Art Rooney is Playing Parcheesi™ Up in Heaven with Rasputin and the Baby Jesus Right Now

Holy fuck. Bill Cowher is God. His great steam-shovel jaws are an admonishment to limp-wristed pantywaists and people who listen to fucking Interpol everywhere. If you cheered on the Seahawks last night, then you a) hate America, b) are busy scrubbing Carlos D’s herpes out of your rep tie and c) can bite us, hard, right on our money clip where we keep the ain’t nuthin’ but a G-R-A-N-D thang we won last night because we are the Physical Graffiti of Gambling. (No idea what that might mean, although we walk past the building on the album jacket every work day.)

Anyway, this beardy glasses dude tells us last night at this Super Bowl party that he “only watched the Super Bowl for the ads.” We told him that was like saying you only banged the wife for the extra laundry. Christ, we write about the advertising business for a living and we would never say anything that stupid. There were women at the party who looked at the guy after that like he was an ambulatory turd. Go write a poem, assy.

Also: Rooting for Paul Allen is like rooting for spina bifida.

Lastly; Goddamnit all to hell. We were in a great mood until we saw this.

Billy Corgan is the kind of dude that makes us wish we could give people polio just by wishing on a star. Fatuous gasbag. We would rather listen to our own death rattle than expose ourselves to any of his shitty “songs.” HATE.