You see, according to TMZ, Seacrest has more football experience than anyone could have realized.

To be filed in the Who Knew? category, Ryan actually played high school football for the Dunwoody High School Wildcats in Atlanta. Ryan, as a strong safety, took his team all the way to the AAAA State Championship. Tackled by Seacrest— good times!

If this is true ... we bet Seacrest's old football buddies make fun of him a lot these days. Just saying.

Are You Ready For Some Football With Ryan? [TMZ]
The Super Bowl Gets More SUPER [Deadspin]

That's right: Seacrest In!

Word on the street is, "Idol" ringmaster [Ryan Seacrest] will handle pre-game and halftime hosting duties of the Super Bowl on Fox next February. Because nothing says manly man like a guy with frosted highlights.

We see nothing wrong with this, frankly; heck, get this guy a typewriter, and he's practically Jay Mohr anyway. Get him ready for his own show! And, finally, NBC has a reason to hire him.

Are You Ready For Some Football With Ryan? [TMZ]

It's just — they're focusing on this guy like they don't focus on anybody! And I tell you, I know what it is. The media, the sports media, has got social concerns that they are first and foremost interested in, and they're dumping on this guy — Rex Grossman — for one reason, folks, and that's because he is a white quarterback.

This is absolutely true: This is why the media constantly rooting for black quarterbacks like Tony Romo.

Limbaugh Returns To Football Analysis [Media Matters, via Fark]
Limbaugh Resigns From NFL Show [ESPN]

"A bunch of friends and I were talking one night before the game, and there was a little alcohol involved," said Scott Wiese, 26. "I made the bet, and now I've got to keep it. I chose Manning because, well, he is kind of the face of the Colts franchise. ... I think I kind of represent all Bears fans," he said. "Not that I'm saying they're all idiots like me, but I represent their passion because I really care about my team, you know?"

Yes, Scott, you do. (Trivia note: The Chicago Bears were founded in Decatur and were once known as the Decatur Staleys.) But you know whom we really feel bad for? Weise's little brother.

Diehard Bears Fan Lives Up To Bet [Decatur Herald & Review]

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]

But don't look for it, because Snickers has pulled the whole campaign. An immediate outcry from AMERICAblog, Towelroad, The Human Rights Campaign, Matthew Shepard Foundation and others, calling the ads homophobic, has caused Snickers to cut and run.

From AMERICAblog:

Masterfoods, Mars and Snickers parent company (or something), called to let me know that while humor is highly subjective, and their target market for the ads did give them positive feedback (that would be the neanderthal gay-bashing fans of Snickers?), they did not intend to offend anyone and will not be airing any of the four ads ever again, nor will they be airing the commentary from the NFL players responding to the ads. This includes not airing the ads during the Daytona 500, which they had earlier said they planned to do.

So now that that's settled, can we do something about the robot committing suicided GM ad? Boy, it sure was nice for GM to remind everyone that robots now make all their cars, replacing human workers who might have tried to kill themselves after losing their job to a freaking robot.

Snickers Super Bowl Web Site Promotes Violence Against Gays And Lesbians [AMERICAblog]
After The Kiss [Official Site]
Rex Grossman Would Rather Not See Dudes Kissing [Deadspin]
GLAAD, Matthew Shepard Foundation Condemn Anti-Gay Snickers Campaign [Matthew Shepard Foundation]
Rent A Super Olli

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.

In case you were wondering how Bear Vs. Colt turned out, here's your answer: With the Colt in bed with an attractive blond woman. That sounds about right.

Bear Vs. Colt [Official Site]

On the whole, even though we think we didn't do that well, it wasn't a terrible experience. The folks at CBS were nice enough, despite some technical glitches late, and they didn't censor anything, though we might have been subconsciously more gentle than usual. (We were not brought up to go stomping mud through someone else's house.) We found it strange that columnist Gregg Doyel appeared to want to start some fake feud with us; we were too busy typing to pay it much mind and just wanted to go about our business. (As anyone who has ever been desperate enough to Google "Will Leitch" knows, we're not exactly the most popular person over at Can't Stop The Bleeding, but we couldn't help but agree with his assessment of Doyel's "taunts": "One of the keys to this self-referential shit is that the person responsible should be halfway interesting in their own right. Or at least not so completely transparent in their desperate attempts to fashion a personality cult out of thin air. Not that I would know anything about such subjects, but it blows my mind that Doyel — attending the fucking Super Bowl, folks — is using his valuable laptop time to look up personal details about Deadspin commentators who are making fun of him. Hey, I'm not above doing the same thing, but that sort of behavior is a) not something an adult would brag about and b) is best devoted to the hours of say, two or three a.m., as opposed to the 2nd quarter of THE BIGGEST SINGLE SPORTING EVENT ON EARTH." )

But regardless: We're all about the love here. It wasn't the most fun way to watch a sporting event, but everyone was nice enough, and it was over before we knew it. But we mainly just missed all you guys; it was lonely over there. We think we're gonna resist the temptation to glog again anytime soon.

Live Glog: Super Bowl XLI [CBS Sportsline]
Super Bowl XLI : Sadly, No Dain Bramage Covers In Prince's Sack Of Tricks [Can't Stop The Bleeding]

(UPDATE: Doyel writes in:

Our response? We really think this is all quite dopey. And this lounge is leopard ... obviously.)

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.

Lord knows, it was all anyone could talk about during the telecast — Jim Nantz and Phil Simms, who were oddly competent last night, actually, acted as if the rain were some Biblical plague foisted on Dolphins Stadium by demons — and even if you had the mute on, someone forgot to put a cover on the main game camera, which was sprinkled with precipitation all evening. Not only did the rain make the ball and field slippery, it also apparently reacted poorly with chemicals in Rex Grossman's brain. (Which is funny, because we've always found that water dilutes vodka. Hmm.) It kind of takes some of the fun out of the Gatorade dump when the coach is already drenched.

At least it didn't electrocute Prince. With all that rocking, we're impressed he made it through unscathed.

What they're saying about Super Bowl XLI, the morning after ...

• Stampede Blue: It is past midnight, and I have no intention of sleeping. I'm sitting here, drinking a beer, answering emails, texts and phones calls congratulating me. My best friend from when we were six years old called from San Diego, screaming out loud with joy. It is all crazy. I can only imagine what downtown Indy looks and sounds like. There is nothing but joy. This is the power of sports.

• Bad Idea Blue Jeans. Not to leave any stone unturned, Indy's own Mudkids have dropped some lines in praise of the Colts. They recruited Colts man-on-the-street Zack Legend to lend some production. The highlight has to be the guy doing the "mime trapped in a box" on the steps of the RCA Dome with 1:11 remaining. Also, I admit I love the lyrical stylings of "a draw to Addai." That's poetry. As of yet, there's been no response from Lil' Ronnie or Jim McMahon.

• AOL Fanhouse. So where do the Bears go from here? They find another quarterback in the off-season. Maybe they think backup Brian Griese can be the 2007 starter, or maybe they want to sign Jeff Garcia, or maybe there's a trade none of us see coming. But they simply can't go into next year with Grossman as their only viable option. He threw the Super Bowl away. The Bears can't give him a chance to do that again.

