Tomorrow the Scripps National Spelling Bee will give another group of spindly kids with Akeelah-like aspirations an opportunity to make use of their freakish memorization skills. This year, the kids are more aware of the ramifications and long-term career potential that comes with the national stage. Spell the words right, become a shooting star; fail and go back to the life of being an extraordinarily bright child with lots of tuba-playing friends. (Or, if they’re a home-schooled, back to being a socially-stunted shut-in whose only friends are the mailman and a rotting salamander carcass in a mason jar.)

Many of these kids are so absorbed and determined at developing their abnormally high IQs, they usually fall short on having a TV-ready appearance. But the more popular this event becomes, it’ll be even more crucial for producers to make sure their featured participants aren’t wearing their khakis on backwards or their glasses don’t cause potentially deadly refractions of the stage lighting. It’s the harsh reality of network ratings economics: If the final round is going to continue to garner a primetime slot, The Bee needs to get prettier in order to ensure long-term success.

And this year, spellers have added motivation to look less mousey, now that ESPN’s all-purpose reporting princess, Erin Andrews, is sidelining the Bee. Unlike the drooling moron nation that worships her from the safe confines of the internet, these poor girl-spooked geniuses will be forced to process Ms. Andrews’ striking beauty in person. One hair-flip and they’ll quickly learn that, no, she’s nothing like the girls in Latin club.

For male participants, this creates an even more daunting pressure-cooker atmosphere, as flubbing “quatorzain” in the first round will not only result in condescending snickers from their peers, but will also eliminate any chance of them professing their undying love to the tall, coconut-scented woman with the pretty teeth.

Among this year’s batch of 288 nerdsworths, there are a few who have the potential to make both their etymological and wet dreams come true.

So, today, I’m ignoring my throbbing odontalgia, taking antibiotics for my staphylococci and trying to avoid a vivisepulture as I place odds on some of the lads who have the best chance at vouchsafing the crap out of Erin Andrews this week.

Let’s go elucubrate after this jump. (Painting by the great Jim Cooke, of course.)

Pierce Dageforde: 2/1 His name sounds like it could be a pungent cheese from the Netherlands, but Pierce is representing both Omaha and Midwestern Iowa after mopping the floor with the contestants at the Midwest Spelling bee — and he plans on debunking any and all myths about spellers from corn country. He's coming to this event equipped with both a steel-trap mind and the charm and sophistication of a man twice his age. You can find him wearing his trademark turtleneck at many high society social events throughout the Midwest, smoking a pipe and wooing divorcees with his biting wit and collection of elegiac love poems. Dageforde says his ideal date with Andrews would be a trip to his grandfather's log cabin, nestled away in the woods of Eldora, where they'd spend a weekend taking in the majestic flora, making their own chocolate, and dancing the tarantella in their sweat socks across the creeky floors.

Scott Remer: 3/1 Ohio's Scotty "Reme Job" Remer realizes he might not make it out of the semifinals, but he's supremely confident he can get far enough to make a run at Erin Andrews. Remer's eschewed studying from his voluminous word list this week in favor of getting a manicure and experimenting with new pomeades. "Reme Job" said he's also purchased a new pair of snug chinos that better accentuate his overdeveloped quad muscles since he'd heard that Andrews "gets gooey" over a man with hulking soccer legs. His prediction for his chances this week: "If I get five minutes alone with her, she'll definitely get Remed."

Tony Incorvati: 5/1
Another Ohio boy, 10-year-old Incorvati slashed through the field at the Regional Grand Spelling Bee to earn a slot in D.C. Even though he's one of the youngest contestants this year, Incorvati carries a hefty amount of Italian swagger that overcompensates for some of his inexperience. "These fuckin' merigans ain't gonna know what hit 'em, " Incorvati told reporters during introduction ceremonies yesterday, opening and closing a Zippo lighter throughout. As for Andrews? Incorvati says she's a little too "twig-legged" for his tastes, but that's not going to prevent him from "givin' her a nice hard boning" if he makes the finals. "I'll chase her down in the parking lot if I have to," he said, while furiously making stroking gestures on a large pepperoni stick. "She's gonna get piece of this, if you know what I mean." We do, Tony. We do.

Xavier Barnes: EVEN

This skinny 13-year-old from Fayetteville, N.C. is new to the area, but he established himself early in the first marking period as a young man with a voracious appetite for big words — and the student teachers at Pine Forest Middle School. Since moving to Cumberland County last year from Kansas, Barnes has allegedly bedded some of the most unavailable women in the state. One of his male English teachers marvels at the budding lothario's technique. "It's, like, all he has to do is just stare up at them with those big brown eyes of his and the chicks will just melt." Barnes says a lot of his successes in both spelling and women comes from his abnormally large fingers, with which he can quickly sift through pages of unwieldy dictionaries quickly and digitally manipulate females to orgasm with just a wiggle. "I think if Miss Andrews gets one glance at these, her curiosity will get the best of her, " he says, moving his fingers in front of his face like Freddy Krueger. He's even given himself a nickname: "Bean Flickimus Maximus." Watch out, Erin.

Congratulations to Isiah Thomas, Deadspin Sports Human of the Year. Too bad for Kige, who once again fell just a few clicks short of history. Now, he's relegated back to the moronic tedium of Speak-and-Spell YouTube sports reporting. He shouldn't drown his sorrows in Strawberry Quick for too long though, as some major media corporation will surely throw a six-figure contract at him very soon. Didn't you hear? Online sports personalities are hot properties. Everybody wants one. They're like the new Beanie Babies. But it takes a lot more than that to be Sports Human of the Year. Judging by the first two victors, it takes a supreme lack of self-awareness. Kige, for better or for worse, has entirely too much of that.

So this is actually the topic of this week's final Cultural Oddsmaker: Who will be the next Sports Human of the Year?

Humanity has been a cornerstone of this site since its inception. It's what helps the modern day fan build a stronger connection to the athletes have been our country's valiant robot warriors. It's so effortless for them that it's demoralizing to be in their presence. That's why it's so great when they get drunk. Or grab a tit in public. It's in these moments that we see little glimpses that they do indeed breathe the same air we do; they have the same faults, or startling lack of judgment. Sometimes it's drugs. Sometimes it's women. Sometimes it's hubris. Sometimes it's not being properly trained in machete self-defense techniques.

Along those same lines, we also live in an era where sports "personalities" are also just as vital to our fandom. And thanks to ESPN, the smarty-pants crew with their sharp ties and pop culture shout-outs are what is supposed to make our sports fandom more relevant — more now. We are all Judd Apatow sycophants and Coors Light commercials. Maybe we are? Maybe they're right.

With that in mind, let's move along to this week's email. This wasn't actually sent to me, but to the floppy-haired Royal We from a prominent ESPN Sports Center host who's unfortunately been on the ass-end of many a joke here on Deadspin. It's not because he's a bad guy— it's because like many a Sports Center anchor at ESPN he's larger than life. He's also very kind to most of the people he's corresponded with on many occasions. But for the sake of bridge-burning, it's time to share this email that was sent to Deadspin on Feb. 1, 2007, during the apex of Super Bowl madness.

When Scott Van Pelt puts you on notice, you best better listen:

From: Van Pelt, Scott
To: Royal We
Subject: Man...

Scott Van Pelt wrote:
Your site is consistently funny and smart and this just seems so....weak.

Grown men in South Beach "hollering at the ladies" and your guy is like ...what...the fun police?

From: The Royal We
Sent: Thursday, February 01, 2007 4:24 PM
To: Van Pelt, Scott
Subject: Re: Man...

Oh, AJ ... I thought you were talking about the site. AJ just does his thing ... I never know what he's up to. But yeah: I think he's had enough hanging with ESPN people now; I think he just wanted to get his picture with Salisbury.

Subject: RE: Man...
Date: Thu, 1 Feb 2007 16:29:22 -0500
From: Van Pelt, Scott
To: Royal We

I think the ESPN people have had enough of him. You f*ck with people enough and eventually someone big, drunk guy acts like a big, drunk guy and knocks the moustache off your face.

THAT would be some fodder.

Yeah. It would. Another time, another place for everything.

So this week, I'm shutting off the lights, breaking out the Journey and placing odds on who the potential nominees for Sports Human of the Year 2008 will be.

Let's adieu.

Joselio Hanson's Penis: 8/1

The odds are long but ... anyway. Joselio might get a bump in playing time next year thanks to an aging Eagles secondary, which will obviously offer many more opportunities for his cock to steal the limelight. Besides come in on nickel defenses, what else could Joselio's penis do in 2008? Rope cattle? Perhaps it'll parry with a college fencing team? Jump-start car batteries? The opportunities for it to shine on a regular basis are endless. And like the last two winners, it shares the characteristics of both a black man and a horse.

Todd Sauerbrun: 1/1

Todd may not get another shot to actually play in the NFL again after his latest bout of "personal issues," but it'd be a damn shame. Who wouldn't want the NFL equivalent of "Shakes the Clown" on their team? Seriously, Sauerbrun's a man who just hates his life and probably hates kicking footballs, but knows that he has to do it because he can't do anything else with his life. He'd be the perfect subject for a reality TV show. This guy would make "Shooting Sizemore" and "Breaking Bonaduce" look like The Wiggles. First we'll find Todd in mini-camp, possibly saying some off-handed remark to another player that causes a near riot. Soon after, we'll see him at a bar doing Goldschlager shots out of his own jockstrap. At the end of the night, he'll be passed out in a bathroom stall with one hand in the toilet bowl, one in his pants, and wearing a catcher's mask. But will he make the team???

