Wow, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear this is going to be the third consecutive day that I’ve made a post. That’s gotta be some kind of record.

Gotta love this annual two-week orgy of non-productivity. It really helps to free up big blocks of time to indulge in meaningless, internet-based jackassery. Outstanding.

Oh sure, I could spread them out a little to milk it. Rapid-fire posting can take its toll on the ole comment tallies. Pete Finney has been ringing my phone off the damn hook and leaving message after message about how disappointed he is that I’m not pacing myself. Not taking full advantage of the sweet, sweet white space. "You’ll never survive in the ‘legitimate’ media with that kind of attitude!" he says. I asked him "What makes you think a guy who calls himself Grandmaster Wang has ‘legitimate’ media ambitions?"

Which reminds me, I’m thinking about changing my name to "Uncle Benzene" for 2008. It can be some kind of moosedenied New Year tradition. Or something. Hey Pete, you think I’ve got enough preliminary babble there? Is it alright if I go ahead and get on with it now? Alright, here we go…

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Welcome to the offseason, bitches.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Except for the preseason, regular season and postseason. It’s a magical time when everybody is undefeated. Everybody is a contender, except for the Falcons. A time when the only view you have of your favorite NFL team is through a crystal ball.

The great thing about crystal balls is they don’t actually work. So whatever you see in it is whatever you want to see in it. Outstanding, just the way I like it.

Those of us who aren’t perpetually-miserable asshole "realists" can gaze upon eight months of regrouping, re-evaluating, retooling, reloading and hitting the ground running next fall. And those of us who are perpetually-miserable asshole "realists" can… oh, I don’t know… make babies cry, kick puppies, whatever it is that those people do when they’re not bitching and moaning and doing their best to show everyone else "the truth" as a public service, so that we don’t fall victim to the scourge of optimism, or even worse, joy.

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Hey, remember the first five minutes of the Eagles game Sunday? Yeah. That was cool. I had to run out right after Steck’s second touchdown, but I’m sure the rest of the game was fantastic. So with the Vikings’ loss, we’re still right in this thing, right? RIGHT???

Guh.

Oh, if only I believed in miracles. Just add it to the list of things I do not have in common with Marty Balin. That and never having had the opportunity to bang Grace Slick.

I don’t believe in jinxes either, but I’m gonna go ahead and hedge my bets just in case, and do what everybody else on these here internets seem to be doing these days… looking past Chicago and into the offseason.

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Just in case this is our last post before the Federally-Sanctioned All-Purpose Deity-Neutral American Winter Holiday, we here at moosedenied would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a merry Christmas, a happy Hanukkah, a kwaaaazy Kwanzaa, a tip-top Tet, and a solemn, dignified Ramadan.

We wanted to get you all something to commemorate this, the holiest of consumer orgies, but then we realized what a huge pain in the ass that would be. And we’d resent the ass pain, and then it would be something you really didn’t want, and we’d see through your less-than-jubilant reaction, and then we’d resent that too. And then you’d resent us for the poor choice of gift, and resent our resentment, and we’d all just end up screaming "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!?" through our tears. Screw all that.

 So instead, enjoy this here nugget of YouTube goodness, which features a young Stephen Colbert finding out that there may not be an "I" in team, but there’s no "You" in team either. Leaders are like eagles. But Troy is not an eagle. He’s a parrot.

And for lagniappe, here’s the trippiest Donovan song ever…

I have it on good authority that she too is well aware of the fact that Ryan Perrilloux is better than Matt Flynn.

3 parts Seagram’s Seven Crown Whiskey
1 part 7-up

7&7, bitches! Drink up! You can even pour a little Grenadine in there if it makes you feel all holiday warm & fuzzy. It doesn’t make you an unsophisticated drinker. It makes you sloshed. And isn’t that really what it’s all about?

Exactly.

Can you smell the fear coming from East Rutherford, NJ and Minneapolis right about now? No, it’s not just the exhaust from the Turnpike and the lutefisk from Garrison Keillor’s house. It’s fear. Slowly but surely, the Saints are sneaking up on them from behind. And just like when George Michael sneaks up on you from behind, it’s sure to end unpleasantly for all parties involved.

Against all reasonable odds, it appears that the Saints are gonna turn out to be the monkey on the backs of the NFC’s current wildcard holders going into the final two games. Who saw that shit coming after week 4? Don’t look now, but the Saints are 7-3 over their last 10 games, Drew Brees is back to playing the role of Ric (WOOOOOO by God) Ocasek in the video for The Cars’ 1984 smash-hit single "Magic", and if you wanna get real silly, the Saints are 8-1 under Sean Payton against teams with bird mascots. And next up? The Eagles. Suck it, Timothy B. Schmitt!

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WARNING: This post is gonna suck. There really oughta be some kind of Viagra for bloggers. Or something. Hey, I get as many spam emails for wang enhancement as the next guy, but they’re never for the kind of wang enhancement I’m in need of right about now.

Originally, I had intended to post a detailed statistical analysis of why Ohio State really doesn’t need to even bother showing up at the Dome on January 7. Seriously, I’ve got spreadsheets and everything. I spent several hours transposing numbers from cfbstats.com into Open Office, then translating numbers into bullet points asserting LSU’s clear statistical dominance going in.

Then a funny thing happened… I realized I was boring the hell out of myself. And I realized I couldn’t subject you good people to that.

Oh sure, I could have jazzed it up a bit. For example, I was going to title it "I think I’m goin’ to Statmandu" which, come on, you have to admit that Bob Seger references just don’t get any more clever than that. Sure, Bob Seger references empirically suck to begin with, but I must confess that it amused the hell out of me.

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Know what’s great about the Falcons? Lately, everything they touch turns to shit. From the top down, this franchise is an absolute gold mine of unintentional comedy. Last night it reached a new level of hilarity as Arthur Blank actually mused out loud on national tee vee about whether or not Michael Vick would get a hold of too much fried chicken while in prison.

Let’s pause while you laugh your balls off. Again.

Seriously? Did he actually just say that? Out loud? On national tee vee? No fucking way, there’s no way he just said that. Oh Mr. Blank, no… you… di’int. The Honorable Minister Farrakhan is probably printing out driving directions to your synagogue as I type this. I mean… dude… seriously. Dude.

Meanwhile, Joe Horn took a short break from bitching and moaning about anything and everything to stick the final dagger into the Saints’ playoff hopes. To the tune of 2 receptions for 8 yards. In a 20-point home loss. Love ya, Hollywood. Eat a bowl of dicks.

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