• Da Bears Blog. This is the hardest thing I've ever written. I love you all. What a wonderful season. I'll write tomorrow and we'll talk. I feel terrible. This was ours. Tomorrow...

• Windy City Gridiron. Right now I am fuming mad. How, with two weeks to prepare, can a Super Bowl offense play that way? When Grossman was playing well, the line gave out, when the line played well Grossman just winged the ball out into the open, when Grossman, the receivers and the run game started to click the line started holding. We took everything Manning had in the first half, we took all 200 yards that he had and stayed within two. Then we come out and just crap on the Super Bowl emblem. I think you understand my mind set right now and I am sure I will have more later and I am sure I will send BBS a congrats email later, but for now my answer to everything is just go suck on it. Before I go out let me say that giving Manning the MVP is a joke, it is just so everybody can live up their Disney story. If I were Manning I would hand that trophy right to my running backs.

• Colts Couch Crew. I've thought for a long time that the city of Indianapolis was cursed, and that they would go longer than any other city without winning either an NFL or an NBA title. I was wrong. And for the first time, I'm glad I was wrong.

We know this has been beaten into the ground by now, but really do consider it instructive to think of not only of the Indianapolis Colts as the St. Louis Cardinals, but also the Chicago Bears as the Detroit Tigers. In the former example, a team that had earned much recent success finally won a championship with one of its lesser teams (in a relatively dull deciding game/series). In the latter example, the guy(s) who throw all the balls kept making inexplicable, dunderheaded errors at the worst possible times. In the Tigers' case, it was the five pitcher errors; in the Bears', it was Rex Grossman.

It's just the day after the Super Bowl, and we should enjoy a team's championship before we start looking toward next year ... but it seems impossible that the Bears are ever gonna let the Cannon near their team again. Grossman's first errors were of the fumbling, "hey, it's wet!" variety, but by the fourth quarter, he truly was just his trademark "F—k It, I'm Goin' Deep!" In the Super Bowl. Against a terrible run defense. We wouldn't trust that guy not to break a piece of Tupperware. The postgame highlight for us was listening to Steve Young on "NFL Primetime," doing his best to disguise his disgust at such a befouling of his vocation, and failing.

It's a time to celebrate Tony Dungy, and (we guess) Peyton Manning earning their rings ... but there was only one historic performance last night, and it belonged to Rex Grossman. Sex Cannon, we barely knew ye.

Is Sexy Rexy's Reign In Chicago Over? [WBRS Sports Blog]

In one of the duller, more sloppy Super Bowls we can remember — it was kind of the equivalent of this year's World Series, actually — the Indianapolis Colts have won the NFL Championship. We're back from our labors — and labors they were indeed — at CBS and happy to back here. Congratulations, Indianapolis; we will remember your Super Bowl title for at least as long as we can stay awa —- zzzzzzzzzzz.

Super Bowl XLI Champs: Indianapolis Colts [Colts.com]

(UPDATE: We'd like to note that we're genuinely happy for Tony Dungy, Peyton Manning and the entire Colts team, most of which seem like pretty class acts, or, at the very least, more fun to hang around with than Tank Johnson. We just mean it was a dull, uninspiring game. We're definitely happy for them, especially Dungy. So that's clear.)

There are a few issues that concern us:

• 1. They insist on calling it a "glog." Seriously, that's what they call it. We are a "glogger." This sounds like a stagehand on a gay porn film.
• 2. They say we can say what we want. We're not sure we believe this. We can't curse, but we're not big into the expletives anyway, and they would rather us not imply that Phil Simms is gay, which is fine, because that's his son anyway. But still: We're not sure we believe them.
• 3. MJD. The Mighty MJD will be here all weekend and will be live-blogging the game for us. He is a much better live blogger than we are, and he will shame us, and not just because he can say dirty words.
• 4. General ethos. We prefer just doing our own thing over here and answering just to you. We worry about doing — gratis, but still — work for someone else who might be wearing cufflinks. For crying out loud, have you seen what CBS has done to Andy Rooney? He's actually 37 years old.
• 5. Glog. Seriously. "Glog."

But, well, we're gonna do it anyway, if just because we didn't have anything going on Super Bowl Sunday anyway. So if you want to come by and mock us for a few minutes before heading back over to MJD, feel free. It might be fun to see what we can get away with ... but probably not.

We Saw Chris Simms Make A Spinach Dip In A Loaf Of Sourdough Bread Once [Deadspin]

But yeah. Game time.

Here's some picks from around the Web.

• Cool Standings: Bears.
• Football Outsiders: Colts.
• Harmon Forecast: Bears.
• Paul Zimmerman: Colts.
• Lil' Sean: Colts.
• Dan Shanoff: Colts.
• Kissing Suzy Kolber: Bears.
• Deadspin: Colts. We want to pick the Bears: We really do. We find it strange that so few people are picking them, though you couldn't tell it here. And we definitely don't see a blowout. But sorry, Sexy Rexy: We really just can't do it. We tried.

OK, last football game of the year, kids. Let's hear the picks.

We decided to dig deep into this story, rather than just let it simmer, so we asked our friend The Assimilated Negro, author of the Ghetto Pass column for Gawker and occasional Free Darko correspondent, to file a series of reports about the Negro Bowl, its significance and whatever else might tickle his proverbial fancy. This is the final installment. The graphic is by the great Jim Cooke, by the way.

Thanks Will.

Well, as we tie the noose around our coverage of Negro Bowl I, we have to say it's been an interesting ride. We've had ups and downs, we've laughed and cried, and through it all we've enjoyed the sound of freedom ringing.

We've also learned some things:
1. African-American are just Americans in Europe.
2. Negro Bowl might be more important than Oprah ("forget about Oprah, man!")
3. Negro Bowl is not nearly as important as hanging Bill Simmons upside down and putting a fork in his ass.

(More after the jump)

Of course, regardless of personal tastes, history is history, and nowhere has the gravity of this moment been more apparent than over at ESPN, where the reverent kissing of melanin ass has proceeded unabated all week (and it feels so good!).

In the latest pucker they gather up some of the black head coaches in the league for a chat, and everyone does a good job of sounding nice and articulate, .... well except for Marvin Lewis, who, we couldn't help but notice, might be delusional. To demonstrate we pull three of his responses:

Lewis: "Growing up, when you saw Art Shell as a player and getting into coaching, you knew he stood for discipline, hard work and toughness."

Delusion #1: Art Shell + The Raiders = Discipline

Lewis: "Now, to see two coaches, it gives a ray of light for young African-American males, females, that whatever you want to achieve in life, if you work hard enough at it and you do the right things, you have an opportunity.

Delusion #2:African-American females have a shot at coaching an NFL team to the Super Bowl, you know, if they work hard at it and do the right things. (?!!?)

But the money quote was less a delusion and more a subtextual leaking of The Truth:

Lewis: "Really, for the first time, an African-American was hired who maybe hadn't spent the time and did everything. We have watched it happen with other coaches, but Mike's hire was a first."