Kelly Tilghman: 3/1

You know, I don't understand what was so offensive about what this poor girl said. They're just coming down hard on her because she's a pretty white girl and, God forbid, you talk about Tiger that way. Well, after she serves her two week suspension, don't be surprised if we see her everywhere next year: you know, Prussian Blue concerts, Fuzzy Zoeller's barbecue, shaving her head (like Britney!), or buying her own shotgun for the upcoming race war.

Kosuke Fukudome: 2/1

Hyaku! This Japanese sensation is poised to take Chicago by storm (sorry, Arashi) and with a name like that, how can he not endear himself to millions? The only problem is those miserable Cubs fans could sour him on baseball and leave him with an unpleasant experience here in the U.S. However, Fukudome brushes off their bitterness and baseball altogether because he's found love in the U.S. with fellow former Japanese player Kazuhito Tadano. At first he'll be shunned by his country — and the Cubs — but once they realize their love is true (like young butterfly), he'll become the most fascinating sports figure of the year. Sorry, make that "human" of the year.

Thanks for reading. We shall see each other real soon.

Enjoy this photo of Andy Reid's kids. I wonder how they got so fucked up?

Hola, putas. It's once again time for the A.J. Daulerio Deadspin Unraveling with your late Friday afternoon dash of tawdry goodness. As you can tell by the above photo, today we'll be discussing Kim Kardashian and her almost engagement to Subway pitchman and Sheldon Brown tackling dummy, Reggie Bush.

But first, a favorite email from the Oddsmaker experience. This one's from a proud mongoloid mother named Judie from Walnut Grove, California eager to preach the gospel about the fat-tongued heroes we all know and love :

I don't know what to make of your column. I've never read such an unflattering portrayal of people who have Trisomy 21/Down syndrome (not "Down syndrome people") but there's something honest about you. Maybe I saw something of myself in your reluctance to be exposed to children who have Down syndrome (not "Down syndrome children"). Until I had one of my own, that is. Now, 28 years later, I have accepted the fact that the gene for nose-picking must be on the 21st chromosome and I wish that's the worst I'd ever endured with my other so-called "normal" children.

Aw. It's getting dusty in here!

Onto sex tapes. It's still mind-boggling why anyone (especially a woman, semi-famous or not) would ever participate in such an activity if they had no desire for it to some day be viewed by a captive, unzipped audience. For those devoid of any discernible talent, it's an instant career injection. The second biggest? Dating an athlete. The third? Having a backside that could serve as a winter home for woodland creatures. The Kardashian deftly hits the trifecta. If she were to become engaged to Reggie Bush, it would at least give her some meaningful existence. It's much better than only being known as the dead O.J. lawyer's daughter who was backdoor-invaded by a lamprey-shlonged rap star on film.

Surely, there are more Kardashians out there searching for their own Reggie Bush.

So this week, I'm flicking my frenulum, opening a fresh bottle of Hawaiian Tropic, and placing odds on the next sex tape star to nab a professional athlete.

Move your monitors to an obstructed angle before you click this more.

Amy Fisher: 3/1

The lovely Long Island Lolita famous for banging a gorilla mechanic and getting imprisoned after blasting his angry wife in the head is out of prison and ready to cash-in post-clink with her own movie magic, creatively titled "Amy Fisher Uncensored." Now that she's pushing 34, you would have thought Ms. Fisher would be completely beat up, but photos reveal she's actually weathered prison time and the cruel realities of female aging fairly well. No, she's probably not going to get engaged to Reggie Bush, but just because she's lost a little tread on her vulva doesn't mean she still couldn't snag herself some old jock balls. Perhaps Julio Franco?

Jenna Lewis: 2/1

This former Survivor star allegedly leaked her own sex tape in an effort to rewind her 15-minute clock just a little while. It worked, but now that's expired she's aching to get back in public consciousness. She was rumored to have had a thing with fellow Survivor alum and curly-haired soccer knob Ethan Zohn, but she'll have to upgrade there if she's serious about a bounce-back. Unfortunately, soccer stars not named Beckham in America are few and far between. Alexi Lalas should keep his cell phone on all the time just in case. David Hirshey should too.

Carolyn Murphy:

The former SI swimsuit model made headlines a couple years ago when a sultry honeymoon tape of her and her ex-husband began circulating around the web only to be quickly shut down by her lawyers before she could be come a jizz-faced screen-grab icon. Pity. Murphy, now into her 30s and with child-expanded hips, needs something else to save her falling star. She's model pretty, so a young quarterback looking to become the next Tom Brady may want to give her a toss. Tarvaris Jackson needs a trough for his black hog and legitimacy as a number one quarterback, lest he become the next Quincy Carter. This could be mutually beneficial.

Little Timmy Kelly: 1/4

The squeaky voiced singer with mild cerebal palsy and retinopathy brought on by premature birth, was a sporting event staple a couple years ago when he would eek out his stirring rendition of the national anthem to a teary-eyed crowd. Since then, Timmy's life has been hampered by his awkward tween years and the rumors about his various sex tapes. Now, he's more well known more for his impressive analingus ability than his sub-par singing voice and inspirational story. Titles like "Little Timmy's Mexican Splash Down", "Blind Boy Finds the Hole", and "Little Timmy's Rim Job 400" are taking over his life. What could save Little Timmy? Allison Stokke, meet your future husband.

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YEAH!

Odds and ends and other things after this little gray hyper-linked word...

Christmas is a glorious time: seven fish dago dinners, pizzelle chips with black, black coffee, and watching your neighbor set his pants on fire for the third year in a row trying to light the luminaria on the street. (More sand, moron! More sand!) It's also a season that encourages being extra nice to people for no other reason than the fact that you share this planet with them. For one week out of the year, we're all human beings of equal measure and worth. It feels unhealthy to be dour and hurtful. It's a time to open your heart, your mind to everyone. It's saying "I'm sorry" to those you may have inadvertently humiliated — or caused personal problems for because you stole a text message off of their cell phone during the Super Bowl last year and published it for all the world to see without thinking of the consequences.

So, in recognition of his illness and in the spirit of Christmas and righting a few wrongs, at this time please allow me to embrace the holiday spirit by having a few choice words with my boy Stu Scott's non-colon cancer malignancy or whatever it is..:

Hey, you brown-eyed, nasty ass motherfucker? What do you think you're doing? You think you can just climb on up there and start messing with my man's asshole like you all spooky death and shit? If I see your rotten-ass yellow polyp-making face hanging around this man's sphincter, I'm gonna climb on up in there with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch and take care of you Latin Kings-style. Get the fuck outta there before you start ruinin' shit. All sorts of shit. This man don't deserve that.

Spoken word...

(Best wishes to Stu Scott...)

Anyway ... moving on.

As we enter Week 3 of the Cultural Oddsmaker countdown, we'll continue with this self-less giving and atonement theme by acknowledging one reader whose email was, hands down, the most passionate this year, and possibly in internet history. A man named Brian Powers, who was so infuriated and offended by the Chris Benoit post that he officially turned in his commenting privileges as a symbolic gesture of his disappointment. Here are a couple of choice paragraphs from Brian's long-winded self-righteous screed. (Insert Final Jeopardy! theme music for full effect):

..I think that you owe your readership some explanation as to why you think it was acceptable to publish it in the first place. ...that at least a portion of the post was beyond poor taste, then you should have the conviction to stand up and say so.... AJ's post transcended the realm of observational humor and went for the cheap laugh borne out of shock....At the risk of assuming your editorial direction, I always thought that Deadspin was all about being outrageous and crass but with some sort of subtle intellectual edge which made it funny....This is just mean and cheap.... Whatever happen over the weekend at the Benoit house was sad an tragic. I think this bears repeating: A man murdered his wife and disabled child and then committed suicide. ...As for my commenting privileges simply summon Rob and "execute me" as you do with other posters who are a nuisance. The gesture was intended to be more symbolic than anything else....

Anyway, Brian, I'm sorry the Benoit post offended you and I apologize for being so dismissive of your first four emails. If you're still out there, please come back. I'm sure you might be busy with other things in your life — commenting on Jezebel, tampon shopping, having the extra skin on your labia surgically removed — but I'm hopeful you'll consider returning to Deadspin in 2008. I will no longer be here and it'll once again a safe place for you to insert little > symbols and yell about those darned New York Mets or whatever it is you like to do.

Now, then, on with cultural merrymaking and oddsmaking all at the same time.

This week, I'm dressing up in Dudley Moore's elf costume, cunnilinguling some figgy pudding and placing odds on some of the sporty news makers who've made this week before Christmas positvely Christ-like.

A heavy-handed Sean Taylor tribute at the Pro Bowl: 1/3

Perhaps they'll trot out another 10-man defense in tribute to their fallen NFC comrade. Maybe there will be a group of leis assembled in the center of a volcano. But here's my perfect scenario: They bring back Brian Moorman, the Bills punter, and they have him try to scramble to out of bounds again just like he did last year. Instead of Sean Taylor, they use Andy Garcia dressed in a number 21 jersey try to take him down. That way Andy can once again honor Sean's heroism, and perhaps Moorman won't get laid out like a raggedy bitch this time around. Everybody wins.

Tony Parker actually banged this lady: 1/4

Yes, the defamation lawsuit is cute and Eva Longoria's insistence that she believes her NBA husband is a one-woman lady is understandable, but COME. ON. As much as I'd like to believe that Tony Parker, Frenchman, millionaire, handsome gentleman in that non-threatening Africaucasian-type of way, has never come in contact with this woman is preposterous. If you're not an NBA player named A.C. Green, yer dick is dirty. Eva should immediately check her pubic hair for crabs wearing berets.

