or else, like Hardaway, face league banishment for expressing views not representative of the NBA's "No, no - we LOVE homos!" stance. Right now, Stern is probably praying for somebody to start blasting at Michael Jordan's Birthday party at the Bellagio. In this world, it's much easier to sidestep thuggery than gay bashing.

But is there a way to move away from the issue and keep the focus on the All-Star excitement? Some adjustments will have to be made.

So, today, I'm pulling out my vintage 1984 University of Hawaii jersey, making my best Johnny Weir dunk face and calculating the odds on what'll happen this weekend as a result of Hardaway's statements.

Show me your killer crossover, after this jump.

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Tim Hardaway Goes to Rehab: 1/2

This is the world we live in. Regardless if Tim Hardaway has even taken one sip of Hennessey in his life, it'll probably be recommended that he spend some time away from everybody to "work through his issues" and find out where the origins of his misguided hatred come from. Soon after, we'll see Hardaway attending LGBT meetings and Act Up marches all across the country in an effort to redefine his image — and make him once again employable as an NBA analyst somewhere. After that, Hardaway and Amaechi will most likely have a sitdown on Oprah, where they'll be forced to embrace, completely exorcising Hardaway's fear of being groped in the shower by one of his teammates. Unfortunately, the best way to rewire people these days is to put them on Oprah. If only Morton Downey Jr. was still alive.

Danny Gans To Sing National Anthem With Sir Elton John: 2/1

In case there are any protesters marching outside the arena, the best way to ensure that the NBA is a tolerant league is to use a recognizable gay entertainer to quash those suggestions. Even though Danny Gans is supposedly well known for his spooky impersonations of famous singers and originally planned to warble the National Anthem using many of his various voices — Smokey Robinson, David Bowie, um, Ricky Martin — it just won't be enough. If there was ever a perfect place for Elton to magically pop-up in a purple, sequined suit and pink coke bottle glasses playing a rainbow colored piano, this is the time. "I can't lie..".

Reshuffling of the NBA Celebrity All-Star Roster: 3/1

Yes, there's a way to do this subtly, without raising too many eyebrows. Just replace Little Bow Wow with Neil Patrick Harris, David Arquette with T.R. Knight and Carrot Top with that dude from N'Sync ... oh, and make sure that there's a WNBA player on the court at all times. Thankfully, Taye Diggs is already penciled in as a member of the East team. There's a start.

Nobody Talks to Jim Gray: 4/1

Stern will most likely alert all participants — even those loosely affiliated with the NBA — to not answer any questions from the long-faced man with the thinning hair and the evil glint in his eye. Gray's penchant for exploiting the negative and making people squirm has probably made him the least welcome person in Las Vegas this weekend. Stern has drawn up "exit route" maps so former players and NBA executives can easily navigate the unfamiliar confines of the Thomas & Mack Center in case they get cornered. In addition, Gray will have to set-up all interviews this weekend via the NBA's special guest PR handler — Chad Curtis.

The best thing we overheard all weekend was at the massive ESPN block party Friday. We didn't break out the Whisper 2000, but two guys were talking about Stuart Scott in our general area, and we couldn't help but listen in. Supposedly, Scott (who we didn't see all weekend) was absolutely irate with [Daulerio's] hilarious tale about trying to bed a cheerleader. Though we didn't dive into their conversation, we overheard these two young men saying that Scott really wanted to 'kick that kid's ass' and it didn't seem in jest. Almost like he was hunting for him.

We checked in with Daulerio, but he's not answering his phone: Perhaps Stu already got to him! Other fun Big Lead tidbits: Gregg Doyel was hanging out with Jemele Hill (!!!!!), and two of Sports Illustrated's best writers, Franz Lidz and Jeff MacGregor, have accepted buyouts. Unless Rick Reilly can keep writing columns as outstanding as his was last week every week — rather than once a month or so — we sense trouble over there.

Media Musings From A Party-Filled Super Bowl Weekend [The Big Lead]
Stuart Scott Attempts To Jack Himself Up [Deadspin]

AJ Daulerio has been in Miami all week as the Deadspin "correspondent." This is his final post of the trip.

This is the last post I'll be filing from South Beach; today I embark upon my own vacation that in no way could compete with this experience. Last night, I watched the Super Bowl inside my crappy little hotel room, which was a nice change of pace, for once. So, there will be no Oddsmaker this week as I give myself time to regroup, reenergize and rethink my wardrobe.

Obviously, this has been a fascinating, exhausting week, but it's been super, Super fun. Thanks to Fearless Leader William F. Leitch for having the faith in me to do this again and come back with something other than salamis and a lost rental car. Thanks to Gawker and the Lockhart Steele and Scott Kidder for supplying emergency funding when necessary. Thanks to you, hilarious commenters, for your inspired work this week on the message boards, my text message and my voicemail. It's kind of comforting to be woken up by strangers at early morning hours hurling insults about the mustache and asking why there are no posts. Nicely done. Thanks also go to Pete, Jamie, Ufford and the, ahem, Tattooed Messiah and Reasonable Doubt for a Reasonable Price for visiting during the week. Thank yous, hmm, who else? Thank you, India? Thank you, terror? Thank you, disillusionment?

After the jump, a special thanks.

Lt. Winslow completely carried me this week. There is no way any of the hilarity and high points of that particular evening would have been as great as they were had it not been for his camera work and Hurricane fandom and for just being a genuinely nice and decent guy to hang out with: in terms of meeting an internet stranger, well, there was probably no better person to take on these adventures and end up with. Just dumb fucking luck, really. One could not ask for a better attorney.

Anyway, The End.

