I was originally going to use a sexy photo of Veronica, but she shit a kitten when she found out about that, so here's a photo of awesome ginger porn star Nikki Rhodes instead.

There are scummy, cheating douche bags, and then there is the guy that two-timed my co-host, Veronica. Listen to the extent of his deception (and take notes if you’re looking for advice on how to cheat like a pro). Fortunately, his loss is your gain, because I spend the episode tolling for eligible dong to flirt with Veronica and, if said dong is lucky, take her out. (And if it’s really lucky, plow her.) If you want the details on how to get your crack at Veronica’s vagonica, give a listen to the latest episode of Papa’s Basement. If you meet her specified criteria and submit your contact information to me, you might just get a chance to be the next boy to cheat on her!

Papa’s Basement 2-6-12 (Left-click this link or press the “play” button at the bottom of the post to listen to this episode immediately. To download this episode, right-click this link and select “Save Link/Target As.” iTunes users can download Papa’s Basement by clicking here. And please rate Papa’s Basement five stars on iTunes.)

The Super Bowl. The one day of the year I hate the NFL. Do you know what the Super Bowl means to a dedicated football fan? Mourning the death of another season as you explain how many points a field goal is worth for the fifth time to a bunch of Philistines who are only watching for the commercials. What should be an act of beautiful purity is reduced to a carnival spectacle, like losing your virginity to a hooker while your father insists on watching.

Depressed as I am by the season’s looming conclusion, I will put on my game face and write a final NFL article because I’m mommy’s brave wittle soldier like that. Here are the three pillars that I believe Sunday’s contest between the New York Giants and New England Patriots will hinge upon, followed by a prediction of the game’s outcome.

Rob Gronkowski as seen in a photo he publicly Tweeted to Kate Upton. Again, you have to love this guy.

The inarticulate embodiment of all Polish joke punchlines, Rob Gronkowski has become the engine of the Patriot’s offense. Yes, Wes Welker and Aaron Hernandez are also critical, and Tom Brady is the gas which fuels the fire, but most people this year have a sense of “Where Gronk goes, so go the Patriots.” That’s troubling because an ankle injury sustained against the Ravens could prove to seriously limit Rob’s explosiveness on the field. Whether or not Gronk will be able to secure some V to heal himself in time for the game is Sunday’s biggest question.

'I'm Tom Brady, the prettiest quarterback in all the land. Let's hope I don't trip over my lengthy penis or my sleeping supermodel wife before Sunday, because then I might hurt myself. Except I'm Tom Brady, so I'd just break my fall on a pile of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck because nothing bad has ever happened to me.'

While I hate the Patriots because I’m a Redskins fan (which makes any team that wins my mortal enemy), I’m saying the following objectively: Tom Brady has become jumpy in the pocket in recent years. Not “chuck-the-ball-at-the-first-sign-of-pass-rush-then-shit-yourself-and-curl-into-the-fetal-position-like-a-frightened-bear-cub” level scared, but he can get rattled. This is critical to Sunday’s game because some of New York’s greatest strengths are blitzing and a general gift for quarterback disruption.

Tom Brady is going to have to weather some blistering attacks during the Patriots’ first few drives. If he can stand up, the game will be quite winnable for him and his team. If he doesn’t, the Giants will smell that blood in the water. And that will put the whole game in jeopardy.

Many people calling the game for New York are doing so based upon the assumption that the Giants’ receiving core is going to prove too much for New England’s lackluster secondary to contain. While there isn’t much you can point to that disputes this idea, I will say New England’s defense has done markedly better in the postseason, so I don’t think this is quite the gimme that people are viewing it as.

This was originally going to be a picture of Jerry Springer to go with the 'Final Thoughts' title, but the faces of old people are wrinkly reminders of our own inevitable demise, so stare at these instead.

I could be missing something here (mostly because I’m fucking stupid), but I don’t think this game is going to be particularly close. With a healthy Gronkowski in the lineup, I could see New England having the weaponry to score in spite of New York’s disruption and keep things tight. Sadly, that lovable Polack’s ankle gimping out might have doomed him and his team.

Bill Belichick’s mastery of making something out of nothing shits on MacGyver’s, and he could easily pluck some player out of his ass that’s been quiet all year to be a Super Bowl hero, but if New York is able to ring up the touchdowns as easily as I think they will, and if the G-Men can get to Tom Brady like Schillinger would a prag, this affair will get ugly quickly. I’m going Giants 37-Patriots 27.