We actually didn't quite understand what he meant at first, so we hired a translator. Here's what they told us:

Lewis: "For the first time we got a job without paying all those dues. I had to win a Super Bowl, and coach the greatest defensive performance of all time to even get on the radar, while cornballs like Dave McGinnis, Dave Campo, Marty Mornhinweg and Mike Sherman were snatching up jobs. Now it's our turn to cruise in interviews off one good season or two. Holla!

So with that in mind I've printed out my dominant lifetime record in Madden, taking care to highlight when I took the Texans to a Super Bowl victory in year 2018 of my franchise. I should at least be able to get an interview with Matt Millen.

In the same interview, while it was apparent Herm Edwards didn't see our video, we were struck by his willingness to compare sports and politics:

"

It is not perhaps on the level of the White House or the first black secretary of state or the first black head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, [but] it is one more river that we really needed to cross."

Personally, I don't think anyone in the White House, whether black, Puerto Rican or Asian, could afford the amount of lip balm necessary to properly kiss Tony Dungy's rings; but then again, I voted for Nader, so I'm an idiot. Nevertheless, the sports and politics analogy is apt as the dominant headlines for the past month — Hillary vs. Obama and Tony vs. Lovie — seem to illustrate that sports and politics are evolving at the same pace. Either one can be dismissed as having more entertainment value than actual substance, but both are also proving to be cultural barometers measuring the winds of change and opportunity. In the end all any politician, coach, player wants is an opportunity to shoulder the load. Win, lose or draw.

But while The American Dream may be premised on opportunity, the cold capitalist reality that slaps all of us awake says, "Shut up and smell the Matt Millen. There's only winning or being forgotten. Victory or death-by-comments." So in ascertaining our rooting interests for the two races that matter, we defer to seniority and experience; both Barack and Lovie strike us as more apprentice than master, and so we predict: Dungy prevails in Negro Bowl I, giving the first Negro championship to the light-skin team (as expected). And Hillary takes the Democratic trophy over Obama, in a triumph of gender over race.

Of course with great moments like these there are no real losers. Well, except for Bill Simmons.

bennydis (2/1/2007 at 2:35 PM) Report Ignore
Seriously? How bad does Simmons want to be black?

We look forward to covering Bill during Negro Bowl II.

MIAMI — It's been a busy week, obviously, and I, for whatever reason, have been put ON NOTICE by members of a certain media conglomeration that any more funny business would not be tolerated. I had no intentions of becoming a wooly-faced Stuttering John for this trip, or the fun police, for that matter; that's just how this fateful week has turned out so far. And now, I've been officially informed by said media conglomeration members that the presence of the mustache at any parties this weekend will not be tolerated and may result in physical harm.

Given that, there will be some, mmm, adjustments made for tonight's Maxim party to ensure maximum efficiency in the world of undercover reportage. New correspondents will be introduced; new tactical positioning plans will be laid. However, after-after parties are pretty much open season, and tonight's the last night where many of the burly heroes we've encountered this weekend will be able to oil themselves into a state of Lemmeknow lucidity. So, this week, I'm showering up a bit, buying some new clothes and I'm taking odds on the celebrities the rest of the weekend who may or may not take their justifiable beefs to physical levels.

Take one final bristly ride, after this jump.

Stuart Scott: 3/1

Even though he's supposedly in the middle of divorcing his allegedly "crazy" wife, Stu's still apparently not very pleased with the suggestion he's seeking solace from the messy personal matter in the lap of a former Bronco ex-cheerleader. What happens in South Beach, stays in the booyah. However, based on his unfortunate ocular disadvantage, it'll be tough to get scrappy without his punches landing just a shade to the left. Or maybe common sense will overtake his boiling anger, and he'll just simmer down enough to enjoy the rest of the weekend. Hate the game, Mr. Scott.

John Clayton: 2/1

Salisbury wants no part of any more publicity outside of critical gametime analysis and his mesmerizing ties, so he'll shy away from vengeful brutality — but he's got the goons to take care of upholding his God-given right to beav poach. But the big, burly guys are too obvious and will be easily recognized upon initial attack. His cohort John Clayton, however, will be less obvious a henchman. However slight Clayton appears on camera, ask anyone who's seen Tweety prancing around Radio Row this week in a pair of shorts can tell you: Man's got some Zidane-like legs on him.

Orange Jacketed Spanish Woman at Radio Row: 10/1

At the beginning of the week, this feisty woman had the short odds and the pepper spray to completely derail any and all reportage for the entire week. However, after yesterday's blessed walk on the Blue Carpet, she changed her mind a bit and said, in broken Ingles, that she was "hab-pee" I finally got the passes to mingle with greatness. She even kissed the cheek of both myself and the man who took the picture, who was quite taken aback by her outward displays of affection. Yet, that was yesterday — although she'll be more civil if I attempt to befoul the Blue Carpet again, she'll still have to act accordingly per her job requirements.

The Dinger's Mangled Digit: 15/1

To even suggest that the pinkie was stepping out from the rest of the phalanges to covet female companionship is insulting and just wrong. Although the ESPN party is happening outside of the South Beach madness, the pinkie is plenty capable of finding itself a vehicle with a GPS tracking device to hunt me down and puncture my sternum with its 36 degree-angled force. Having been shown a forensics file from the pinkie's last victim, this is not a death I would wish upon my worst enemy.

"Just one goal, Super Bowl Bound/
Matter of fact we rowdy in the Super Bowl now/
It's the three-one-seven, yeah the boys in blue, in the three-oh-five facing the three-one-two/
It's Joseph Addai, a thousand yards without a start/
And when the ball flies, you know it's caught by Dallas Clark ..."

Lil Ronnie is 13 now so his life is bitch city, yo, and he doesn't take no shit. Just check out his other new single, Let Yourself Go (you'll have to scroll down the page a bit), which is pretty much about him picking up girls on his bike ... just how Jay-Z does it. It includes the lyrics: "Naptown superstar, and that's no junk/I'm the best around, so step off, punk!"

Yes Brian Urlacher, you had best step off!

Super Bowl Bound 2007 Remix [31 South Entertainment]
Lil Ronnie Myspace Page
Lil Ronnie Will Crush You [Deadspin]

(UPDATE: Lil Ronnie to appear on Fox and Friends during Sunday's pregame activities. Keep that finger on the seven-second delay, guys!)

It should not be a surprise that the vocation of taking off one's clothes in front of fellow human beings — often to the beat of a rock soundtrack, usually Motley Crue, Warrant or Tori Amos — earn an uptick during Super Bowl week. The Wall Street Journal's Sam Walker, friend of Deadspin, takes a closer look at the Christmas season for strip shows.

Super Bowl Sunday is the industry's busiest day of the year. Not only does the money earned during the game account for as much as a quarter of a typical agency's revenue, major agencies say the number of Super Bowl orders has been growing by 15% per year. Tony Hassan, the owner of Erotic Image in Detroit, says he's booked 150 shows for Sunday and will bring in as much as $45,000 — nine times the normal revenue for a February weekend.

We have never attended a Super Bowl Party in which dancing entertainment with easily removable clothing was part of the decore, but we understand, we suppose. When Billy Joel, Prince and Rex Grossman are the alternate entertainment, some boobs, yes, might be in order.