AJ Daulerio has been Deadspin's "correspondent" all week at the Super Bowl in Miami. He wraps up his coverage today with two tales. The first is from the Penthouse Party on Friday night.

We waited for two hours in line before we could get into the Penthouse Super Bowl Party. Even with "press" passes generously provided to us, the lack of a formal, straight line and the mad rush of ticket holders, non-ticket holders and VIPs created a logjam outside of the aptly named club Mansion. My attorney and I were restless; even though we were curious about what Bacchanal hid behind the giant doors and the giant bouncers, it seemed less and less likely that the Deadspin +1 was going to get us off the sidewalk at 16th and Washington Ave. My attorney suggested we be patient. It paid off.

Although not as star-studded as the Maxim Party, the Penthouse Party proved to be more enjoyable, if only for the randomness of its attendees and our interactions with them. Matt Geiger, although he was really choking me in the above photo — lesson learned for the week: do not ask a man with size 11 hands to choke you, even in jest — he was pleased to find out that there was somebody from Philadelphia who still remembered him fondly, even though his busted knee never really justified the enormous free agent contract the Sixers gave him. Geiger's a Miami guy, though, and the parties he used to throw at his South Beach house when he played for the Heat were legendary.

I told him that even though he was hurt most of 2001, I thought it was the coolest thing how Larry Brown used to bring him off the bench just to bully people and the Wachovia nee Core States nee First Union center would just explode. He smiled, he hugged me, then he choked me because I'd asked him to. I think that actually means I had my first erotic asphyxiation experience, courtesy of Matt Geiger.

After the jump, read about the Penthouse debauchery, the Snoop concert and the weirdest VIP Lounge shared with myself, my attorney and the Salisbury-esque chica magnet that is Warren Moon.

These ladies were dancing on the table. In fact there were lots of ladies dancing on pretty much every table that wasn't serving another purpose, like, say holding a giant. It was a Penthouse party, and that's what they're supposed to do at these sort of things. Mansion was once another club called Level, given the name by its maze-like levels inside. If you made a wrong turn, you could end up at a completely different bar then you were before, even though the bar would look exactly the same.

This had all the night club noise, boom, flashes, greaseballs and cleavage one would expect from a South Beach nightclub. The ratio of guys to girls was, however, probably 90:1. From the party, it appears that the Penthouse readership most likely consists of men who resemble professional wrestlers and who smoke cigars. But the crowd was younger, it seemed, most likely from the makeover Penthouse is trying with their new issues. Sadly, with its sleeker refinement, gone are the days of photo spreads of women peeing in the shower.

Celebrities and former athletes were scarce, but a few were recognizable — besides Geiger there was Bernard Hopkins who showed up waay too early with an entourage that included a Luc Brazi-looking handler, a hype man and two girls who he picked up on the street. Hopkins' Brazi tried to storm through the gates while we were all waiting but he was denied as well. The Middleweight Champion would have to wait in the middle of the street until things cleared out. Bernard looked a little confused as to why he had to stand in the street, but then again, he looks that way all the time.

Once we were inside, there were the requisite shots of Jager, as suggested by my attorney, and we were off. We spent a good portion of the evening getting lost in Mansion and desperately searching out our VIP tags, which were supposedly being held by some woman in some alcove. We found her, eventually, and then made our way upstairs to the lounge, where they not only had a steaming tray of hot dogs, but also Warren Moon.

Moon was there with some of the crew from The NFL network, who appeared to send some of their correspondents and producers to bone up on their pre-game analysis by gifting them with a few Penthouse Pets. One of the analysts, John something, the black guy making the white guy dance face in the above picture, was someone who I mistook for the actor who played Jackie Chiles on Seinfeld.

Me: "Hey, you're the guy that played Kramer's lawyer, right?"
JOHN BLACK FOOTBALL ANALYST DOING HIS BEST JACKIE CHILES VOICE: "Yes. Yes, I am! They're real and they're spectacular!' Teri Hatcher is a wonderful kisser!
ME: Oh, sorry, man. I thought you were. You kind of look like him.
JOHN: I understand, I understand. You down for the game? Who ya' think'll win?
ME: Oh. The Bears. Love the Bears!
JOHN: Me too. Besides...they have the better quality women too.

Of course they do.

Then, Snoop came on, the place went nuts, the doobies were fired, the boobies were fired and Warren Moon was just having a blast with the bevy of blonde women provided by the NFL Network. He had at least two different ones shifting positions on his lap. I instructed my attorney to get a photo of Mr. Moon being grinded upon, but the photo was overly bright and shrouded in smoke, making it appear that Warren Moon had died and gone to lap dance heaven. But, if anybody ever gets a chance to, please, please experience Warren Moon grinding white women during "Gin and Juice." In fact, you should pay a lot of money to see it.

We attempted to get various photos of all angles, when one of the NFL Network's producers came over to me and said I should just go up and ask him for a photo.

"He's a really nice guy. I'm sure he'll take a photo with you."

"I don't know, he's got all those women around him..."

" Well, when he's free from them, just go up and ask him."

That took a while. I believe at one point there were blonde girls nestled underneath Warren Moon's armpits. If he sneezed, four of them would probably fly out of his nose.

Finally, I saw my opportunity and approached The Warrior. He did not remember me from the Maxim Party the night before. He agreed to a picture and even told one of his ladies to wait a minute to do so.

"What you got going on tomorrow, Warren?" I asked.

He wiped his forehead and just gave me a wink.

"Game time, baby. Game time." Off he went; and as he sat himself back down on the couch, a blonde woman pawing at his leg, I realized he wasn't talking about the Super Bowl at all.