For a league that fields the finest sports product known to the face of the Earth, the NFL (if you were expecting me to say anything other than the NFL, please drink bleach until you feel a boo boo in your tummy) sure shits the tub when it comes to selecting Super Bowl halftime entertainment. This year’s choice of that dessicated bruja Madonna continues a baffling trend of boring, geriatric ghouls being picked to entertain the world on America’s biggest stage. Without proper entertainment, halftime has been reduced to a break for men to take a excruciating, constipated, queso-dip-dump while their girlfriends flick their cuteness bean to the Puppy Bowl.

Enough is enough. The Super Bowl deserves entertainment worthy of its greatness. Here are a few ideas I had that would keep our morbidly obese American asses glued to the sofa.

Any takers for Slayer?

Maybe all that’s needed to fix halftime is a small tweak of the artists selected. After all, in recent years, I must admit to thoroughly enjoying the performances of both Bruce Springsteen and Prince. Here are a few other musicians that I believe have enough presence to handle the Super Bowl with ease.

Metallica-They haven’t been relevant since 1994 and Lars Ulrich will someday share a bunk with Hitler in the afterlife, but you’re a goddamn liar if dispute that the opening chords of “Enter Sandman” wouldn’t throw the house into a frenzy.

Garth Brooks-Yes. I like – nay, love – Garth Brooks. (That sound you just heard was every shred of the edgy persona I’ve spent years cultivating being flushed down the toilet.) Say what you will about the man or country music in general, but he knows how to entertain. How else do you explain this video?

Jay-Z and Kanye West-I suppose this wouldn’t play in Middle America, but you know what? Fuck the Heartland. Unless you need an abortion clinic blown up or the appeal of Hee Haw explained, that shithole can contribute nothing to your life.

According to Google, these are Victoria's Secret models. I wouldn't know. I'm an adult. I mastubate to porn, not a bunch of skinny bitches who have the presumptuous audacity to assume that I'd choose looking at them over naked ANYONE because they have high cheekbones.

I don’t get the appeal of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. The women involved are beautiful but not sexy. (The difference between beautiful and sexy is a face you want to take home to mom versus a face you want to spray with more white stuff than a runway that’s about to take a crash landing.)

Still, judging by Twitter traffic, people seem to love the yearly VSFS, so why not hold it during the Super Bowl? Seems like a great piece of synergy, and it’s a more innocent way for Junior to learn about the contours of the female form than the Katie Kox cuckold porn he found on your hard drive.

It’s time we embrace the fact that America is the Roman Empire with Wi-Fi. And one of the best aspects of Rome was the Colosseum, which spillethed over with rivers of gladiatorial blood. (And affordable booze. You hear that, FedEx Field?) While the government probably wouldn’t permit humans maiming each other in combat (thanks, Obama), animals beating each other to a pulp sounds like it’d be incredibly fascinating, ASPCA be damned. Here are some matches I’ve dreamt up, in no particular order:

-A pack of wolves versus a pride of lions
-A rhino versus an elephant with a machete stapled to its trunk
-A polar bear versus a seal with a bomb inside it
-A tuna-smeared gorilla versus 100 cats

I could keep going (no I couldn’t), but I feel those duels are a good place to start.

Have a Super Bowl halftime show idea of your own? Tell me in the comments. That way the site won’t look like some 1996 Geocities ghost town.

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The whole of one's adult life is spent suppressing and/or coping with the damage done during childhood. Never think otherwise.

To tell the truth, it isn’t the easiest job coming up up with good ideas for this site. Episodes of my radio show fill some of the gaps, and the NFL (which I’ll be losing after the Super Bowl) eats a few pages, but, by and large, I’m pulling these topics out of my ass five minutes before I write about them. Which is why I was so happy when, a few nights ago, I woke up with a jolt, my mind filled with the words “share your childhood shame” as clearly as if I were reading them on the side of a blimp. So, for the next few days, enjoy a collection of the memories that scarred me for life and turned me into the “man” I am today.

Thank God my dad never watched the ending of Boogie Nights, because it might have inspired him to do a riff on the knife scene from 'Crocodile' Dundee. (Click the picture if you aren't acquainted with that cinema treasure.)

I shouldn’t list this as a singular memory, because my dad was a fresh-off-the-boat European, meaning seeing him strutting around in the nude after a shower was par for the course until I was 10. Also, the word “cock” has something of an erect connotation, and, believe me, if I’d ever beheld my dad’s penis erect, I would be in some asylum clawing out my eyes and speaking in tongues, not typing this.