Wardrobe Malfunctions, Inc. [WSJ.com]
Authors With Pure Hearts: Sam Walker [Deadspin]

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Here's the second of his two tales from Miami for today.

After Monday's total collapse outside of Radio Row at the Convention Center, the good ship AOL Sports Bloggers Live— I LIKE THOSE GUYS — I was finally awarded a day pass and able to step my dirty feet onto the shimmery blue carpet and get a close up of the frenzy. (The audio of the appearance is right here.) It's all what you would expect — Jim Rome Rome burning, Mike and Mike Madogging and Salisbury, of course, looking ruddy and text messaging. Plus there are numerous former and current athletes shuffling from each show trying to hide their "Not another fucking white guy" look when one of the producers from the various radio shows attempts to corral them to to the stage. My conversation with the Mottram consisted mainly of mustaches and my new found love of the Clevelander. Thankfully, Mr. Irrelevant lent me his camera so I could take a few photos and finally get a close up look of the McNabb family in action on their "The KNEE IS FINE" campaign. It pains me to say this, however — it's not.

More photos and shenanigans after the jump.

After I left the Blogger Booth, I hurried right over to McNabb's area. I had to see it up close. The limp. Yes, he has a brace on, and Mrs. McNabb assured me that it's "A-Okay, baby," but man, that limp. It reminded me of Bill Cosby doing that drunk guy impression in Bill Cosby Himself. But Five was in politicking mode, glad-handing, smiling, and keeping his conversations short with people. Most of the conversations began and ended with "I'm feeling good — the knee is fine." I hope so, I do, I do, I do.

I followed him around a bit to see him walking and then I realized that I was in the general vicinity of the Mayor. He was on a break, he was texting, of course, and he looked pretty pissed. I put the balls away for now because, as one Radio Row insider put it, "He would put you through a wall" if I tried to get a picture with him. It's still only Thursday. There is still time for plenty of big drunk ESPN people to knock the mustache off my face.

In my walk through Radio Row, I also saw Baldinger towing the women he was sitting with last night, who do not appear to be Clevelander Talent, but rather relations of the managerial/familial type. That's reassuring. I also spotted Don Shula rotting his way through a Sirius Interview, Bernie Kosar swanning around like it's still 1982, Sterling Sharpe in his patented Pimp 'n Pink look and Ditka, in a ridiculous purple suit most likely purchased from Brooks Brothers' defunct "Velvet Grimace" line from 1993.

I was in and out quickly, as it is still the beginning of this harrowing weekend — hopefully, my attorney will be available for just one more round before our time is through.

Today, the Indianapolis Colts, initially previewed on August 23. Your writer is Will Carroll. Will Carroll Will Carroll covers football injuries for ESPN Fantasy Games and covers baseball injuries for Baseball Prospectus. The rest of the stuff, he's on his own. His award-winning book, "The Juice: The Real Story of Baseball's Drug Problems" is out in paperback. He lives in Indianapolis, and Bill Polian doesn't like it much."

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

If you listen to the voices coming out of the tubes in the Internets, I'm not often right. This time I was. Back in August, Will Leitch asked me to write a quick season preview on the Colts. Like Adam Vinatieri, I nailed it. The Colts head to the Super Bowl for the first time in my lifetime with a delicious run (and run is the key word) through the playoffs.

First, Herm Edwards didn't notice until the Wednesday after the game that the Colts were putting eight men in the box on every play, crashing the normal pass rushers into the middle, and essentially making it nearly impossible to run, even with Larry Johnson. The occasional screen or quick pass would have forced the Colts to do something different, but Herm was determined to win or lose his way ... and lose it he did his way, pathetically and embarrassingly and once again, stomped at the feet of his friend Tony Dungy.

Then, the Colts revisited Baltimore. I always thought it would be one of the great entrances of all time if the Colts would just swap the horseshoe on their helmet for a Mayflower logo, just once. Call it Irsay's revenge or, once again, a failure of play-calling by the opposition, but the Colts did just enough to let Adam Vinatieri win the game for them on five field goals.

It's at this stage - wherein two games the Colts have given up less rushing yards than they averaged per regular season game - where things go haywire. What changed? The media has rushed headlong to anoint Bob Sanders as the new Baby Jesus, and while he's played well, the fact is that this began earlier, with an uptrend on the defense against Cincinnati and Miami, as measured by my pals at Football Outsiders. Losing to Houston and getting bitchslapped by Ron "Mudslide" Dayne look worse in retrospect, but Dungy made his bones as a "defensive genius (tm)" and lets face it, something changed. It's as smart to credit Dungy as it is to rush hurdling into Sandersmania.

Let's cover a couple questions.

• Can the Colts do just enough to let Hoosier schoolboy legend Rex Grossman implode? Well, I saw Grossman play in high school, and I wasn't that impressed, so legend might be stretching it some. Grossman's just a player that has to have one or two good series and minimize the damage. He wasn't good against the Saints, but he was good enough.

• Will Cedric Benson do to the Indy defense what Larry Johnson and Jamal Lewis and Laurence Maroney couldn't? Benson and Thomas Jones could be a challenge if they come with the same type of game plan that they had for the Saints game. It seems like the magic number is 120 or 30. 120 yards rushing is usually enough to keep Grossman from passing 30 times.

• Can Peyton win the Big Game after finally winning a big game or is Tee Martin somewhere laughing? Where is Tee Martin? AFL 2?

• Is this Tony Dungy's last game, win or lose? The early indication is yes. There's not much more for him to accomplish, and he's been more engaged with charity and family than he has with the Colts over the last year. Some of the midseason slump was boredom from Dungy, his staff, and many of the players. Don't be surprised to see many changes.

• Is this the last chance the Colts have before the window on winning closes? Beyond Dungy, the Colts have severe cap problems. Much of that is Manning's contract and refusal to renegotiate. (Try asking Manning about Michael Vick sometime ...) They have 14 free agents, including some key players like Dominic Rhodes and Cato June.

Bottom line is that the Colts have more talent than the Bears. If the Bears defense were at full strength or if they can find one big break — Devin Hester going all Desmond Howard on us or Urlacher plowing Peyton like he's Paris Hilton — and it could all change. My pick? Colts win in a laugher, 37-13.

As you might have heard from a media outlet or two, this is a historic Super Bowl because it features two African American head coaches for the first time. The odds are good that this might be a topic over the next few days.

We decided to dig deep into this story, rather than just let it simmer, so we asked our friend The Assimilated Negro, author of the Ghetto Pass column for Gawker and occasional Free Darko correspondent, to file a series of reports about the Negro Bowl, its significance and whatever else might tickle his proverbial fancy. This will run in five installments leading up to the Super Bowl. Here's the fourth one... and it's video! So much easier than reading!

Some have had questions about the import and magnitude of Negro Bowl I, so while investigating yesterday's breaking news story (turns out it was fake), TAN had the opportunity to hit the streets of New York City and talk to people in order to gain some perspective on this historic event. Here's my video report.

(Video shot and directed by the great Richard Blakeley ... and TAN, of course.)