Laure Manaudou has gotten it in the pooper: 1/10

French women are always a little bit intimidating. They always carry an air of back alley abortions and fancy cigarettes. This swimmer lady is no different. It's amazing what some women will do once their boyfriends suggest taking some photographs "for us." What the hell is she doing in this photo (LOOK OUT! NSFW!)? That looks like some sort of prehistoric deep sea creature ? Too bad for the Italian guy that got screwed over by this playful vixen but it seems like he saved himself from a life of nights filled with flaming dildos and face-punching orgasms.

On that note, go spread some cheer...

Greetings. It's week two of the great Cultural Oddsmaker countdown, and this will once again not attempt in any way shape or form hold up a mirror to professional sports culture. This is simply a venue for me to expose my id in three-dimensional high-def for all the world to see. And, of course, showcase my favorite emails. This week's selection comes courtesy of the CO spelling bee column, which resulted in a couple spirited missives like this:

Richa Gupta getrich87@xxxx.net wrote:

You're a jackass who's just jealous that these kids are about 1000 times as smart as you are. Your descriptions are unwarranted and your attempt at mockery is just sick. Find another outlet to express your excessive loathing for thirteen year old kids, and get a fucking life.

Guptas. So sensitive.

Anyway, this week's Oddsmaker will focus on Playboy magazine's "Playmate of the Year" coronation. If you haven't heard, the magazine is currently in the middle of its selection process to crown this year's Bunny queen. This is somewhat sports-related because, as we all know, professional athletes have a tendency to end up in relationships with these bouncy bundles of dim-witted fun. In addition to the odds on their POY-dom, I'll also include which athlete their destined to end up with, and, for added color and depth, the odds on their favorite sexual position.

So, this week, I'm injecting my urethra with Deca-Durabolin, learning how to skin a rabbit (It is what it is — bunny-lovers beware), and calculating odds on the 2007 Playmate of the Year.

Pictures of almost naked young ladies, after this brief commercial break:

....

VAMANOS!

Heather Rene Smith, Miss February: 2/1

She's 20-years-old, California-cooked, and enjoys "going to see live bands" and "working on old cars." Oh, and "wake boarding," which I believe is what the CIA insists was very instrumental in winning the war on terror. When she says "working on old cars," we'll assume that means "leaning over a balance beam and almost doing a split without her tits falling out." Now, that's talent! She's into tattoos and guys who know how to play a musical instrument. Wizard-sleeved bassoonists, your princess has arrived.

Athletes she may possibly bang: Wayman Tisdale, Bronson Arroyo

Favorite sexual position: The Alfonseca: Heather can only orgasm when a man enters six digits or more inside her and tickles her her g-spot.

Brittany Binger, Miss June: 3/1

She's not blond, so she'll have a tough time generating support from the old fella, plus she's 5'7, 109lbs, which means she's about one missed meal away from being just a giant head and a pointy clavicle. Brittany's favorite singer is Snoop Dogg and her hobbies include "going to the beach." She's turned off by cockiness and womanizers, but she gets revved-up by men who are "mysterious." So, wear a Zorro mask, boys.

Athletes she may possibly bang: Manny Ramirez, Gilbert Arenas

Favorite sexual position: The Bo Diaz: Brittany climaxes the hardest when she's being banged on a Venezuelan rooftop with a satellite dish laying on top of her.

Shannon James, Miss May: 1/4

Shannon's a Council Rock graduate (We are! CR!) and still lives just outside the Philly area prepping for a life of either modeling, writing poetry or being a pharmaceutical sales rep. (What else is there really?) She's prime-time POY material thanks to her blonder than blondestness and willingness to admit she's "comfortable with her sexuality" and that she and her friends like to "walk around naked." Hooray. Plus! Her favorite team is the Philadelphia Phillies.

Athletes she may possibly bang: Jayson Werth, Mike Zagurski, The Sarge

Favorite sexual position: The Schmitter: Shannon likes to have anal sex using a "secret sauce" lubricant with a man who has a piece of fried salami wrapped around his dick.

Spencer Scott: 1/1

This Georgia gal is only 18 years old and says she's looking for a man who'll be "spontaneous" with her — no beach or fancy dinners, something, like, you know, like, a "theme park." Well, the gal likes roller coasters and also won't tolerate a guy who can't "make her laugh." So, no Mr. Fuddy-Duddys for her, no way. There's a reason God gave her so much brain power. Unfortunately, most of it is in her left breast.

Athletes she may possibly bang: Chipper Jones, Jeff Francoeur, The Georgia Bulldogs football team, an actual Georgia bulldog

Favorite sexual position: The Coolbaugh: Like she said, Spencer's a fan of spontaneity and loves it when a guy will sneak up behind her, take out one ball, whack her in the side of the head with it, and then do her while she's sprawled out in the grass in front of a stadium full of people.

So I'm thinking about how to end this column, all of the possibilities and subject areas that could be covered and how to make these last few weeks memorable: Should I steal Stuart Scott's eyeball? Should I break into Robert Weintraub's house and leave a knife on his bed? Should I borrow a red swimsuit and giant sunglasses to pose on a rooftop in Manhattan with the editor of n +1? No, I don't need the self-indulgent histrionics — nor the yeast infection. But, to commemorate this historic passing, there should some sort of tribute.

Well, here's something: Starting today, each week, I'll share some of my favorite emails I've received in response to some of my work on Deadspin.

Our first entry:

SUBJECT: Are you kidding me?
From:
If anyone looks gay it's you. That picture of you looks extremely feminine! Pedro has been my best friend for over thirty years. He is happily married with three great kids. In over 22 years of reporting he has won numerous awards and is one of the most respected reporters among the players. I guess any idiot can write a column these days on the internet!

Armando Hernandez

From: AJ Daulerio
Pedro who? What are you talking about?

From: miamiarh@xxx.net
Pedro Gomez, ESPN

What else to expect over the next five weeks? I don't know. Most of the time there needs to be something relevant or newsy in the world of sports for these things to actually work. However, these are unique, evolutionary times, and apparently some writers need to pump up the page view count to continue to work here or else they're marched up to a sacrificial altar, painted blue and shown their still-beating hearts before their inevitable beheading.

But, I assure you, that is not the reason for this column ending. Deadspin, HQ Gawker managers and floppy-haired hero Will Leitch have always treated me extremely well. I highly doubt there will ever be another employer who would let me expense illegal drugs during Super Bowl week, especially since my accounts were frozen by the IRS due to unpaid 2005 taxes. (Long story.)

But I refuse to be nicknamed "Almost." So, over the next few weeks I will do my best to ensure maximum visibility for this here page. Or not. Shall we play a game?

So this week, I'm breaking out the scat mat, washing off my gag-finge, and placing odds on the first sports-related person to be featured in a 2girls1cup-style video. (Not safe for work unless you work at an S&M dungeon or a poop factory. But 99 percent of you probably know that already.)

Fuck it all and fuckin' no regrets

Deanna Favre: EVEN

There's always been something sexy about her. Maybe it's the eyes. Maybe it's the half-smile. Maybe it's the half-tit. But Deanna looks like she has a secret life that doesn't involve following her husband around everywhere he goes to make sure he stays off the pills and shoo away the pesky ghost of his dead father. No, in certain chat rooms she's known as "Queen Feces," "Big D the Runny Doodie Lover," and "Senorita Plop Plop." Now, we know the reason why she never fully smiles is not because she's always sad, or remarkably tough — it's because she's got shit in her teeth.

Anna Rawson: 1/4

This long-legged Aussie sensation has decided to hang up her high heels and hit the links professionally, but she'll never be able to shake that whole "yeah, I'm much too good looking to play this dikey game" kind of air about her. Unless, of course, she's not a flawless nightingale who just happens to blessed with a perfect swing. No, no, no...this little angel is also a highly trained "evacuation specialist." You give her one cup of coffee, some raisin bread and she can explode on command. Imagine dropping a brick on a pastry bag full of chocolate pudding. That's Rawson's sphincter.

Amanda Cichinni: 1/5

This West Virginia soccer player became internet spank goddess based on sheer rumpty-ness alone. Her face is kind of mousey and she dresses like Heather Graham's character in "License to Drive," but for the love of Kige, she's got a chassis. But look at this girl's photo spread? You're telling me she never ate a turd kebab?

Jayson Stark: 2/1

The rumor circulating about Stark for a long time was that he and a few other longtime baseball writers would kick off the winter meetings in style. They'd drive up to Stark's cabin in the Poconos with a gallon of Phillies Graham Slam ice cream and pair of plastic wrap underwear. Each would sit around a card table wearing only the undies, eating big scoops of ice cream sprinkled with laxatives. The first one to blow through their skiv's has to drink the leftover mess as everyone else chants "Hot stove! Hot stove! Hot stove!" It's fun for the whole family.

2007 is turning out to be the year of the Romo. Just 10 months removed from single-handedly ruining the Cowboys playoff run, he's bounced back. Enormously. So far this year, he's ripped through a couple of nubile ladies (Sophia Bush, Carrie Underwood), put up monster numbers and earned respect around the league, and in between signed a $67.4 million contract based on half a season's work. To top it off, the guy could go 15-1 this season and skate into the playoffs. Look at the rest of the Cowboys schedule: they've got Detroit, who've reverted back to vintage ineptitude, and the Carolina Panthers, who've somehow become a first-year expansion team again. The two toughest games they have left are with the Mighty Birds, who have been wildly inconsistent (or consistently mediocre) all year, and the Redskins, who even though are their most bitter rivals, now have a gaping hole in their ... strong safety.

[dodges pitchfork]

Moving on! Now, Romo's tapping Jessica Simpson, who unless is secretly moonlighting in Bolivian gang bang films, most likely still has a vagina that smells like a combination of "Very Vanilla" Little Tree car freshener and a baby's forehead. Sadly, this relationship is not going to last. Not that Romo's the second coming of Proust or anything, but regardless of how hot Simpson is, holding a conversation with her must be like talking to Gizmo : Oooh! Bright lights! Yum-Yum !