So why, other than the obvious, was seeing my dad’s hog traumatic for me? Because it was massive. I have no issues with my dong. It is a run-of-the-mill, porridge-that-Goldilocks-choose average cock. But compared to the my dad’s flaccid penis, my erection is a pimple. The majesty, the goddamn splendor of that construct defied words. That he routinely gutted my mother with that harpoon is something I still refuse to process.

To top it all off, until I was 14 and got AOL, the only penises I’d seen were that of my father and a shot of John Holmes on a Swedish Erotica reel-to-reel that I found in the garage. I spent my adolescence convinced that everyone was hung down to their knee and that I had an 8″ penile growth spurt lurking around the corner. My innocence died the day I realized it wasn’t going to happen. In time, I may go on in life to become as great a man as my father (no I won’t). But there’s one department I will never equal or surpass him in. And it’s a big one.

It was like this, except I wasn't as cute and the pants were far more full.

Like bearing witness to Papa Papageorgiou’s anteater, I’ve weathered this storm more than once. Thankfully, the second time took place when I was 19 and I found it hilarious, not haunting. That first time, however…that was a horse of a different color.

I remember it like it was yesterday. May, 1989. Second grade. Dressed in a dayglo Gotcha shirt, OP shorts and red Converse All Stars. Lunch had just wrapped up and, as we began solving mathematical word problems, it dawned on me that I had to take a monster dump. This wasn’t turtle head scenario, either: I immediately recognized that some very loose, incredibly runny barbarians were at the gate. It felt like the T-1000 was trying to melt out of my asshole.

The devil is in the details, however. You see…I’d never shat at school. Not once, and I didn’t plan on starting then. The thought of my pristine ass touching the same seat that my classmates had rested their scummy cheeks upon disgusted me. Besides, it was only two hours until I could go home and shit in peace. No matter how uncomfortable it was going to get, I decided I was going to hold it. And hold it I did. For 47 seconds.

Every public bathroom looks like this to me.

Come the 48 second mark, my pants began to fill with hot brown lava. The ass and crotch of my whitey-tighties bulged with the volume of a shit that Andre the Giant would have been proud to take. I sat there, mortified, unable to move for fear that my payload would splatter onto the carpet the instant I stood up. My mind froze. I grasped for an exit strategy. What’s worse, one by one, the kids in the class all began chirping “What’s that smell?” to our teacher, Mrs. Levy.

It was that day that I learned a valuable lesson: When in trouble, lie. Lie and deny. If I got up and excused myself, I was a dead man. So I stayed put, joking about the mysterious, awful smell with my classmates and sitting in my filth for hours. When people began to realize I was the source of stench, I claimed it was due to dog shit I had stepped in and left it at that.

The instant my school day was over, I sprinted for the door, waves of relief crashing over me as I realized that, somehow, my Fruit of the Loom were either holding in my smelly shame or had, by this time, absorbed it like one of those massive sponges the lunch lady cleaned the cafeteria tables with. My mom, angel that she is, treated me like a war hero as I tearfully told my story to her upon entering the car. We went home and I soaked my in the tub for hours, sobbing like a rape victim. If there’s a Freudian reason for why I find poop and farts so funny, you just read it.

More to come later this week.

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One of many shows I'm not very proud of having religiously watched.

My new obsession with the BBC comedy Gavin & Stacey led me to a startling conclusion: I’ve watched a lot of sappy TV in my day. Share in the fun as I purge myself on air of my television demons.

Papa’s Basement 1-30-12 (Left-click this link or press the “play” button at the bottom of the post to listen to this episode immediately. To download this episode, right-click this link and select “Save Link/Target As.” iTunes users can download Papa’s Basement by clicking here. And please rate Papa’s Basement five stars on iTunes.)

The cast of Gavin & Stacey, seen here with the fit, attractive people paired up and the unfulfilled, overweight folks left on the outside to seethe alone. Just like real life.

I tend to be a logical, keeps-his-cool kinda guy. Not to the degree of Mr. Spock, mind you, though I do view him as a role model for how all humans should behave. (Feel free to play “Guess At What Age The Author Lost His Virginity” in the comments section after reading that.) Which is why it pains me to admit the following: I’m a ball of emotion. And I’m not just limited to things like “hungry” and “erection” (note: those might not be emotions). We’re talking actual, fully-developed human feelings.