Nationwide, as fans rush to go before the Super Bowl's second-half kickoff, they'll flush enough water to fall over Niagara Falls for 39 minutes. That much bathroom action can cause clogs, worsen already leaky toilets and lower water pressure. So Miami-Dade issued a news release Tuesday urging residents to ready their commodes by checking for leaks.

Also,

• To be on the safe side, people could stagger their flushing.
• Use single-ply toilet paper.
• Keep a trash bin in the bathroom and tell guests not to flush paper towels or napkins.
• Remove small items near the bowl that could fall in and cause a clog.
• Avoid prop bets which include swirlies for the loser.

One of those rules may be ours.

By the way, these stories are inevitably bunk, as the geniuses at Snopes have pointed out. But it's still fun to talk about poo.

When You Gotta Go, Go Ahead And Go At Halftime [Miami Herald]

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Here's the first of his two tales from Miami for today.

Last night started slowly ... and ended slowly, unfortunately. I attended the Sony Playstation Playboy Cocktail party where media guests were invited to sit around and play Madden with Playmates. Or something. The South Seas hotel was nice, the booze was free, but it was a very well-connected crowd of media/TV types, most of whom were very proud producers of the NFL Network or Yahoo Sports. Good for them.

Just as I was about to fall asleep in the outdoor pool area, Trey Wingo and Mark Schlereth come prancing through the door to pop in before a nice evening of cliched dining at Joe's Stone Crab. I flittered with my mustache and then contacted my attorney and demanded he shake off his hangover and come right down to South Beach again so we can get a photo of the Wingo. He agreed, but first had to take a much-needed bath and enjoy some other sustenance besides Heineken Light and shots of Patron. Fine. I can wait.

But as I sat at the bar, I looked over at Wingo and noticed he and one of the event organizers eyeballing me. They were talking about me. Was it the mustache? Had Trey Fucking Wingo just outed me? I had to find out without making too much of a stink.

Continue the adventure ... and meet a new correspondent after the jump.

I followed the producer guy outside. I bummed a light off of him, and he was totally giving me the small-talk freeze out as he was dicking around with his Blackberry. He shoved the lighter across the table without looking up.

"You a producer for ESPN?", I asked.

"No, " he shot back.

I stood there in silence, smoking, content for this conversation to go nowhere, then two minutes later, still without looking up.

"Who do you work for?", he said.

"Deadspin!"

He did not blink. "Really," he huffed. "Interesting work." Gets up from the table, walks away. I go back inside, and Wingo and Schlereth were gone. Has the mustache betrayed me? I might have to shave it in order to prevent the cold shoulder. Incognito!

Finally, my attorney arrived, and we decided to go back to The Clevelander to see if there was any chance that we could hit Dumb Fucking Luck Central two nights in a row. We started in the same area, but it was a different bartender. I asked him if anything was going on tonight and if there were any celebrities. He just said "Probably," real nonchalantly, but continued. " Last night I heard Dan Patrick took home a girl half his age." (Editor's Note: This does not necessarily mean this hypothetical and probably fictional woman is all that young.) Patrick's doing his radio show from The Clevelander, so I'm assuming he takes home some of the Clevelander, ahem, talent every night of the week. Maybe it's because of his sandwich-eating abilities.

Finally, once we though all hope was lost for the evening, who pops back to the Clevelander? Alex Brown, cranberry and vodka still firmly in hand. It is at this point where my attorney worried for his own safety. Worry not, I assured him. I'm sure he has no idea about the site at all. I walked up to Alex Brown, pretending to be a Gator fan, just getting an update on his week.

He explained he had lots of film work, but right now he's "Just hangin' out". Really? How about a pic, man?
"Nah, no photos tonight, man. Last night it got all crazy ... maybe later in the week." Later in the week? "Yeah, this is my last night drinking, though. Got work to do the rest of the week." Hey! Me too!

I then headed back to my table — dejected, a little disappointed — but then I spot out of the corner of my eye ... Brian Baldinger sharing a table with his own not-very-impressive looking Clevelander talent. I walk over to the table to talk to him just as one of the dumpy blondes he was with was — no lie — playfully fiddling with his fucked up pinkie.

"Hey, Brian, I'm a huge Eagles fan, any chance I can get a photo?"

"Of course, man, of course."

I then asked him how the rest of his week was going and if it was going to be real busy, which he kind of shrugged off and then finished his beer in one big gulp, mangled pinkie hanging off the side of the cup as he chugged.

So, what are you doing the rest of the week?

"It's South Beach, man. I'm going to throw a little salt over my shoulder for luck."

Oh, for the game?

(Looks at me.) "Nah. You know, salt. For luck. Every man needs some luck this week in South Beach." (Winks)

Just not Dan Patrick, apparently. (Ed. Note: Fictionally!)

Right now, I'm off to Radio Row and the magical Blue Carpet to take a run on AOL Sports Bloggers Live, which is the official favorite Internet radio show of Bill Simmons. ("I like those guys!") I'll be offline for a while but posting later today. If you, readers, have any updates that you'd like to pass along, I insist that instead of using the Deadspin Hotline Number that you take up all Super Bowl related inquiries to the newly deputized Deadspin correspondent: Donald Trump Jr.

Now, this is, apparently, his new cellphone number, and he's very paranoid about it since he just had his old one changed. So, make sure you give him worthwhile tips. I'd hate to see such a hard-working young fellow get distracted by meddlesome phone calls.

(646) 483 3417

or just email him!

djtjr@trumporg.com

I hope he has some updates for me when I get back.

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Last night, he hit the motherlode. This is the final of his three tales from a crazed night.

Bears defensive end Alex Brown looked like he was having the time of his life last night. The former Gator enjoyed well-wishers from both Bears fans and Gator fans alike. He's affable, he smiles a lot, and he was never without a vodka cranberry. The first part of the night, he was hanging with Michael Strahan at the front of the Clevelander. Strahan, even though he's post-divorce, still looks like a guy that's getting the shit kicked out of him by a woman.

Before the Super Bowl, Brown was probably best remembered for his part in the Sugar Brawl. Lt. Winslow, Canes fan ("I FUCKING BLEED ORANGE AND GREEN") remembers it vividly. Lt. Winslow had to get to the bottom of what happened. He advised me, as my attorney, that he wouldn't do anything that would result in a beating by a gigantic black man. The mustache can only protect so many.

After the jump, read Winslow's full transcript with Alex Brown in front of the velvet ropes, as we waited to get into Irvin's Lair about the Sugar Brawl. Oh, and there's some Stuart Scott fun down there too.

Lt. Winslow: Yo Alex can i get a pic?
Alex Brown: Sorry man, no pics.
LW: I understand, I understand. Well then let me ask you this. Off the record ... what really happened that night on Bourbon Street?
AB: What night you talking about?
LW: Come on man. I'm a Cane; you know what night I am talking about.
AB: Ohhhhhh THAT night. Man, what you know about that?
LW: Dude... I fucking bleed orange & green. I mean, i know what I've HEARD happened, but I want to hear it from the source.
AB: What you heard happened?
LW: Well... I heard that my boys started that shit, that Al Blades poured a drink over Reche's(Caldwell's) head and that's how it started.
AB: (laughs) You are 1/2 right.
LW: Thats what I heard. That Al Blades started it.
AB: Yeah, and he was the first motherfucker to get knocked out too.