So, he's not into librarians? Not a problem. A definite deal-breaker to be a Romo Girl is just skank-out dirty. Romo doesn't want a lady with a sullied reputation, one marred by sex tape videos or a body damaged by belly-button mashing pregnancies. No, he likes his ladies clean, untarnished — we're talking PSA grade 9.5 and above. The only question left to answer is...who's next?

So this week, I'm putting on my hymen mask, readjusting my chastity belt, and placing odds on the next pretty pony to enter the Romo Corral.

Push the button.

Hayden Panettiere: 3/1

This "Heroes" star radiates wholesomeness like a giant moon, plus she's got the whole blond, deceptively pretty-thing happening that Romo seems to enjoy so much. Another thing about Hayden is that she's a strident animal rights activist and also an aspiring singer, which in Hollywood usually means she has a brain the size of a cashew. Bingo. Give the cheerleader the bologna hammer, save the world, Tony.

Ashley Tisdale: 4/1

She's crept into the public consciousness because of High School Musical and become the fantasy girl to many pre-teen/pre-homosexual boys. In reality, she's a 22-year-old with a cheery smile and a palpable prudishness, even though her character and Jewishy face may suggest otherwise. But, if you look at a quote she gave People from her latest movie shoot, it appears the gal doesn't even like to kiss on screen. "You have to do it over and over and over, and every different angle!" Fuckin' shitballs! But after her HSM sequels run out and she stops hanging around with the fresh-faced crew, don't be surprised if she needs to gulp down a hot cup of Romo in order to ease herself back into womanhood.

Hillary Duff: 1/1

When she was younger, she used to have this dinosaur-head/bird-chested appearance that seemed to indicate her early 20s were going to be beastly. Obviously, as the picture on that left indicates, that's not the case anymore. Now, she's bananas. She fits all of the qualities of a typical Romo-girl, but her interest in pussybag rockstars like that knob from Good Charlotte might knock Romo out of the race. He'll have to bring a lot more than just a quarterback pedigree and a Steely McBeam chin if he wants to get wi...wait a second. God. Romo. He's just got it all. He's like Sam Malone's brother.

Miley Cyrus: 2/1

Although society will say it's wrong, Romo has no time for your silly laws and mores. Even though the Hannah Montana star is only 15-years-old, she has all the poise and ambition of a 35-year-old woman. She's also a country gal with a voice that could make the cowboys cry. Plus, she's good at keeping secrets and quick-changing into disguises. Perfect for this type of situation. Romo and Cyrus could be the new R. Kelly and Aaliyah. (Plane crash not included.)

Los Angeles Lakers coach Phil Jackson caused a mini-firestorm this week when in his attempt at post-game humor, inadvertently offended a handful of homosexuals. Jackson was quoted as saying the Lakers' loss to the San Antonio Spurs was called a "Brokeback Mountain" game because of all the "penetration" and "kickouts." The beat writers got a laugh out of it. Gays? Not so much.

Now, let me start by saying, I like the gays. I have one friend who's a full-blown gay, and plenty of friends I'm positive are repressed homos who I treat just like I would a real gay. For example, I wouldn't enter a communal shower with my buddy Carl without wearing an extra pair of underwear beneath my towel. That's why we call him "Princess Carl," "Cocklovin' Carl," "Captain Carl Rod-smoker," "Carl the Balloon Knot Inspector," among many other things. All in good fun, mind you. But this situation appears to be completely overblown. (No pun intended.)

The Zen-huffing coach made a great point about why the joke went over so poorly. He acknowledged that in his profession this type of humor is frowned upon, and he half-heartedly apologized for his verbal misstep. (He even apologized to horses, presumably both gay and straight ones.) Regardless, you got the sense that there was more eye-rolling from Jackson than sincerity. At the start of what appears to be a shitty season full of Kobe-induced headaches and unfulfilled expectations, Jackson is indicating that he doesn't have time to deal with the P.C. police on top of everything else. Given his outward impatience and indifference to this issue, it's clear that he's not going to rethink anything that comes out of his mouth for the rest of the year — this is only the beginning.

So, this week, I'm refreshing Towelroad every 10 minutes, spending $50 on a haircut, and placing odds on the next group of people Phil Jackson will offend this year.

Let's go blow some sacred cows, after this page-view increasing click-through.

Autistic Children: 2/1

"This is one of those games I like to call a 'J-Mac Game.' The other team could just throw any idiot on the floor and have them make a three-pointer. Granted, they couldn't count to three without smacking themselves in the face or standing alone in the corner licking the wall, but those are the breaks sometime. Honestly, who was playing point guard for them in the fourth quarter? Was that Jenny McCarthy's kid out there?"

Women: 5/1

"This is one of those games I like to call a "Roofie Game." We're out there on the floor seemingly in control then, before we know it, we wake up tied to the bed post with tape over our mouths getting pounded by five dudes. Seriously, if you took a swab of Derek Fisher after this debacle, you're going to find remnants of their whole team on him. I'm going to make him pee on one of those kazoo-shaped things just to make sure he's not pregnant."

Immigrants: 4/1

"This is one of those games I like to call the 'Wetback Special.' Any kind of defense we put out there, they seemed to bust right through it. Next time, I'll have to sign a couple of coyotes and put them out there so they eat 'em before they can get to the basket. And so many turnovers! The ball just seemed to be slipping through our hands all night as if it were covered in some sort of salty grease. Maybe next time I'll have Odom hold a bag of oranges at the top of the key just so he can distract them. "

New Yorkers: 3/1

"This is one of those games I like to refer to as a 'World Trade Center' game. You know, a lot of bodies falling all over the place hitting firefighters in the head. I'm surprised Luke Walton wasn't covered in ash by the third quarter. It was like the big men on the other team were a bunch of crazed Arabs holding box cutters to our throats in the paint. They just had their way with us. Next time we play these guys, I'll be sure to wear a little American flag pin on my lapel to commemorate this tragic loss."

Ladies who someday wish to grace the sidelines of a major sporting event, take heed: Your knowledge is primary, of course, but you'll also have to be somewhat attractive. This is not breaking news, mind you, but each year it seems more and more women are realizing that just because they know how to read box scores or can talk intelligently about a game, they're still required to be completely boneable to the drooling masses.

Take Playboy's America's Sexiest Sportscaster award. Granted, it might be an honor that many female sportscasters don't necessarily aspire towards, but consider this: Playboy has no repeat nominees. So, each year, Hefner and company has to find a new batch of lady jock-yappers to be scrutinized by discerningPlayboy readers.

One person who's obviously gotten the memo? Linda Cohn. In the last month, she's started blowing out her hair and finally seeing results from her Pilates classes. She's gone from looking like an elementary school special needs teacher to a substantially hotter elementary school special needs teacher. So, if you spot Cohn exiting the Bristol offices and a pack of screaming, limping kids wearing biking helmets are following her, don't' be alarmed: She's not being chased by zombies; she's just wearing Spanx.

I am probably one of the last men on earth under the age of 50 who still has a Playboy subscription, so that's the only reason I'm aware of this contest. I still read the joke page even though I heard most of them when I was seven, and still look forward to each month's pseudo-celebrity photo spread. Take this month, where the holy haunches of Kim Kardashian are triumphantly unveiled. For the first time in a while, this is actually a photo spread that's worth the $8 newsstand charge. Those of you out there who are hiney-obsessed, you'll be overjoyed.

But until Ms. Kardashian's bulbous bottom starts interviewing athletes and coaches, she's not up for the award.

So this week, I'm cashing in my Sephora gift certificate, dusting off my inner-outer thigh machine and placing odds on some of the nominees for Playboy's Sexiest Sportscaster of 2008.

Let's deform my face, then shake my skull cap. MORE.

Jeanne Zelasko: 3/1

She's probably the favorite, if Playboy's Viagra-chugging demographic were to actually take the time to finally figure out how to turn on their little-used computer. Zelasko's got that whole Kathy Lee Crosby thing rockin', and plenty of older, white World Series viewers probably took one look at here and thought, "Now, there's a lady whose stockings probably smell good." Plus, she doesn't seem terrified of Kevin Kennedy, who resembles most of Playboy readers.

Rachel Nichols: 2/1

Here's a tough one. Most guys under the age of 35 see Nichols pop up on ESPN and their like "Hey, that looks just like the girl from back home who gave me a handjob in the broom closet at that Bar Mitzvah I went to when I was 13," and get turned off. But then, the more you see her on screen, you start thinking back on that glorious day a little more and, before you know it, you're standing in your kitchen over the trashcan with a handful of Palmolive peeking around the corner so you can watch Nichols interview Reggie Bush. She's got fans. Nobody will admit it, but they're out there.

Colleen Dominguez: 4/1

She's the perfect woman for those early 40-ish dudes who actually pay for tanning salon memberships and express their abundance of self-confidence with an extra dollop of hair product. So, she's probably the favorite of the Steve Lavin-look-a-like set. Thing is, she is legitimately beautiful, but seems unapproachable because you know she's only interested in getting hit on by greasy assholes who wear obnoxiously large wrist watches.

Erin Andrews: 1/3

She's clearly the favorite, who's become the erection-inducing siren to the Shanoffian hordes of internet sports stalkers. Only problem is, many may feel slighted by her indifference towards her message board love letters and could express their hurt feelings by voting elsewhere. If Andrews were smart, she'd stop chasing around Pat White for mindless post-game sound bytes and just pose in a goddamned bikini already. Don't fight it, Erin. It's time to show the world that God was a studious craftsman with your body.