Why am I revealing all this to you? Because I’d like to think that having a metaphorical vagina the size of a catcher’s mitt combined with my comedic sensibilities makes me a great judge of romantic comedies. So when I say that Gavin & Stacey‘s titular couple is the cutest duo on TV since Pam and Jim became intolerable, you should probably spit in my face out of disgust at reading the word “cute” on this site, then kick me in the testicles until I’m unresponsive. But after hiding my corpse, take a look at Gavin & Stacey this weekend before it’s removed from Netflix streaming. The story of two young people who meet online, fall head over heels for each other, get married and then wind up living back at home because they’re broke is an incredibly refreshing premise, and the show has the impeccable wit you’d expect from a Britcom. So, please, watch it…or I might just cry.

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I'm not saying genius and being batshit crazy go hand in hand, but I think it probably helps. Click the picture for video of what is still, undoubtedly, the most hilarious moment in Oscars history.

Mine is a life of dichotomies. I log countless hours at the gym yet have a booth on reserve at the Great American Buffet. I love sex, yet panic after every fling that I’ve both impregnated the woman I slept and contracted HIV. And I know no greater rush than gambling, but will weep like a moneylender the moment I lose a dime.

Outside of years of therapy, I’m unaware of a solution to those first two problems. But this website has provided me an outlet for my gambling jones, and so now you’re going to have to sit through me picking the Oscars because I would lay money on the sun not coming up tomorrow if you gave me good enough odds. I’m only subjecting you to my picks in the big six categories because even my addictions have their bounds. Oh, and, for the record, I’ve seen two of these films, tops. But why let that stand in the way?

Nominee Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids. I laugh every time I see that face. She's like Benny Hill with (bigger) tits.

Best Supporting Actress

Bérénice Bejo, The Artist

Jessica Chastain, The Help

Melissa McCarthy, Bridesmaids

Janet McTeer, Albert Nobbs

Octavia Spencer, The Help

I wish the award would go to Melissa McCarthy because she actually had some funny moments in Bridesmaids, but comedies have always been the n-bomb of the Academy, so it ain’t gonna happen. (For the record, I meant the n-word ending in a hard r, not a playful “a” as those rappers are wont to use.) Jessica Chastain is screwed because there’s no way a white chick from The Help is winning over a black chick from The Help (though I’d laugh my ass off if it happened). I’m going to go with Janet McTeer because she has the same weird face that all supporting actress winners do. Plus a pair of comically large tits that I’d love to see crammed into a low-cut dress. Seriously, take a look. Those things make Dolly Parton look Asian.

Nominee Max von Sydow as King Osric in Conan the Barbarian. That he never won the statue for this role is criminal. (Click the photo to witness greatness.)

Best Supporting Actor

Kenneth Branagh, My Week With Marilyn

Jonah Hill, Moneyball

Nick Nolte, Warrior

Christopher Plummer, Beginners

Max von Sydow, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

They won’t give it to Nick Nolte because he’s insane and might shit on the stage like a dog. These things run long enough without the time it’d take to wipe down the stage. Christopher Plummer and Max von Sydow both have that generic old person face and people might confuse them, so they’re out. I’m going to go with Jonah Hill over Kenneth Branagh because a few people were upset that Hill didn’t win the Golden Globe even though by now it’s quite evident that literally any comedic actor can handle a dramatic role. People, sadness comes naturally to comedians. Do you think someone learns how to get laughs for reasons other than feeding a ravenous, all-consuming void in the middle of your soul where other individuals have things like self-esteem and contentment? OH NO, SOUND THE SAD CLOWN ALARM!

I might take flak for this, but Meryl Streep in her prime wasn't half-bad. Believe me, this little racoon has eaten out of far worse dumpsters.

Best Actress

Glenn Close, Albert Nobbs

Viola Davis, The Help

Rooney Mara, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

Meryl Streep, The Iron Lady

Michelle Williams, My Week With Marilyn

I really doubt Meryl Streep wins this because she must have 14 Oscars by now. Maybe I’m missing something, but there’s no way Michelle Williams doesn’t get the “I’m Sorry Your Husband Died While Doing Painkillers and Fucking Michelle Tanner” award.

I hate pretty men. The only way I can sleep at night is imagining that they're all hung like an infant's pinky toe.