(The bouncer at The Clevelander calls his roommate and puts roommate on the phone)

AB: (Into phone): Well yeah man, I would be jealous if I was you too. I got to go now — I got to go take care of business with these 3 ho's upstairs.

However, as soon as he went upstairs, said ho's were already talking to Sean Salisbury. (That'll happen!) On the stairwell, we noticed Stuart Scott leaning up against the railing, talking on his cell phone. The conversation overheard was about "getting together later on" and he was obviously disappointed that someone wasn't meeting up with him. But who?

Later, inside, as I approached Stuart Scott to get a picture taken with him ("No thanks, dude" is what he said), I leaned over his shoulder and caught him text messaging and the name of the person he was sending the message to:

"Lemme know."

Now, obviously, "Lemme know" is pretty non-descript. But at 12: 30 a.m., in Miami, well, it means "Are you coming out tonight to fuck me or what?" Especially given who Scott was texting (I literally read the name right off his phone):

Her name is Michelle Beisner, former Denver Broncos cheerleader and aspiring D-list Hollywood actress-type. Blonde. White Woman. Hey, nobody likes to start rumors about Stuart Fucking Scott, but if Michelle Beisner is his booty call, well, BooYa, my friend. Boo Fucking Ya.

Today, the Chicago Bears, initially previewed on August 31. Your writer is Mike Cetera. Mike Cetera is an associate editor with The Beacon News in Aurora, Ill. And his words are after the jump.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

The Bears are who I thought they were.

I can prove it, too. Just look back to what I wrote five months ago when Will graciously asked me to contribute a season preview: "So what am I, and the rest of this team's fans, supposed to make of the 2006 Chicago Bears? They are going to shuffle all the way to the Super Bowl. And win, of course."

See, that's prognosticating. Take that, Peter King.

Never mind that I spent the first 701 words decrying the city of Chicago, the fans, the media and failed former Bears QBs like friend-of-Will-Leitch Kordell Stewart. There was plenty to criticize - and there still is.

But somehow this team overcame the lynch mob seeking the head of Rex Grossman, the inconsistent defensive play, the injuries to key players, Tank Johnson's gun play, Lovie Smith's contract status, Muhsin Muhammad's alligator arms, Cedric Benson's big mouth and Kyle Orton's facial hair to make it thisclose to winning a world championship.

I was 10 when the Bears won Super Bowl XX. And maybe my memory is skewed, but I recall Chicago being up for grabs back then. Every kid on the block had a Walter Payton jersey and a Black and Blues Brothers poster courtesy of the local Chevy dealer hung above the bed. Some of us dressed up for Halloween as Jim McMahon, wearing a white head band with the word "Rozelle" scrawled across it in black magic marker. Some of us may even have gotten in trouble for mooning our friends like No. 9 famously did to a passing TV helicopter. We entered school talent shows and performed "The Super Bowl Shuffle," which cracked and skipped on the record player because it had been played so many times. We were cocky because the Bears were cocky. We knew they were going to win.

And what's happening now? Everyone seems to be going through the motions, using the 1985 playbook as reference. There are the inevitable recreations of the "Shuffle," the stories of die-hards pleading for tickets and the pointless comparisons to the last Super Bears. But the kids aren't going crazy this time around.

Maybe it's because Chicago isn't as much of a Bears town as it was back then. Maybe it's because we all know deep down this team doesn't deserve to be here. At the beginning of the season Rex couldn't go wrong, and the defense stubbornly refused to allow anyone to score. But something happened - and it happened beginning Week 6 against the Buzzsaw, despite the improbable win - that made these Bears look ordinary for much of the remainder of the season.

Even in what amounted to a blowout victory, the Bears managed to not look particularly good getting there. In the NFC Championship, Grossman passed for just 144 yards - including a 33-yard touchdown toss that had little to do with Grossman and lots to do with the acrobatics of Bernard Berrian — while the defense allowed Drew Brees to move up and down the field for 354 yards. The Bears beat the Saints by the deceptive score of 39-14.

Yet if the Bears catch the breaks they caught - and indeed created - during the Saints game, they can beat the Colts. While we should expect Peyton Manning's stats to mirror Brees', Manning isn't who the Bears have to worry about. If the Bears can hold Joseph Addai and Dominic Rhodes to something like the 37 yards rushing they held Deuce McAllister and Reggie Bush to, and create turnovers like they did against the Saints (4) and their special teams wins the field position battle — punter Brad Maynard was just sick, dropping five kicks inside the 20, including a 51-yarder to the New Orleans 5 that led to the game-changing safety of Brees — and Thomas Jones and Cedric Benson combine for another 180-yard-plus game and return man Devin Hester takes advantage of the Colts' questionable special teams coverage ... they have a chance to make the game close.

I'm not terribly optimistic. The Colts are the better team. But what do you want me to do, crown their asses?

Bears 27, Colts 24.

We decided to dig deep into this story, rather than just let it simmer, so we asked our friend The Assimilated Negro, author of the Ghetto Pass column for Gawker and occasional Free Darko correspondent, to file a series of reports about the Negro Bowl, its significance and whatever else might tickle his proverbial fancy. This will run in five installments leading up to the Super Bowl. Here's the third one. The graphic is by the great Jim Cooke, by the way.

CHICAGO — Only days before the historic Negro Bowl I, it appears NFL "officials" have removed Lovie Smith, the head coach, and Rex Grossman, the quarterback, from their respective positions on the Chicago Bears and replaced them with the recently retired Bill Parcells and recently mortified Tony Romo. While these "officials" have thus far remained anonymous, their apparent "hire-fire" power indicates they are likely Caucasian, hire-fire authority being something that is rarely given to Negroes.

(more after the jump)

The Bears general manager Jerry Angelo was unavailable to the press, but one anonymous official said he could be called "The Manager" and later added, "the 'ager' part is silent."

In explaining the decision to the media, the official, who only manifested as a booming voice over the PA system, expressed some remorse about the decision. "This was obviously a difficult decision at this time of year, a few days before the biggest game, but that's exactly why the decision had to be made," he said. "The Bears want to put their best foot forward, and with most oddsmakers having us as touchdown underdogs, clearly the general consensus was that we weren't going to get it done. We couldn't just sit back idly and let that happen, especially if we're in a position to do something about it."

The voice continued on, stressing that "race had nothing to do with anything." The voice explained, "We would have loved to been part of Negro Bowl I, but we can't put that in front of our ultimate goal of winning Super Bowl XLI. Bill Parcells is a Hall of Fame coach, and he's available. He's won the Super Bowl before. He hasn't had a 5-10 record since 1993; Lovie Smith, on the other hand, put up a five-win stinker just two years ago. Sometimes the choice that breaks your heart also makes the most sense."

Many players declined to speak, saying they didn't want to let "Media Week rigmarole" distract them from the task at hand. But some high profile names offered some remarks on the record.

The Bears starting running back Thomas Jones noted,"look, I think it's a questionable decision. But all I know is if you give me [looks over towards Cedric Benson] 20-25 carries a game, we can control this game."