Oooh, boy! Uncle Will went to a wedding this weekend to try to read John Donne poetry ("How do you pronounce his name," he asked, while doing a run-through last night.), and he's left Deadspin in most capable hands. Of course, those audacious hands of hope are a little busy today, so Cultural Oddsmaker is being sloughed off to the plebes. Full disclosure: I can't stand football; I can name only five players on the team I purportedly follow ("Let's go ... Mets?"); and the one competition I can speak about with some confidence is horseracing. But the most important disclaimer of all: I have been invited, but never attended, a Deadspin Pants Party.

The Newark Pants Party was announced yesterday. Seton Hall, a school I wasn't even aware was in New Jersey till it caught fire some years ago, is playing Louisville, a city I didn't realize had its own school (Go, not the University of Kentucky!). Now, when I go to horse races, I bring a flask, a six pack, and some fine sandwiches. I make notes in the Form, furl it as the horses enter the gate, and beat it on the track fence to accompany my screams, which are directed at an animal: "Come on (Number)! Come on, baby!" These moments are the most raucous of my year. In my head, Deadspin Pants Parties are similar. So this week I'm donning my "You're With Me, Leather" t-shirt; leaking a memo from my employer, ESPN; and placing odds on what will happen at the Deadspin Pants Party at Seton Hall.

Will Leitch will gladly accept your beers: 2/1
Here's a little secret: Will Leitch expenses the shit out of everything. (We all have the same accountant.) That trip he makes to take in a game with Deadspin readers? Write-off! You all spend your paychecks to get to the game, buy a hotdog and some beers. Deadspin provides everyone so much workday entertainment, why wouldn't you get that stubbly-fingered slave a brew? After all, he drinks Miller Light. Unless you're at Yankee Stadium, it can't cost that much. Your pal Will will gladly take it off your hands. In fact, you're so generous he can't keep up. Good thing he always wears that black T-shirt — the spills don't leave a mark.

Some so-called New Yorker will get lost on the way: 1/3
"Mere steps from the Newark PATH Station!" claims organizer Rob Iracane, who I always confuse for a football player in my brother's high-school class named Rob Iacone. Oh please, Rob (Iracane). You're asking New Yorkers to swap transit systems in order to go to New Jersey for a recreational event. The people with cars will show up; the people coming from the city will claim some sort of train shenanigans. This is why Will never visits AJ in Philadelphia.

That Deadspin Guy will make everyone uncomfortable: Even
Is that Barbaro I see at half-court? Oh wait, I think the popcorn vendor is Carl Monday, here to go undercover in my Pants Party! I had to get tested for the HIV last week, but I used a fake name: Don Uruguay! I'm going to pour tequila down this tan girl's throat like Ben Roethlisberger! Woo!

You won't remember to respond to your Commenter Name: 5/2
After a few beers with congenial strangers, it's tough to recall your actual name. Forget about that witty Deadspin moniker (Or not so witty; in my case, my once-used commenting name refers to my ancestral village in Ireland.) — you barely know your own name. On the upside, this is the perfect time to have an affair.

That Commenter you like is a total jackass in real life: 14/1
The Internet is so deceptive, isn't it? You read these people's thoughts every day. You know their opinions better than your dad's. You're all amped to go to the Pants Party and meet this one commenter. And then you do and, after some perfunctory chatter, "Seton Hall, huh? So who'd you vote for for SHOTY?" you realize you'd rather be home raking leaves. Fortunately the guy in the row ahead of you is sitting next to Will and having the same experience. You lock eyes, and then go smoke a joint in the parking lot.

Many of you who've followed Fox' baseball coverage during the playoffs may have seen this People's "Sexiest Fan Alive" promotion infiltrating the between-innings chit-chat like a clumsy mule. Today, the the final votes will be tallied and some lucky, moderately attractive baseball-hat wearing "fan" will be crowned sexy king or queen in the upcoming "Sexiest Man Alive" issue. This marks a disturbing trend, not just for baseball, but for People magazine. At its best, People offers scintillating coverage of small-town miners trapped in caves and one-on-one interviews with Tracey Gold's skeleton. And, of course, its "Sexiest Man Alive" issue, the equivalent of the SI Swimsuit issue to women who spend too much time waiting in line at the supermarket. Now, since it added the ludicrous Sexiest Fan Alive category to broaden its demographic from fat mommy America and beauty salon owners to ... baseball fans. Everybody plays an inning in People magazine. Everybody's sexy. Even Joe Buck sounds like he's on the brink of stabbing somebody every time he's had to plug it: "Remember to vote for People's "Sexiest fan a—-yaaaaagghhhh KILL THE BABY." He always catches himself, though, because he's a pro, that jub-jub.

But People's attempt at ingratiating the common man persona to a mantle once reserved for you know, attractive celebrities is charming, but it also shows the magazine is becoming more and more inclusive with its choices. Sexy fans, sexy senior citizens, sexy single mothers, sexy dwarfs — soon, the magazine will be trotting out "Sexiest Burn Victim Alive" showing off a woman with cheekbones like melted candles and Scotch tape-lips seductively posing in a tube top. Yum.

So, congrats to these lucky individuals, who have to anxiously wait out the final few hours of voting to reveal their sexy fates. It is a monumental achievement. Once they're crowned "Sexiest Fan" they will be rewarded with exactly one more ounce of self-esteem for their victory and possibly become a tasty object of desire to Curves members all over across the country.

So, this week I'm putting on my Mark Harmon mask, finishing off a crossword puzzle in under 24 seconds and placing odds on the winner of People magazine's "Sexiest Fan Alive" contest.

Bring your daughter to the slaughter, after this MORE.

Chris Piela; 1/3

This Red Sox guy is in the lead. Surprised? Christ. If this city keeps winning things, they should become their own country and register for the Olympics next year. I get it Chris, you and your cleft-chin and your way-too-eager-wife nominating you for this position, but seriously fella, you win this and you'll be become a living character in a Tom Perrotta novel. Yes, you had a stable home life, a loving wife, great kids, and an unshakeable love of the Sox, but can you resist the allure of having an unlimited supply of Red Sox Vagina Nation chowda bush always at your disposal? Remove yourself from this competition immediately or your marriage is doomed.

Sarah Henneke: 2/1

Here's Sarah's pitch: "I should be PEOPLE's Sexiest Fan Alive because what makes me a sexy fan is being a woman showing 100% pride and commitment every day for my favorite ball club." Wrong. What makes you a sexy fan is taking off that fucking Greg Norman hat immediately. Oh, and a little black and white tit-paint couldn't hurt either.

Jeff Jackson, 3/1:

Hey, Jeff's a Yankees fan. And he played shortstop for his company in Yankee stadium. Scratch that — he played "sexy" shortstop for his company at Yankee stadium. Honestly, Jeff, just throw yourself in front of a bus and end your delusions that your life will ever amount to anything. Calling yourself a "sexy" shortstop, submitting a picture of yourself holding a bat, just lets most of the people who know you off the hook who felt bad about hating your guts and fantasizing about drowning you in a tub of your own pussy juice.

Chris Noonan: 25/1

Here's Chris, who's obviously taken a calculated approach to winning this thing. Lovable Loser Cubbies quotes? Check. Mother reference? Check. Goopy hair and Crest White Strips applied before manufacturing a candid photo of you sitting on the couch in full Cubs gear? Check. Showing off your shiny index finger that you just had jammed up your own ass? Check.

Brian Domingo: 10/1

Brian sells himself as more of the cerebral type; he doesn't think sexy is about teeth and muscles, but humor too. He wants to sell his "personality" in this photo with his oh-sad-clown face and box of Cracker Jacks. What's killing Domingo more than his awkward disposition and the fact that he's a Mets fan is his startling resemblance to Fred Armisen. Aye dios mio!

Grant Tonelli: 9/1

Aw, an A's fan. And look at you, Grant, all shaggy and toothy. Tonelli claims in his profile that he'll "stay the same" should he win SFA, but that's highly doubtful. I'm saying he'll parlay his win into a modeling career, most likely starting with a cover shoot for this fine publication. Just a hunch.

Candi Locklin: EVEN

Here's her pitch: "I fully support the Astros' Killer B's and believe I look good supporting them as well. I made quite the entrance at Minute Maid Park in my bumblebee costume." I bet you did, Candi. In fact, I'm sure there are still Kevin Bass' pollen stains all over it. Candi isn't even a real baseball fan, but she became one in the early 90s after she got wheelbarrowed in the bathroom at Cooter's by most of the team.

Sydni Craig: OFF

No.

Evaristo Guerra: 3/1

Evaristo, another guy whose wife nominated him, answered the question, "If you could start a new MLB team, what would the mascot be?" like this: "Wolves, because they travel as a pack." Of course. "Los Lobos." I feel you, hombre, but aren't there dishes to be washed or lawns to be cut? You've got no time to be sexy!

Dumpy talk show host Jimmy Kimmel's banning from Monday Night Football based on what MNF producer Jay Rothman called his "classless" and "disappointing" comments is quite a monumental achievement, especially since it appeared he had a cozy, collegial relationship with the WWL. Whether it was ESPY-hosting gigs or his consistent shout-outs from the Sports Feller, Kimmel appeared to be on the network's good people-list. That is until Monday Night Football, when he playfully tweaked Joe Theismann and made some Brady-model-impregnation joke. Faster than you could say "Tirico Tits!", Kimmel was vanquished.

I understand that in life and especially in work there are lines that needn't be crossed (really, I do), but this seems excessive — even coming from a company who doesn't allow its employees to take home up-rooted trees to be re-planted. But a banning a comedian who works at your own network, who gets paid (essentially) by the same employer, is harsh. I have experienced the humiliation from an utterly dumbfounding banning.

