Saturday, January 24, 2009

Pittsburgh -7 vs. Arizona

Mr. M.: BC, happy Chinese New Year! It's apt that we debate on this festive occasion, because unless I'm mistaken there've been more dongs in your shitter in the Year of the Rat alone than in the entire Beijing phone book. Which brings me to the subject at hand - the subject, of course, being my football-lusting cock and the hand being my hand. That's right: Only one more game to jerk off to. I'll need two tissues this time. One to gather the pearly contents of my convulsing nuts and one to wipe away my tears.

BC: And I wish a happy Chinese New Year to you, Mr. M., even though we all know you much prefer the Year of the Cock. And a year of cock it has been here at Effball. Cock to feast upon and cock to fear. And only two cocks remain. Which will climb upon the jizz-covered hill to crow, I wonder? Will it be the Cardinals, whose offense, at first blush, appears as gay as the cast of Rent but still managed to force the decidedly ungay Eagles into cumslurping submission? Or will it be the Steelers, whose defense flattened the prostates of just about every quarterback they faced this year with the jumbo ass tenderizers in their jocks? There can be only one rooster in the henhouse, after all. One cock in the cage. So I turn to our resident cock expert: What say you, Mr. M.?

Mr. M.: Oh you! With the cock talk. You're so gay, you make Troy Aikman seem straight. You're so gay... When the rest of the world watches the Super Bowl, you'll be watching ESPN's Assmasters. You're so gay, you started packing your bags 'cause you heard pitchers and catchers were reporting for spring training. When you go to Geno's in Philadelphia you order one "jizz wit." You're so gay, you... you... mmm, cheesesteak... Philly... Eagles... McNabb... Dawkins... Westbrook... sigh. I'm tearing up now. What's the use, anyway? Hold me, BC. Hold me in your comforting arms.

Oh yeah, Steelers by 13. Right?

BC: I confess it, M.: I do love men. But not all men. Here's one I'm not a big fan if these days: Kurt "Cuntmouth" Warner. Once again I found myself sitting pantsless in my Barcalounger, ballsack stuck to the glossy pleather, limp cock in hand, having to watch that fucknik thank, for the millionth ass-eating time, his "Lord and Savior, Jesus." Not to be confused with his poolman, Jesus or his gardener, Jesus. And not to be confused, evidently, with the Jesus whose glory and munificence was unable to lift the Eagles to victory. That Jesus didn't really bring it on Sunday, apparently. Maybe that Jesus had his cock nailed to the cross, too, and no measure of earthly arousal could pry it loose so that it might be used to fuck the other Jesus, the Cardinals' Jesus, where and when it counted.

Mr. M.: BC, we try to have fun with our little "blog." We try to amuse ourselves. But sometimes, frankly, you go a little too far. Sometimes you overreach and wind up offending. No, no - hear me out. I'm sorry to lecture you a little bit like this, but I think you'll appreciate that I'm being quite sincere. I think you need to hear this, BC. It's for your own good. I'd expect you to do the same for me. Here's what I'm saying: cool it, sometimes. My brother. Don't cross the line just for the sake of crossing the line. Think, for chrissakes. Think! Use your head, not your cock. Don't stab me in my Eagles-loving face with your cum-spurting boner! Don't rub your balls into my face that the Eagles lost to the Cardinals. It's too much! I can't bear it! Don't mention their name again! Jesus Christ can fuck the exhumed corpse of Vince Lombardi and ejaculate onto his dusty, brittle ribcage, but don't let me hear the word "Eagles" for the next six months!

Oh hey, enjoy Sunday. See you in September.