Best Actor

Demián Bichir, A Better Life

George Clooney, The Descendants

Jean Dujardin, The Artist

Gary Oldman, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

Brad Pitt, Moneyball

I dunno who Demián Bichir is, but he sounds like a goddamn Bond villain, so I’m ruling him out.
While the Golden Globe went to George Clooney, I’m thinking this is a tossup between Gary Oldman and Brad Pitt. Oldman is an option because he’s brilliant and this is shamefully his first nomination. Pitt might win because the Academy loves giving the award to pretty people. It’s the same way a rich guy would crow about his worthless trophy wife having actually done something in life other than have 34 D tits and weighing 110. Shut up, we get it, she started a campaign to clean up all the dog crap in the neighborhood. Call me when she cures lupus.

There is no darker, denser hair than that found on the face of young Martin Scorsese. It looks like an Italian Muppet's asshole.

Best Director

Michel Hazanavicius, The Artist

Alexander Payne, The Descendants

Martin Scorsese, Hugo

Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris

Terrence Malick, The Tree of Life

I actually caught The Tree of Life. If I had terminal cancer, I’d want to live out the rest of my days watching that movie on loop, because it made 2 hours feel like 47 years. Alexander Payne will win this because I’ve heard nothing but great things about The Descendants
 and they already tossed Scorsese his consolation Oscar for The Departed a few years ago. Note: I didn’t consider 
Michel Hazanavicius because I’m not sure if that’s a man or a woman and didn’t want to waste my time Googling to make sure I used the proper pronouns.

Is Tom Hanks part Asian? Those are some Jon and Kate Plus 8 eyes if ever I've seen 'em.

Best Picture

The Artist

The Descendants

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

The Help

Hugo

Midnight in Paris

Moneyball

The Tree of Life

War Horse

Hmm, which will win? A movie about a game, a horsie, or a terrorist attack that claimed thousands of lives and is still an open wound in our collective psyches to this day? There is no way Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
 doesn’t bag this one. Hollywood is already sensitive to being called a bunch of liberal douches. You really think they’re going to pick something with the word “Paris” in the title over a 9/11 flick? Oklahoma already has papers drawn up to secede from the Union if they do.

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It's an easy joke in light of Billy Cundiff shanking his kick, but it had to be made. And, now, the article can move forward. (Click the photo if you don't get the reference. Then, kill yourself.)

Both of the weekend’s championship round games were grueling affairs decided by three-point margins and heartbreaking errors. That the cities of Baltimore and San Francisco weren’t reduced to flaming rubble afterward is testament to either the restraint of the fans or the stopping power of rubber bullets. Now onto the “analysis”.

LaQuan Williams reacting to Cundiff's miss. This expression says 'I may not punch you on the plane, but, the moment your back is turned, I'm shoving your toothbrush up my asshole.'

It’s been a while since I witnessed a loss as painful as that which the Ravens suffered on Sunday to the Patriots. Billy Cundiff’s kick was tragic and will go down in the annals of all-time awfulness alongside Scott Norwood‘s Super Bowl botch. (That was enough alliteration to last the site a month or two.) Lee Evans also let his team down spectacularly in the game’s waning moments. (PS-Lee, given how much heat he’s taken off you, even Jesus would recommend you let Billy place his penis inside your wife’s vagina.)

What sticks with me the most, though, is how for so much of the game, it seemed like the Ravens were in control. Tom Brady was having one of those rare outings where he looked mortal and beatable. In fact, after that second, spectacular interception by the Ravens, most people though to themselves, “Wow, what a backbreaker. That seals it!” And then, you realized that Baltimore was actually down by three. And that there were only a few minutes left. And that the Ravens’ offense requires tons of time to do its thing. With every postseason loss they suffer, the more it seems like the Ravens will forever be one of those teams that contends but never gets over the hump. It’s almost like they’re karmically snakebitten. But we all know there’s no cause for that to be the case.

'Oooh, I am just SO upset with myself right now! If I could kick my own fanny, I would!' (Yes, you were to imagine that being said in the most effeminate voice possible.)

I was so drained by the Ravens-Patriots contest that it wasn’t until the 4th quarter of the Giants-49ers game that I realized, “Damn, I’m witnessing another tight one.” And, just like the earlier match-up, this one also had its goat-Kyle Williams, who took over punt return duties for the injured Ted Ginn and ended up fumbling twice. The man is now being Tweeted multiple death threats a minute. Let that be a lesson to any of you who offer to do anything for a sick coworker.