Here's the situation: I was hanging out at my friend Rich's house with a couple other friends. His parents weren't home. We were watching the videotape of "Fanny Hill," a low-budget porno that someone had secretly taped the night before off cable. I went into his bathroom to go piss, but realized that I was still sporting an erection that can only occur when an 11-year-old just watched a grainy porno featuring an ample-chested redheaded woman getting boinked in a haystack for the first time in his life. The sucker wouldn't go down, yet the urine was coming. I did not have time to take the requisite three steps back nor control the trajectory of the stream. I hit the top of the toilet. The walls. The rug. Underneath the bowl. By time this unholy yellow geyser had dissipated, the bathroom was ruined. I couldn't have made a more disgusting mess had I walked in there blindfolded and hurled a pee-filled water balloon.

Apparently, my clean-up abilities were also a bit off. And apparently, the purple hand-towels with the flowers were not to be used to sop-up such dreadful things and, if they were used for that purpose, they were not to be sloppily re-hung on the wall while still damp. Rich's mother came home later that evening, long after I'd left, and, terrified, yelled to her son "Who Pissed All Over The Bathroom?" It didn't take long to figure out that I was the culprit, being that I had nervously left his house in a panic soon after the incriminating accidental explosion. The next day my mom received a phone call from Rich's mother. Between the afternoon of conspicuous "Fanny Hill"-watching (she found out about that as well after the tape was left in the VCR), her urine-soaked guest bathroom and ruined hand-towels, she relayed to my mother that I was no longer a welcome as a guest in their home. I was a reckless savage. In fact, one could probably categorize these actions as a little disappointing and classless.

But Jimmy Kimmel? Not so much. But his predicament sends a strict message to all future guests stepping foot inside that hallowed booth: compose yourselves accordingly or risk permanent banishment.

So this week, I'm flicking Joe Theismann's inflamed prostate, pissing all over Jay Rothman's hand towels and placing odds on the next guest to be permanently booted from Monday Night Football this year.

Vas Deferens!

John Elway, October 29th, Green Bay at Denver: 3/1

You can't broadcast a Monday Night Football game from Denver and not have John Elway come up for a visit. Or could you? If Elway doesn't sufficiently promote the Arena League and starts warbling about the halcyon days of Vance Johnson and Karl Mecklenburg, well, there'll be a problem. Jay Rothman's got orders from the Bristol mafia. It doesn't matter that you're a beloved Hall of Fame quarterback. It's pay-to-play here, bitch. So, beat it, chompers.

Chris Cornell, November 12th, San Francisco at Seattle: 4/1

Candles burnin' yesterday, somebody's best friend died... shut it! The brooding rocker will make a brief appearance in the booth in an attempt to promote his new solo album, but be forced into a conversation by Kornheiser about what it was like growing up a Seahawks fan, Steve Largent and what it was like to live with Andrew Wood. (Kornheiser's a huuuge Mother Love Bone fan.) This will piss Cornell off who doesn't like to talk about his grunge-y past, setting off an uncomfortable silence in the booth broken only by a muffled cough from Jaworski. Jay Rothman's a Tad fan anyway. Poof.

Arthur Blank, December 10, New Orleans at Atlanta: 2/1

Blank will be promised some booth-time hob-knobbing with crew in exchange for a few juicy details about what's been going on with Michael Vick (Have you spoken? How's he feeling?). If Blank doesn't give Mike Tirico anything significant or revealing, or starts complaining about Sal Paolantonio sleeping on his porch the last month, then not only will he be tossed from the booth, but the Falcons will be left off the Monday Night Football schedule forever. Even if they win the next four Super Bowls and give every dog trapped in a shelter to orphanages, it's not happening. Rules are rules. Go shave your shnoz-stache.

Kendra Wilkinson and Hugh Hefner, December 24, Denver at San Diego: 1/1

Although she's a proud Chargers fan and equipped with heavenly jugs, she still has to ditch the old man if she ever wants to get back in the booth. Look, everybody's talked to Hefner nine million times, and that stupid robe of his is doing nothing right now but concealing his portable catheter. Sure he's lived every man's fantasy life, but we know that. Now he just smells like tomato soup and moldy slippers. And Kendra? Come on, you're pretty and all that, but you're still dumber than a box of mongoloids. Mostly everyone in that booth would rather listen to Emmit Smith recite Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky" poem than have you vapidly giggle through two plays. Now, tits out.

There was a period in my life where I became obsessed with Jim Morrison. I was about 18 at the time, and even though I wasn't a Doors fan, I gravitated toward Morrison because I was an impressionable moron. Mostly, his lyrics. In my ridiculously untapped mind, this guy was handed a megaphone from God. This is something only a dim-witted 18-year-old would think. Because after I started loading up chap-books of my own Morrison-esque rip-offs, I quickly began to realize that, wow, if I keep this up, I am destroying any possibility that I won't grow up to be an asshole.

But for a little while there, I felt a true sense of enlightenment. I grew my hair long. I wore homemade bracelets. I attended coffee house readings and was truly in awe of some of the pretentious cocks standing on stage "riffin'" about life and the pain of being a middle-class college student forced to take a part-time job. Some of them would do traditional rhyme scheme, using stilted merry-go-round metaphors and Tori Amos songs to convey the sense of empowered emptiness they've acquired since the break-up of a long-distance relationship. Other, more serious, kids would get up there, dressed in black, chronically sullen, and pull a napkin out of their back pockets and read their precious dashed-off musings about how life is like a ball of yarn or that the universe is one, big giant beating heart.

Thankfully, Stuart Scott ignored possible social disgrace and forged ahead anyway with his own scat-diddily nonsense during Wednesday night's mind-blowing "Poetry Jam" session. Can't knock him too hard, though — it's obvious he's blessed with more creative gifts than I realized. Hopefully, ESPN will not hold back anymore of their employees from showing off their artsy side during broadcasts. Perhaps John Buccigross can juggle flaming knives, or Neil Everett is an established concert bassoonist. Until ESPN gives them the same creative deference they did to Scott, we'll never know. For now, hopefully, we'll have more of Stu's electric verse. Stu rapping — no, preachin'— about life. Oh, and sports.

So this week, I'm gathering up all the Indians on dawn's highway bleeding, collecting all the ghosts that have crowded a young child's fragile, eggshell mind and placing odds on the next topics for Stu Scott's poetry jam.

Is everybody in? Is Everybody...IN?

(Best Stu Scott voice possibly required for column's full effect.)

"Holla, Torre": 3/1

Oh, old man with the gloomy eyes,
Your plump Italian nose, runny from the weeping,
Your pinstripes are fading, like the brave Navajo.

Cheer up, greasy man, you've got four rings.
And you will not be forgotten, by the Bronx's noisy roar
Suzyn Waldman, soul sister in arms, who charms,
her voice broken, shattered
Like her Jew hymen was so long ago.

(Holla)

Oh, old man with the gloomy eyes.
Should you find peace beyond The Game?
You will, dago brutha.
In your family, your friends, a warm cup of Mazacao tea,
Enjoy the newfound days,
before your bowels break,
like the levees in New Orleans,
And flood your shorts,
not with negroes,
but with the wilting turds of Yankee memories.

Spoken word...

"The Heroic Return of Allan Houston to the Knicks, Part VII": 2/1

Take heed, brother-man, they laughin' at-choo:

Your crumbling knees,
your steeze,
your dirty dungarees.

Look who's back, now?
The player, boy with 'tha shot, who's hot,
Like Trot, but not Nixon, he's Fix'n, for the

Knicks....IN.
Aught. Oh. 7.
Have you ever been to Devin?
The castle, not the Hester,
Your three-ball's the molester,
of a baby, or a goat, or a
lady in a raincoat.

Be warned, in the East,
The A.H. 'bout to feast,
on yer scoreboard your overlord,
yer dirty ol' umbilical cord.

Chickens start Roostin',
Cuz it's the return of Houston.
Allan, you dig?

Spoken word...

"What up, Pats?": 2/1

Oh, little angry man, in the sweatshirt as gray
as mom-mom's groin hair,
Why don't you ever smile?

Your team is bound by nothing,
Just glory, unlike the sinewy slaves
who were shackled by chains and
whipped for stealing old meat from the farmhand's trash.

Yet, your wins don't come fast enough,
your patience, vanished,
Like the summer rainbows
or Catholic innocence
or Tedy Bruschi's vertebrae.

Dynasty Man!
You don't need sneaky Chinese cameras,
or a quarterback's arm,
or the other graceful panthers
on offense.
Remember
they're still just big-donged dummies
controlled by you.

This is your world, now.

Spoken word...

"Serena Williams, Girl, Let Me Swim in Your Skirt": 1/1

Lady, please, your serve so sweet, I'll love you if you
let me stroke your bulbous lumps of dark, dark ham.

Monkey woman, writhe with me,
and I'll clock your spot
with a with an 8-inch crotch rock

Yer pop's is calling,
but don't mind him, cuz
he's got no business
in our love souffle.

Shelf-set sista,
lemme pop that trunk
And spray your back
with my super silky
man meringue

Spoken word...

Everybody's got a no-no drink in their arsenal. Some people take a whiff of tequila and start gagging. Others can have one sip of gin and start fending off imaginary crocodiles with a bar stool. For me? It's scotch. Every time I've attempted to take part in "grown-up drinking," it's ended with me urinating in my pants. Literally. The three times in my life I've drank scotch, I've completely pissed myself. This is not while I'm sleeping, mind you. It's usually on the walk home from the bar. For whatever reason, scotch disrupts the brain-to-bladder communication mechanism, and I usually end up in a frantic sprint to either find a dark alley or get to the bathroom before I explode. Three times, I've lost and ended up taking a miserable walk home with a crotch area that resembled a Rorshach Test.

