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.)

Maxim's Superbowl Shitshow party was everything one could hope for and so much more. The Sagamore Hotel transformed itself into a beachfront paradise with celebrities and athletes, and, of course FredEx and his Godly hands cavorting about the joint. Freddie Mitchell was attached to Irishman Brady Quinn and Julius Jones for most of the evening, trying to round up ladies, or an offseason workout partner, or relevancy— most likely all three. I approached Freddie, bursting with Eagles superfandom, thanked him for 4th and 26 and the Vikings Divisional playoff game which he totally owned. Then I asked for a pic. Next question?

"What are you up to now?"

Fred pauses. Annoyed...Death stare...He hates me.

"Chillin'..."

Obviously.

Action photos were scarce at the event, since many of the paid photogs would get a little huffy if renegade digital camera sorts were cockblocking their work. But , I did my best.

After the jump, read about the somewhat fascinating conversation with John Rocker, Warren Moon, and David Spade's fuckyfaced PR agent.

I arrived at the Maxim Party waaaay too early, proving my red carpet greeness and lack of confidence in being let in without the help of the dearly departed mustache. So, at 9 p.m, I'm sitting on an oddly shaped plastic love seat smoking a cigarette, taking in the Hotel De Maxim regime setting up their various Absolut Vodka and Coors Lights stations. I then wonder again how Coors Light continues to be allowed into these supposedly A-list events. Why doesn't Gennessee Cream Ale ever pony up for these things?

Dude comes over, asks to bum a cigarette, and introduces himself as Chris, a press agent for BWR.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to meet David Spade here and be his handler this evening. He'll be here soon."

Without much provocation, this greasy sumbitch just starts dumping on Spade for no reason.

"He's a real fucking loser. He's doing this sitcom right now that completely fucking sucks. But that's all he can get now."

"Well, he got Heather Locklear, though right?" I ask, trying to keep the conversation only 20% less slimey.

"He wishes. He's totally using her just to get his name out ther. Now, she's somebody. But, seriously, Spade's a nice guy, but he's a total fucking loser. If I get enough in me I might call him on it tonight."

"Oh, so they're just friends? They never hooked up? I kind of figure that. Or hoped that, at least."

Dude asks for another cigarette immediately after he puts the first one out he bummed.

"No, no, no. He's fucking her. He fucks her all the time. He's just acting like he's a good guy and in love with her, though. He's not. That's how he's using her.He's trying to pull of this nice guy routine, but it's not the case. I mean, he's cool and all, he's real friendly, but just not with her. Like I said, he's a fucking loser."

BWR Public Relations, ladies and gentlemen — they treat their clients great!

About 10 p.m. Spade walks in with the Farley Brother in tow. Kind of surreal, like in this weird Tommy Boy flashback kind of way — epic, really. I just feel bad for Spade. He should probably get some other people to handle his publicity better.

So, the rest of the early arrivals start to filter in. I'm alerted that John Rocker and Alicia Marie are milling about. Hey, they know Deadspin! Right? They do, actually, and give their regards to the Royal We. Alicia Marie says that when she and John were walking through Coconut Grove, O.J. Simpson stopped while in the back of his white limo, rolled down the window, and hollered over to John Rocker that he's a fan of his. Brilliant.

Most other people would probably lose their minds from such a creepy encounter with the Juice, but Rocker seemed a little perplexed of how to take the compliment, shrugged, and appeared to accept it for better, worse, and weirdness.

"He's kind of fat now, " Rocker said.

They graciously agreed to take a picture and then Rocker requested that there be no altering with photoshop. "Don't make it so her top's off or that I'm saying "I Hate Black People" or something." Luckily, I would have no idea how to do such a thing. They ruled.

After a few more Coors Lights, some of the bigger names began to walk in — Tony Romo, Andy Roddick, Spike Lee, uh, Jay Fiedler. Fiedler was introducing himself to a group of girls perched in one of the beachfront hotel rooms, scolding them for smoking.

I saw Warren Moon and did my best impersonation of a Houston Oilers fan to catch a few minutes of conversation.

"You're a warrior!" I said. He thanked me, asked if I was having a good time, then started to move with the crowd headed over to the main entrance way.

I probed him some more.

"Hey, man, that Buffalo game? That stil haunt you? I'm still pissed about it."

Moon was a little annoyed. "I'm sorry you're pissed. That was 20 years ago, you have to get over it. I did. I lost a lot of big playoff games in my life. That was just one of 'em."

"Yeah, but that was bad. Still kills me."

"It was 20 years ago. Y'all have a good time tonight."

Then he hustled through the crowd to go find a nice lady to take home and punch in the face. Or Coors Light. One or the other.

The Hotel de Maxim, unfortunately, had two bathrooms that were supposed to satisfy about 4,000 Coors Light-filled bladders for the evening. I and my cohort decided that we should head back to my hotel down the street to piss and then come back in. We were told we could come back in. But the wait was lengthy by that point due to the party getting extremely crowded and even though there was so much more magic on the inside — KFed! Fergie! Mike McMahon! Ridiculous looking girls made of suntan and areola! — but we'd had enough. But the Hotel de Maxim, was who we thought they were — shockingly awesome. I just hope David Spade had himself a good time.

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!)