Pittsburgh 34, Arizona 21

Monday, January 12, 2009

Baltimore +5.5 at Pittsburgh

Each week, almost impossibly, the over/under for Steelers games gets lower and lower. The same with the Ravens. And so it happens that the AFC Championship game, which should be a delightfully cum-filled fuckfest, looks to be a curiously tedious back-and-forth of ass-clenching and cock-blocking. It's enough already, really. Somebody score. Somebody fuck a guy, for Jebus sake. When I watch football, I wanna see some fuckin'! Deep and hard man-sex. Can a guy see a guy fuck a guy in this league anymore? I don't think it's gay to want that. Instead, I've got to spend three hours on a Sunday beating myself raw to the sexless to-and-fro of... punters? Or is it puftas? Mitch Berger. Sam Koch. Say those names and watch your iron-hard man-rod go as limp as overcooked rotini. Still, I'll watch the game. After all, it's playoff football and I'm not queer. I just wish I could watch one big, sweaty, powerful man fuck another handsome, hairy hard-body in the ass, maybe get a little mouth-love for his fat fucktool and both of them cum on each other's face.

Pittsburgh 17, Baltimore 13

Philadelphia -3 at Arizona

Last time these two teams faced each other, Brian Westbrook took it to the hole so hard, so often, so vigorously, the Cards didn't shit right for days. Cock-ramming the Rams a week later restored Arizona's taste for the sweet, soft asses and mouths of submissive men, but they looked positively cumsick against the Vikes and Pats to rear-end the season. Sure, they beat the Falcons and the Panthers, but so could a pickup team from the Missouri State University Bisexual, Gay and Lesbian Alliance. Now they're playing in their first conference championship since 1572, when the Cardinals were named the Quetzal Birds and based in the Aztec city of Tenochtitlan, where they played an ancient precursor of football with ritual overtones named Tlachtli, in which the captain of the losing team would have his head cut off and gleefully brandished by the victors. The game has evolved since then - offensive captain Anquan Boldin will only face the severing of his enormous testicles after Asante Samuel, Sheldon Brown, Brian Dawkins and Quentin Mikell take turns draining their spooj guns into every orifice in his ailing body - but the humiliation before Huitzilopochtli will be no less terrible.

Philadelphia 28, Arizona 20

Monday, January 5, 2009

San Diego +6 at Pittsburgh

Let's face it: Darren Sproles doesn't have a giant penis, he is a giant penis. Literally. The dude is a human fucktool. A 5'6" big, beefy, chocolate dong. He's a cock with eyes. And a mouthpiece. You may think 5 1/2 feet isn't very big to be a football player, but it's fucking huge to be a dick. Think about it. Think about if your unit was over five feet long and built for speed. The damage it could do. Of course, there would be the inconvenience of having to buy your pecker an extra seat on the plane every time you traveled, and having to arrange your seats together, but not in the emergency exit row because, well, there are probably rules against that, having a big massive cock in the emergency exit row. And having to feed it and get that thing through security with everybody staring at it, all horrified and shit. Holy fuck! Is that a big gigantic cock going through the metal detector? I hope it's not on my flight! I don't wanna sit next to a big gigantic cock. Who knows where that big gigantic cock has been?

Well, we know where it's been, don't we? At least lately. It's been in the ass and mouth of each and every Indianapolis Colt. It's been putting a painful dent in the back of Dwight Freeney's throat. It's been pile driving the clumps of bloody stool in Bob Sanders' lower intestine. And this weekend it'll be in western Pennsylvania, at the hallowed confluence of the Allegheny River, the Monongahela River and the Cum River that rushed from its bulbous tip last week at Qualcumm Stadium. And speaking of Rivers and cum, San Diego's hot young quarterback has shown an almost unsettling willingness to douse his opponents with heaping loads of his clotted cream. You could say he's finally cumming into his own... and into the hair, the mouths and the assholes of defenses that have had to face him. But the Steelers are the league's foremost cockblockers, aren't they? If anyone can stanch the spasmodic blasts of searing love lava erupting from Rivers' fuckmeat, it's the Steel Curtain. And it will take at least that, a curtain of steel, to sheath, as if with a human-sized condom, the massive, darting, fleet-footed phallus-erectus that is Darren Sproles. Pittsburgh wins this one by a cunt pimple.

Pittsburgh 17, San Diego 16