For Arizona Cardinals quarterback Matt Leinart, "sauvignon blanc" appears to be his no-no drink. Hopefully, it took more than one glass for him to open up to Yahoo football writer Michael Silver and bitch about his split-time quarterback situation. But what does Matt Leinart's admission that he wants be front-seat driver really tell us? It's more telling that Mr. Leinart is obviously not that much of a drinker. If I were a beat-reporter covering the Cardinals, I'd make sure to sign Leinart up for a booze of the month club ASAP. And when that happens, he shall spill.

So this week, I'm putting on my drinking pants, bad-touching a sommelier in the desert and placing odds on the other drinks that'll make Arizona's crestfallen quarterback say stupid shit.

Let's go pound some sediment, after this more.

Woo Woo Shots: 2/1

Lucky for Michael Silver, Leinart wasn't drinking this toxic combination of vodka, peach schnapps and cranberry juice, or "Fightin Lightnin," as some regular hardcore imbibers call them. After two Woo Woos, Leinart would most likely become very chesty and aggressive, pawing at women and challenging the stoutest of men to Indian-wrestling competitions. Ken Whisenhunt should make sure Leinart isn't spiking his water bottle a couple drops of "The Woo," or else he could find himself seeing a darker, angrier side of his part-time franchise quarterback.

Appletinis: 1/1

These green menaces have been the downfall of many a virile man's evening. But it's not the two fingers of vodka that usually have a negative affect, but rather the Apple Pucker Schnapps that causes the problem. This mysterious green liquor has been the catalyst for many a night of irrational couple's arguments, inappropriate confessions to best friend's parents and an overwhelming urge to fall asleep to "August and Everything After."

Limoncello: 3/1

Belisimo! Here's a tasty liquor that is very popular with T.J. Maxx-shopping mommies and Hollywood dwarves. The problem with these sickly sweet little numbers is that you can never gauge how many it'll take before it'll get ugly.

Mimosas: 1/4

This high octane mixture of orange juice and champagne is the elixir of choice for many a peacocking debutante. It tends to make most women more garrulous, giggly and orgasmic. Pump a chick full of enough mimosas before 1 p.m., and you'll be beav-chomping in no time. Same thing goes for California-bred quarterbacks, who are also prone to whipping out their own vaginas at the first caress of a champagne flute.

There's something about guys dressing in drag that, for whatever reason, is frowned upon. Oscar De La Hoya could've easily played his kinky fishnet outfit off as a mere lark: he's just a puppy-faced fellow, who after a flight of tequila shots, has no problem dressing up in a giant hairnet and heels. No big deal, really. Everyone's done it before. Sometimes, even the most virile of men cannot resist the temptation to squeeze into something spicy.

The difference between Oscar De La Hoya and most other recreational transsexuals is that they don't deny it. If it's an isolated incident, it's something that's laughed about later and forgotten about quickly. But, De La Hoya's staunch denial about the incident, plus all of those rumored intimidating phone calls to the dim-witted Scores dancer who gave the photos up and the legal threats, suggest that he's hiding a very, very dark secret.

This is where it gets interesting. We all know athletes become much more appealing if they have a little stink on them. Beneath all of that skill, money, fame, it's nice to know there runs a current of torment, a greasy underbelly that has to be concealed for presentation purposes.

There are so many who fit the profile.

So this week, I'm polishing up my ben-wah balls, purchasing a one way ticket to Taiwan and the Mets fucking suck.

Line drive hit to left field...here comes Iguchi!

Peyton Manning, Into Animal Fisting: 2/1

He had his Wayne Brady moment on "Saturday Night Live" and showed the world he's not just a cannon-armed bumpkin with a corporate price tag on his back. No, he's a self-deprecating regular guy. He can make fun of himself and mock his altar boy image. That's what makes him human. But what keeps him sane is the drop-to-your-knees adrenaline rush one gets inserting a clenched fist inside the wanting anal cavity of a four-legged friend. Be it a bucking horse, a baby calf, a small housecat, or, one time, an unsuspecting howler monkey, Peyton does not discriminate. If there's an opening, he's going in. Cut that meat, indeed.

Derek Jeter, Huge Partial Unbirthing Enthusiast: 3/1

Derek Jeter, for all his potato-faced handsomeness, has always had an odd head of hair. What happens if it ever grows out? Is it Hebrew nap, or brother fro? Or is it worse, like a raging case of the dreaded noggin pube? However, the reason Derek keeps his hair so awkwardly trimmed is not out of vanity, but sexual proclivity. You see, DJ is part of a small minority of men who can only reach climax if his head his completely inserted into a woman's vagina. (Partial unbirthing, for those who have yet to Google.) This is also why it's tough for Jeter to keep a girlfriend for more than a few months. Even though he's courted many a starlet, most have quickly ended the relationship after the Yankee shortstop came to bed wearing an oily swim cap. The only one he was successfully "unbirthed" has been Mariah Carey, who was very enthusiastic about it — she even invited conjoined twins into the bedroom with them. Derek wasn't into that, so he quickly split. Needless to say, Mariah's eventual vaginal rejuvenation surgery will cost millions.

Matt Holiday, Red Wing Commander: 2/1

The Rockies' torrid playoff run right now is bringing a lot of attention to a team that's lived in relative obscurity since its inception. But after next week, the whole world could be introduced to the Triple Crown-potential of outfielder Matt Holiday. And if there are any ladies lucky enough to be menstruating during that time, well, they could meet Mr. Holiday in a whole new way. Although he's married, it's told that Matt takes out some of his player aggression in the bedroom, executing a myriad of period-friendly sexcapades to placate his constant yearning for the calming warmth of a blood-caked lady flower. And, If some gals play their cards right, they could even get a chance to have Matt execute his patented "Snoopy Snow Cone Machine" on them. Their odds will increase if they already have a mouthful of crushed ice to greet him.

Annika Sorenstam, Eproctophiliac: 1/1

Though she's a darling on the golf course, she's a demon in the bedroom — especially when she gets a face full of flatulence. Sorenstam realized her fetish at a young age, being deflowered by an older man with untreatable digestive problems. Never able to repeat the orgasms she had with her wind-blasting lover, Otto, she quickly realized that she can manufacture them by having her male partner spread his cheeks and beef in her mouth during foreplay. Sorenstam was almost exposed during a the 2003 Master's when her caddie found some of her Fart Hammer pornography collection in her golf bag. The caddie was substantially paid off to keep quiet, but there's more money for him elsewhere if he gives up the details.

I've never been much of a superstitious person. A troop of black cats could march in front of me while I smash mirrors under a ladder, and I wouldn't feel the least bit doomed. Yet, I'm a huge karma person. Each week, I do a mental grocery list to make sure I'm on the right side of the universe and try to make up for some of my missteps. Granted, I don't donate enormous amounts of money to charity to counteract them, but I do what I can: The urine-seeping homeless guy may get a pocketful of change shoved in his hand. I'll dole out cigarettes to everyone who asks. I'll stop and patiently listen to the bespectacled young do-gooder with the clipboard as he tries to sell me on financially adopting a dirty child with flies in its eyes.

Finally, O.J. Simpson and his not-so tortured soul is getting absolutely thonked with a karmic boomerang right now. We're talking monkey kid from the Road Warrior-like velocity, here, as he's seemingly headed to the slammer for his Nordbergian Las Vegas robbery attempt of some of his own memorabilia. It's a fitting end to his whole disturbingly wacky life post-murder acquittal. Most of us remember back to that day during America's Trial when the jurors read aloud that mind-numbing verdict. Remember where you were. If you were in college, like me, you may have also had the uncomfortable circumstances of living next to some of the basketball team and listening to them yelp, bang the walls and throw an impromptu party to celebrate. Needless to say, even though I got along with those guys next door, I wasn't about to rush over to hang out on their couch that day to introduce them to my questionable musical tastes as I sometimes would. Rusted Root was not a welcome topic that day.

But it isn't just O.J. who's been shit-winded by karmic justice. In the last few months, there have been plenty of sports figures with shady circumstances surrounding them who've had their own come-uppance: Vick, Belichick, Floyd Landis, Serena Wiliams' ass...

So, this week I'm inserting my plastic Thom Yorke eye, walking my pet chameleon and placing odds on the next athlete to get what's coming to them.

This is what you get...

Kobe Bryant: 2/1

If this dude doesn't get his rectum invaded by a pack of water buffalo before his life is over, there is officially no God. Kobe's always come off as this friendless cocksucker, only concerned about his own self-interest and completely unaccountable for any of his transgressions both in his private and professional life. Well, if you think dragging your horrified wife up on stage during a press conference while you tell the world how you violently fucked the help during his Colorado weekend rehab, I guess that counts. That's contrition. However, his public image has still, for the most part, recovered. As long as he still dominates on the basketball court, all is forgiven. But don't be surprised in three years when he's stricken with a horrible case of dick rot. Actually, pray for it.

Ray Lewis: 1/1

It's so odd that seemingly everyone forgets that Ray Lewis was also maybe, possibly, assuredly somewhat responsible for stabbing a guy to death after a 2000 Super Bowl party. Even better, he took a plea bargain to rat on his two friends who were also arrested that evening. (They were also eventually acquitted.) But, come on, now, Ray — do you honestly think that your only punishment for your involvement in that murder would be undisclosed hush-hush settlements to the dead guy's family and being stripped of a chance to say you're going to Disney World after you won the Super Bowl? If Ray Lewis has successfully changed his image, great. Maybe he won't get sliced open by a random stranger one night while he's out clubbing. But he'll definitely be greeted by those screeching shadow demons from the movie Ghost, the minute his dancing ass bites the dust.