Cedric Benson, who often shares carries with Jones, responded similarly. "That's bad how they did Lovie like that, but we have to stay focused. It's the Bears vs. The Colts. And all I know if you can get me [looks over at Thomas Jones] 20-25 carries a game, we can control the game on the ground.

Brian Urlacher, the sensitive star middle linebacker, seemed to be most affected by the news. "Look, I'm tired of the 'overrated' talk. I'm a good LB, OK? Obviously anyone's going to miss Tommie Harris. And sure teams are running on us, but I'm good, OK? And I'm fast! JESUS, JUST GET OFF MY BACK ALREADY!"

The object of all this attention, Lovie Smith, was in church with his family and could not be reached for comment.

Tony Dungy, a good friend of Smith's, was surprisingly muted. "It's a shame, obviously Lovie's a great friend." He also may have muttered, "but at least they brought in a Romo, not a Homo," but the exact quote was indecipherable.

Nevertheless, the quip was indicative of the contrasting responses over the move. A lot of bittersweet remorse over losing Smith, but the reaction to losing Grossman was much more tepid, and in some places perhaps, appreciative.

The disembodied voice that held the press conference closed in saying, "While removing Lovie was tough, after all, no one likes being a racist. The quarterback was kind of a no-brainer, and really empowered us to go ahead with a difficult decision. Tony Romo is a Pro Bowl quarterback, and has possibly canoodled with Jessica Simpson. Rex Grossman is, well, white. The Bears have a good holder on field goal attempts, so we think Tony will do great. In fact we'd like to think that while the black community at large may feel a little disenfranchised by our intervention, we are delighted to point out that while they lost an African-American head coach, they have gained a kinda-sorta black quarterback. Between him and African-American hero Peyton Manning, we think the Negro community is well represented and has a lot to be proud of."

Peyton Manning, who was caught between film sessions when hearing about the announcement, just smiled. "Hey, works for me, I got enough monkeys on my back."

The cast-off quarterback Rex Grossman was spotted in the parking lot, seemingly talking trash to a group of school children. When asked if his pride was hurt, he was defiant, "This is not a big deal to me. I know I have a Super Bowl arm." Grossman then picked up a nearby football and pointed to a garbage can about sixty yards away, "See that garbage can? Watch this." After Grossman's toss hit a woman walking her dog, more than 80 yards to the left of the garbage can, the children disassembled. Grossman had no further comment.

There were some fans and celebrities gathered around Soldier Field not long after the news. Superuberstar and Chicago native Kanye West was very vocal about his displeasure with the move. "The NFL commissioner doesn't care about black people. That's why I should have been the commissioner," West said. "I played pee-wee football as a kid. I was pretty good. And last year I gave Paul Tagliabue two million dollars and a Ralph Lauren cardigan so that I could take over for him. And I still didn't get the job. That's bullshit. And that's why shit like this happens. Because I'm not in charge."

West's new song "Dungy Walks (Smooth Jazz Remix)" is slated for release the day after the Super Bowl.

Opinions were varied amongst the other fans who congregated One fan, who also happens to be a marketer for network television said, "I can't lie. I love it. Negro Bowl I was exciting. But this is even better. Dungy vs. Parcells sets up an epic battle of the races. Race Bowl I: Bring Out the Chains. I can't wait to get the new commercials up."

Another fan, white, said, "Well, this Super Bowl was starting to feel a little affirmative action-y anyways. Setting it up so that a black person can't help but win seems a little unfair to white people."

The prevailing sentiment was one of suspicion however; the last person we spoke to summed it up simply, "I don't know, this smells fishy. Actually, not quite fish, it smells more like onion."

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Last night, he hit the motherlode. This is the second of his three tales from a crazed night.

When we first arrived at The Clevelander, we were told by the helpful bartender that Michael Irvin was upstairs. He said we could go right on up, plenty of people up there, you should have no problem. My attorney's face lit up. Cane lovers, you know? But as we came to the upstairs portion we were greeted by the same velvet rope New York City night club agenda:

"Private party, guys."

Not surprising. With the mustache, sweat shirt jacket, $4 H & M polo and my attorney Lt. Winslow in a BoSox hat, we weren't going to get into a Fat Tuesday's Happy Hour, let alone a Private Party with Michael Irvin. Winslow was crestfallen. This was, according to him, the man who got him into Miami Hurricanes football. "He's the PLAYMAKER", he screamed. He clutched two hands over his hat and wore an expression like he'd just found out one of his friends got murdered. I felt that I had failed him and all of humanity at that point. My lawyer should meet his idol.

Fortunately, colleagues were abound. Colleagues who knew the bouncers from San Diego. Colleagues who love Deadspin. One conversation and a handshake later, we were past the velvet rope, and headed upstairs to the Clevelander. Lt. Winslow was about to meet his idol.

(more after the jump)

The above picture shows what the downstairs Clevelander dance floor looked like. So, our attire was plenty reasonable, and somewhat classy, comparatively speaking. But now were headed upstairs. To Irvin's lair. As soon as we got in there, Winslow spotted Irvin huddling in the corner, his gynormous bodyguard keeping a close eye on those who tried to approach him. Winslow, bursting, walks over to him.

He shakes his hand and tells him " I FUCKING BLEED ORANGE & GREEN!! WHEN ARE YOU COMING BACK TO CORAL GABLES TO HELP GET THIS OFFENSE BACK ON TRACK?" Winslow said Irvin was polite enough, but clearly wanted "no fucking part of him." Nevertheless, Winslow assures me that he's content. He buys shots for anyone in the general vicinity: " I JUST MET THE FUCKINGPLAYMAKER HIMSELF!!!!!!". After a few more shots, Winslow heads back over to Irvin and tells him "YOU ARE THE REASON I BECAME A CANES FAN IN THE FIRST PLACE."

We leave The Clevelander, Winslow is still spinning, and as we are walking down the sidewalk, we just happen to be right behind Irvin and his bodyguard, and two other guys— both about 5'3 Italian guys — walking with him. The one little guy says to Irvin. "We really have to get some pussy." Irvin starts to strut, pops open his cellphone and says "I'm about to get me some right now." The entourage high fives.

As Irvin is strutting ahead of them on the phone, a hot ass girl is walking towards us. Irvin stops, in the middle of the sidewalk, to ogle her the way every other black guy does when a marginally hot female comes within three feet of them. Irvin purses his lips: "Woooooooooooooo!"

She blows right by him. She doesn't recognize him. Winslow is stunned. "SHE JUST BLEW OFF THE PLAYMAKER!"

But Winslow spent the rest of the night in a daze, floating, not even thinking about his 8 a.m. court date.

The last installment: Stuart Scott, Alex Brown and one hot text message.

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Last night, he hit the motherlode. This is the first of his three tales from a crazed night in which, as this picture clearly shows, he sneaked into the right media party.

No, I did not ask him to take a picture of his junk on his cellphone. No, I did not ask him about "Jew". I was just in awe. Stunned, really, at how many women Salisbury attracts. From dumpy chicks with glasses, to 6-foot model-y types: they all swarmed him. Salisbury was not without female accompaniment for less than 10 seconds at a private party at the Clevelander. Most of the time, they would hug him. "He's soooo tall!" they'd say to each other. Most of the women have probably never watched "NFL Live" before. Or even known about his less than spectacular quarterbacking career. They just knew he was something.