As for the Giants, they are getting better by the game. Victor Cruz is playing like the top receiver in the league, and the Giants managed to get him without using a draft pick, at that (fuckers). Eli is looking every bit as good as Peyton, which fails to compute in my circuitry. If he wins a second Super Bowl before his older brother, I might start buying in the 2012 armageddon talk, after all.

My Super Bowl pick shall be forthcoming next week.

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Am I suggesting I'm Christlike? No. But I do sport a beard and an affinity for lamb chops.

In all of man’s time on this Earth, one of his biggest questions has been “What happens to me after death?” Well, question no longer. My co-host Veronica and I answer that question. It didn’t even take us the whole episode, either. Like 30 minutes tops, leaving us time to talk about whether or not sex should be requisite when visiting someone long-distance and just what a titanic pussy that Italian sea captain who abandoned his sinking ship was.

Papa’s Basement 1-23-12 (Left-click this link or press the “play” button at the bottom of the post to listen to this episode immediately. To download this episode, right-click this link and select “Save Link/Target As.” iTunes users can download Papa’s Basement by clicking here. And please rate Papa’s Basement five stars on iTunes.)

Well, I guess we know who to call in case of a Joe Flacco biopic.

“Win, and you’re in.”

“Once you go black, you’ll never go back.”

A lot of clichés get bandied about during the championship week of the NFL Playoffs. Maybe it’s because, as the breadth of the teams left narrows, it gets harder and harder for writers to find words to put on a page. Luckily, that’s never been a problem for me, both because I’m that damn good and due to the fact that this website is my own, meaning I could up and leave right this second to go chase a butterfly if it had particularly interesting wings.

Here are my picks for this weekend’s games, complete with my usual in-depth analysis that might as well consist of me picking teams based upon the prettiness of their uniforms.

Look, I get it, 'Ravens' has some historical significance with Edgar Allan Poe and all. I just wan't to float 'Baltimore Omar Littles' out there as a possible, far more intimdating alternative.

I don’t think there has been a harder game to call this postseason than the Ravens-Patriots contest. Every time I want to pick the Patriots, I remember that, as good as they’ve looked, they haven’t beat a single team with a winning record this year. And that says a lot. Put me on a T-Ball field and I’m going to look like Albert Pujols.

On the other hand, Baltimore seems like a total crapshoot because they are so streaky. There are days that its offense, lead by quarterback Ben Stiller, puts up great numbers and the team totally dominates the clock with Ray Rice’s running and a defense that looks ready to play Ike to any team’s Tina…and then there are the days where Joe Flacco goes three and out so many times that you might think that he derives sexual satisfaction from it.

After much deliberation (20 seconds of thought while on the john this morning) I’m calling the Patriots for the following reasons: The Ravens’ defense, while solid, isn’t that 2000 squad. Sorry, citizens of Baltimore, but they aren’t, and no amount of jeering me with your herpetic, sore-filled mouths is going to change that. They’re going to give up 28 points, minimum, to Prettysmile McHandsomepenis. And, though the Pats’ defense sucks, Cam Cameron’s plays date back to a time of leather helmets and smoking in the locker room at halftime. Belichick will be able to figure out a way to disrupt the Ravens O enough for a win, regardless of how shitty his personnel may be.

Being based in San Francisco, it still shocks me that the 49ers have female cheerleaders. You'd figure a bunch of glistening Latinos in Cocksox might be more in order.

There is no way that the Patriots-Ravens game will be half as thrilling as this one. The Giants are on a Hell of a tear, with Eli Manning proving that you can have a face like Sling Blade but an arm like Joe Montana. Opposing him will be Alex Smith, who’s shown that, in spite of almost a decade of underachievement, there might be some potential buried in that dung heap after all. (Can you tell I identify with him?)

While the Giants have done great work, I see the 49ers walking away with this one. They’re a more complete team with a defense that’s far more likely to get them turnovers. Not to mention that the 49ers won the regular season match-up when their running was putrid and now Frank Gore is all better, or at least as good as someone’s going to get after he’s had morbidly obese men in body armor crushing him for five months. If the Giants pull it off, it’ll be because Eli and Victor Cruz continued to develop their Riggs and Murtaugh-esque bond while Alex Smith shit the bed and did what everyone deep down expected him to do even after last week’s outstanding performance.

I’ll write about the results on Tuesday. If I go 0-for-2, please leave comments so horrible that they would bring shame to both of our families.

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