Roger Clemens: 2/1

Oh, steroids, you say? Not a chance. Roger does squats all year with beer kegs on his back when he's not playing baseball. He's always in great shape. Selfish? Nah. Come on, who wouldn't want to string organizations and fans along just long enough to broker yourself another ridiculous one-year contract. Evil? Hey, throwing at people's heads is part of the game. Even if is your own son. There's nothing wrong with a little competitive spirit in a person. Can't wait until the unauthorized biography on this guy comes out, revealing him to be the most diabolical player in history. After that, he'll be completely abandoned by those who once adored him. Except for Emmylou Harris.

Magic Johnson: 1/4

Sure, he got sprayed with AIDS as a result of his Herculean sport-fucking and infidelity, but unlike most of America who gets the disease, Magic Johnson didn't die or become ostracized by the league. No, he became a talk-show host. A basketball coach. He un-retired from basketball. A movie theater mogul. A national martyr. A world-wide hero. And, still, it's been almost 20 years since this guy's been HIV'd and yet, there's nary a atrophying muscle or even a raspy cough to be found. Other less notable, less wealthy people with the same disease have had to die at his expense because he keeps getting his name bumped up to the top of the list for all the good meds. Or? He completely made the whole thing up, just so he wouldn't look like such a pussy-poaching scumbag and lose all his endorsement deals.

If the last year didn't already prove it, the NFL is turning into the Eastside High School of professional sports. Roger Goodell's latest smackdown on the Patriots proves he's in Crazy Joe Clark-mode permanently. But after inheriting a league in dire need of an image makeover, there needed to be a new HNIC to get things straightened out.

His first order of duty? Clean up the riff-raff.

"I want all of you to take a good look at these people on the risers behind me...(Pac Man, Odell, Tank, Michael)..."

And since none of them were going to graduate anyway, they've all been expurgated. If Pac-Man tries sniveling back again, begging for a second chance because his mom's gonna kill him, he'll need to get marched up to the rooftop of Goodell's office for a proper reality check." You smoke crack doncha? Jump. Gaw head, jump!"

With the latest scandal, Bill Belichick plays the role of the mouthy music teacher, only concerned with getting his kids to the national chorus championships every year, rolling his eyes at all this rah-rah discipline. Well, a $500,000 fine and an executed draft pick(s) later should keep him on point. The undermining of authority will not be tolerated. Now, go wash your hoodie and stop spying.

Is this punishment excessive? Possibly. However, it manages to keep Goodell's message: No more shenanigans! (As does, you know, dispatching NFL security to make house calls because some idiot decides to ask questions about dog fighting to the wrong PR flack.)

This is a new league, and here's Roger Goodell with a megaphone and a baseball bat. We're only one more character smudge away from him having to put chains on the inside of the doors.

So, this week, I'm dressing up like Kid Ray, impregnating Kaneesha and placing odds on the next heavy-handed discipline Roger Goodell will hand down.

Let's help him carry on, after this MORE.

No Ho Policy: 1/5

There will be no more one night stands. Those players who wish to engage in promiscuous sexual activity will have to do so with a wife or girlfriend of more than three months. There'll be no more side projects, no more sandbagging. You take one woman at a time, and keep her satisfied until your heart desires in a proper, respectful manner befitting a professional athlete. Players will be allowed to perform one exceptionally challenging sexual position per calendar year, and all female receptacles must be properly sterilized to prevent unwanted pregnancies.

No More Click-Clacking: 2/1

Under Armour wear no longer contributes to the positive image Goodell wants to project. There is too much yelling in the commercials, the imagery is too thuggy, and the clothing itself shows a quarter-inch more nipple that is becoming of a player in the new NFL. If players would like to wear clothing underneath your uniform, it mustn't be tight, nor comfortable, and it must cover the midsection. Oh, and jock straps and underwear must be worn at all times, now. There have been too many loose snakes in the garden and too many sweat-shooting anal crevices on national television. It's bad for business.

Tattoo Covering: 2/1

If players have tattoos, they can't be scene on the playing field or anytime they're out in public where cameras are visible. The league will hand out bottles of flesh-colored body paint according to each player's skin tone, which will be considered part of a league mandated uniform. (If players choose to have their tattoos removed, they'll be rewarded bonuses.) And there will be fines assessed for any new tattoos the player receives during his tenure as an NFL employee.

Swear Jars: 1/1

Players will be fined for each curse word based on the severity of the curse word uttered: "Damn" is $20; Racial epithets are $1,000; "Steaming bag of pony cunt", "Cock-swallowing toilet rapist", "Dead lady pussy breath", et al are all $20,000+. Each week, Goodell will meet with Steve Sabol and his NFL Films crew to go through each individual teams' games and sideline banter to tally up the totals.

The sparkling new NFL season is upon us, spit out from the slimy womb of NBC with all the glitzy showmanship of the VMA Awards. That is, if the VMA's target audience were Midwestern suburban zombies. (Faith Hill? The artist formerly known as John Cougar?) Last night's rousing start also included Rich Eisen doing his best Ryan Seacrest impersonation and Al Michaels being waaay too excited for a possible season-ending injury to happen on the first play. Luckily, Joseph Addai does not believe in miracles.

But Sunday, Sunday SUNDAY! is when the real season starts for everybody who doesn't have Ben Utecht on their fantasy team. And the all day celebrants will pile in to their local chug-and-wing hole at 11 a.m. to sidle up to televisions that give them the best vantage point for their rooting interest. When I lived in New York, my first couple years of football Sundays were spent at East Village puke castle called Bar None, a dingy, black-painted hovel known for its spotty service, free hot wings and obnoxious collection of Minnesota Vikings fans. Bar None wasn't a place you attended other than to watch football, unless of course you favored Sit Next to an Angry Plumber's Union Guy Tuesdays or the always popular Hunter College Date Rape Thursdays.

Bar None Sundays, however, had its appeal for Brooklyn Lager-drinking aristocrats. I'd attend, as would Spinhead General Will Leitch, who would usually arrive at 10:30 a.m. with seven newspapers, four magazines, print outs of matchups for each of his fantasy leagues, a beat-up briefcase, an even more beat-up black leather jacket, and sometimes wearing his ex-girlfriend's jeans. We'd stay for both the early and late games, with him perched next to the only television that would be playing the Arizona Cardinals game — usually the 9-inch one crammed up near the heating ducts right above the pool table. Excelsior, Buzzsaw.

The first Sunday of the year always brought the biggest crowds, as even the most casual football fan would decide that this is the year they'll make a habit of watching football every weekend. It's the usually the same people you'll see clumsily clomping on treadmills at gyms across the country on January 2. You can pick out who's really committed, and who'll return to smoking cigarettes and ordering The #2 with a Diet Coke by Martin Luther King's birthday.

So, this week, I'm slipping into my gray drawstring sweatpants, scooping nachos off the DirectTV dish, and placing odds on the types of people you'll find at your local sports bars this weekend.

Let's go salsa dancing with John Facenda's corpse, after this MORE.

Food Vacuum: 1/1

This fella will be an early-arriver, most likely with a breakfast consisting of a bagel-egg-and-cheese sandwich. By noon, he'll have ordered a personal mushroom pizza to munch on until the free wings are dumped into the chafing dish. Then, the second game will start, and a 4 p.m. snack of a meatball parm and a bag of Salt N' Vinegar chips should suffice. But, alas, there are more wings. And by the end of the first quarter of the late games, nobody will sit next to him anymore because he'll be stricken with uncontrollable, suffocating trans fat farts. He won't care.

Dressed-Up Dressed-Down Guy: 2/1

Here's a fella who'll show up to most places, usually ones with a better than average ratio of female attendees. Unlike most of the other soiled, flip-flop and sweatshirt-wearing slobs, this guy's look will be a completely contrived version of it. Expensive jeans ripped perfectly, a well-worn hat plucked from Urban Outfitters, scrubbed up New Balances and a new, but old-looking T-shirt over top an equally mussied long-sleeved white one. He'll drink Sam Adams and not really pay attention to the games because there are plenty of 22-year-old women to infiltrate, ost of whom started drinking much to early for them to possibly keep their pants on until 6 p.m. Of course, he'll bolt early with the girls he met and go to another bar. He'll promise to "catch up with you guys later," and you'll only hear from him the next day, when he gives you the mind-blowing details about the threesome he had with the two chicks. Then he'll innocently ask, how the rest of your night was and, oh yeah, who won the other games? Fuck you. That's who won.

Old Guy Born on the Stool: 1/3

Most bars always have the one patron who sticks to his routine regardless of any activity that's going on in the bar around him. He's there for karaoke night, Quizzo Tuesdays, whatever — he's there to drink and all that white noise is just a distraction. You'll see him Sunday, usually at the end of the bar near the hostess who always talks to him, suspicious about all these rowdy people taking away from the whiskey-reflective ambiance he usually enjoys these early weekend mornings. But don't even try to get in his seat, even if it's right next to the only television that's playing your team — he's not moving. Nope, he's there to wait everybody out, and at 11:30 at night, he can finally start to enjoy the day.

The Cock Loiterer: 2/1

Here's a gal that just thought she was hanging out with her boys for the football games. She'd tag along, maybe meet up with a few other people she knew from work who were going to attend, and only stay for a few drinks. She's not much for football, but could use the socializing since she's pushing 30, single and available. Really available, as you'll see as the day goes on. She gets drunker and begins to slowly break away from the group and glom onto every guy she knows. Then, before you know it, it's 11 p.m. She still doesn't want to leave — even though she should, she totally has that 10 a.m. conference call tomorrow — but these guys seem friendly enough and attractive enough. She'll decide that who's ever left standing out of this group of three guys is the one she'll go home with and, you know, blow them on their couch. What else does she have in her life? Until there's a ring on her finger, it's just work, spinning class and spirited fellatio on random dudes in polo shirts.