He shook plenty of people's hands. He stirred his vodka tonic — with three limes on a napkin — and he made small talk when necessary. And when he agreed to take a picture with a smiling couple, adoring busboys, giraffe beav, he just requested one thing, as he sternly called over my lawyer Lt. Winslow after he snapped a quick photo of Salisbury getting his picture taken:

"I don't want it ending up on the internet."

(more after the jump)

The Clevelander is a cheesy Margitavilleish type club downstairs, and its upstairs, "VIP" section is about the size of a modest New York City apartment, wall-to-wall white, and held a "private" party last night with, oh, 35 people. Michael Irvin huddled in the corner with a bodyguard who was a Big Black doppelganger. Stuart Scott, dressed in his best fratty tan and white stripey, chatted up the few people who would come up to him and "Boo-yaaaa" and then awkwardly shook their hand. Bears defensive end Alex Brown drank Cranberry and vodka and even did the kamikaze shots that were bought for him by some very excited Bears fans.

But Salisbury held court. Salisbury is the mayor. Salisbury is the real balls.

He is a tall guy, and he's got that swagger. It's not a young guy swagger. It's that former athlete, gym teacher, asshole-type machismo. He makes wry smiles at the women who approach him and will let the ESPN fanboys come up to him, but he looks them in the eye and he makes sure that they're legit and not trying to do anything crazy, or gay, or just out and out annoy him. He gives a two second Eastwood wince to every single guy that comes up to him in that way because, tonight, guys, it's for the ladies — but he'll shake your hand, accept the accolades about how "great a job" he does at ESPN.

But if you don't have boobs, it's gonna be a brief chat.

But he was paranoid about pictures (why???) and made sure every person that wanted their photo taken with him seemed to have good intentions. I was a little paranoid about approaching him with Winslow since Salisbury had already scolded him — and the bouncers were already doing us a favor, so it wouldn't be wise to cause any annoyance and risk getting tossed. So we took the Deadspin camera and handed off to another person who agreed to get the photo with Salisbury. I walked up behind him and politely asked for a picture with him. He gave me the Eastwood, but I had the perfect trump card.

"It's for my fiancee. She would kill me if I didn't get a photo with you."

He couldn't turn that down.

He gave me the smile. He put his arm around me and waited for the photo. I jutted out the mustache has much as far as I could and waited for the flash.

"No internet", he repeated again after it was over, and we pounded fists and I walked away and he went back to the bar, to the next woman in line, and spent the rest of the night just being Salisbury and constantly checking his phone to see where he'd end up next.

Oh, there is more to this evening, which shall be shared later — Irvin's suit, Alex Brown's explanation of his Miami fistfight, and, most stunning, Stuart Scott's text message booty call.

Come back. It'll be great.

A shocking result in Tuesday's episode of Bear vs. Colt . With the score tied at two wins apiece, neither of them won! In a move that the real Indianapolis Colts would do well to study and reflect upon (we have no trouble at all imagining Peyton Manning choking in similar fashion), Colt seems to have the victory in hand before becoming careless and letting it slip away (see above). Stupid, cocky Colt.

Throughout the series Bear has won our rooting interest by playing the part of the innocent bystander, the everybear, reluctantly pushed into action by Colt, who has been, quite frankly, a dick. Just look at episode three for proof. Colt not only taunts a real bear at the zoo, but brandishes a sign which reads "Bears = Jerks." What's that? It just seems unprovoked and frankly quite unnecessary. We had no real rooting interest in the Super Bowl before now, but we'd have to say that Bear is winning us over. Of course there are four episodes remaining, so Colt just could turn this thing around and make us love him again.

Our one fear about this series: That they're just stringing us along and have no real explanation of what the mysterious numbers mean, or who "The Others" really are.

I Think It's Jim Sorgi In The Colt Costume [Deadspin]
Bear Vs. Colt

Finally, a managerly type fellow named Jonathan Zimmer came out with my id and broke the bad news to me that there was no listing for Gawker Media. All of the applications had to be approved by the end of November, he said. "Did your boss tell you he received a confirmation letter?" I assured him that Nick Denton, head of Gawker Media, is such a rabid sports fan that he couldn't have possibly forgotten to apply. But, of course, he did. Because Deadspin would not be able to offer its patented accessless, favorless, discretionless coverage with actual media passes.

All of the credentialed media is corralled into a giant, warehouse-sized conference room where they mill about and do their various reporterly duties and radio programs. The closest you can get to the event is by standing outside a doorway and watching the blue carpeted Media Paradise from afar. But you cannot step over the blue carpet. Not at all. More about this oddly rigid policy after the jump.

As I wandered around the facility ducking in empty rooms slated for reporters Westwood One, CBS, it was apparent that this is still probably one of the most boring events to ever cover in your entire life. The journalists that were cloistered in these little rooms tethered to their laptops and seemed to be harried and not having a very good time. Because they aren't. They are grinding away and, unlike, say, myself, they actually have to have a coherency and validity to their work.

But why couldn't I be a part of their crew? After about 20 minutes of just wandering around, asking various security guards where Radio Row was, where I could buy a soda, where I could see some celebrities, it was obvious that the only way to all of these things was on the blue carpet. As I stood at the foot of the blue carpet, I was being watched by tiny security woman who must've been at least 60. Even though I kept inquiring about the possibility of me stepping foot onto the carpet to run over to the other side of the facility to get a soda, she wouldn't budge.

"Sir, even I couldn't step foot on this carpet without this pass? Now, would you please step back?"

I pulled out my camera to snap photos of some recognizable people: "Hey, Lynn Swann! Can I take your photo?" "Hey, Howard Eskin! I'm a big fan! How about a photo for the boys back in Philly?" All of this was done, of course, behind the line, off of the blue carpet and with enough of a derangement that it troubled the tiny security guard woman and Lynn Swann who looked genuinely annoyed to be stopped for a photo.

All of the way back in the corner I saw Jimmy Johnson's glimmering white hair in the distance. "Hey, that's Jimmy Johnson!", I yelled to the security lady, who didn't appreciate the fact that I was yelling and only standing three feet away from her and inching over the blue line.

"Sir, please step back. I don't want to have to ask you to leave."

"But that's Jimmy Johnson! He's my favorite! And all I really want is a soda. I'll give you $10 if you just let me run over to the other side to get a soda!"

"Sir, I wouldn't do it for $10,000, now please step back over the line."

As more and more people wandered in and out, flashing their badges, it became more and more frustrating to me that I wouldn't be able to join in the fun. Why can't I go sit on Sidney Rosenberg's lap? Why can't I exchange pleasantries with Howie Long?

"Look, I'll just be 10 seconds. Just let me get a soda, " I said as I crossed 10 feet over the line onto the blue carpet.

"Sir, please don't do this to me. Please. Get over the line! Get over the line!"

She gripped the walkie talkie attached to her lapel.

"But it's Jimmy Johnson! Can I get a soda?!"

A gray haired man who resembled Frasier's father wa