It goes without saying that Peyton Manning and Drew Brees are two of the best quarterbacks in football. You could make the argument they have been the top pair of signal callers over the last two seasons. With this in mind, there’s a better than average chance that whoever doesn’t win Super Bowl XLIV will still play himself one helluva game.

More often than not, the defeated Super Bowl quarterback plays like ass. See Rich Gannon and Kerry Collins. Sometimes the winner stinks up the joint too. See Ben Roethlisberger and Earl Morrall. On a few occasions, the guy hanging his head puts up some good numbers in a losing effort.

Here are the ten best quarterback performances that weren’t quite good enough to capture the Lombardi Trophy.

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The most popular interview at Super Bowl Media Day wasn’t Peyton Manning, Drew Brees, Jim Caldwell or Sean Payton. No, it was Colts defensive end Dwight Freeney. Specifically, his swollen right ankle. Surrounded by a gaggle of media from across the globe, Freeney’s bum body part faced a flurry of pointed questions about its health and availability for Sunday’s Super Bowl matchup.

It started out cordial enough, but soon turned ugly. Lucky for the Chronicles, we got our hands on the Media Day transcript (Warning: some of this is NSFW).

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The NFL Pro Bowl is a joke. Can we all agree on that? Even if we can’t, I’m not about to stop trashing the dumbest All-Star game in all of sports. The players don’t give a shit about it and the media’s fruitless attempts to deem it relevant are laughable.

Despite what Commish Rog Goodell says, his decision to move the glorified scrimmage to the week before the Super Bowl, in the same city as the Super Bowl, hasn’t exactly had the desired effect he was hoping for. Yeah, it’s sold out, but that’s only because it’s a helluva lot cheaper to travel to Miami than Hawaii.

Late season injuries have always watered down the game, but making matters worse this year is the Colts and Saints holding everyone out. Hey Rog, the teams that reach the Big Game usually have a lot of Pro Bowlers. Who told you it would be a grand idea to not have Peyton Manning, Reggie Wayne, Dallas Clark, Dwight Freeney, Drew Brees, Darren Sharper, Will Smith and Jonathan Vilma available to participate in what is supposed to be a showcase for the league’s elite? Ugh.

My growing hatred for the Pro Bowl has emboldened me to devise an alternative to the pointless drivel we are subjected to every damn year. I still want the best players named to their respective squads, but rather than play a lame football game, I’ve compiled a list of seven events guaranteed to entertain even the most cynical of pricks. Let’s get to it.

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They might not always get the pub they deserve, but point guards run the show in pro basketball. Studs like Kobe, LeBron, Melo and Dirk are able to dominate night in and night out due in large to the little big dudes who distribute the ball.

Remove point men from the equation and what’s left is a disjointed pickup game featuring a bunch of chuckers and dunkers. Exciting? Yes. Orderly? Not in the least.

Since point guards carry the keys and drive the offense, it only makes sense they should be compared to sports cars. Well, at least in my twisted mind it does. So, without further ado, here are some of the NBA’s finest wheelmen and their auto equivalents.

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I’m of the belief that firing projectiles into people’s faces via Nitrus-powered contraptions should be made into an Olympic sport. It always tickles my fancy seeing some dumbass kid willingly allow his friends and family to use his own mug for … [visit site to read more]

This will come as no surprise to anyone who has ever heard Jets coach Rex Ryan speak, but the man sure does enjoy dropping F-bombs. Especially when his team just upset the San Diego Chargers to advance to the AFC Championship game.

Nuthin’ rallies the boys quite like a good string of foul language. I like Rex Ryan. I like his old man, Buddy. Both guys are all about kicking ass, taking names and beheading opponents with broad swords, then shitting down their bloody stump of a neck.

Here are Rexy’s postgame comments to his team:

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Donovan McNabb ain’t going anywhere. Eagles fans just need to accept it and move on. Even though they’re stuck with 5, that doesn’t mean they haven’t stopped dreaming up all sorts of wild and wacky trade possibilities.

One that’s already become passé is McNabb for Julius Peppers straight up. Sounds logical. Cats need a QB and the Birds are desperate for help at left defensive end. A match made in heaven, right? Uh, wrong. It will never happen.

I’m bored as hell, so I decided to join in on the fun. Here are ten more potential trade scenarios that will not come to fruition… I think.

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Now that the pesky Wild Card round of the NFL playoffs is out of the way, we can settle in to watch the big boys on the block scrap. The fraudulent Bengals and Eagles have been vanquished, as have the overrated Patriots and Packers. It’s go time for the best of the best.

Who among these juggernauts has what it takes to capture the prized Vince Lombardi Trophy? That is the million-dollar question. Do they all posses the appropriate amount of intestinal fortitude to become world champs, or are some pansies, masquerading as tough guys?

In order to determine who’s legit, I’m going to take a closer look at each of the eight combatants. Hopefully, I can help shed some light on this pigskin-sized puzzle. If not, I can take solace in knowing that I gave 110% with my back against the wall. I came out fighting because it was do or die. No excuses, I gotta tip my hat to…

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We watch pro football for lots of reasons. Fierce competition. High drama. Superbly gifted athletes. Oh, and devastating hits.

Contact sport, collision sport, call it what you want. Football is all about smashing bodies into bodies. It’s the ultimate test of physical will; one that thrives on intimidation and punishment.

I’ve seen countless of crushing hits throughout the years. Some have made me stand up and shout. Others have caused me to wince and recoil. A select few are permanently embedded in my memory.

The following is a list of ten spine-rattling blows from recent years. Just make sure you buckle your chin strap before watching.

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An end to the NFL regular season brings with it the demise of another fantasy campaign. You are either basking in the glow of championship domination, or wallowing in a tepid pool of misery as you retrace the countless missteps you made along the tumultuous road that was 2009.

Whichever category you fall into, you will undoubtedly be praising those athletically gifted gents who made weekly lineup decisions much less tasking, or cursing the names of those overpaid corpses who ruined your chances at capturing fake glory.

Now is the time here at the Fiasco when we hand out seasonal awards. The best of the best and the worst of the worst are all subject to our all-knowing, all-seeing eye. Nothing escapes our gaze, kinda like that creepy “Eye of Sauron” from The Lord of the Rings:

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Another decade is in the books. Naturally, everyone is rolling out their “best of” lists because that’s the thing to do before the calendar flips to 2010. It’s not very original, but for those of us who enjoy basking in nostalgia, it’s a great way to relive some of the finer moments from the previous ten years.

I’m cuckoo for cinema, and since it’s always fun to discuss and debate one’s favorite flicks, I’m going to rewind the 2000s to pay homage to a decade of big screen brilliance. Rather than assemble an arbitrary list of the ten or twenty best films, I’ll take each year individually and discuss the movies that affected me most.

Now, my criteria for what constitutes a great film undoubtedly differs from others. For example, I place more significance on re-watch value and score/soundtrack. Whether you agree with my choices or not matters little. I like what I like and don’t give a turd if I’m in the minority.

Grab yourself a tub of artery-clogging popcorn and a giant cup of high-fructose corn syrup. And for Pete’s sake, turn off your damn cell phone… asshole. It’s show time!

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Parting is such sweet sorrow. Alas, we bid farewell to another fake football season. Life just won’t be the same without endlessly debating whether to start Quinton Ganther over Justin Forsett, or screaming at your flatscreen because Matt Forte is a useless pile of flesh who shouldn’t be allowed to appear in public without a scarlet letter stapled to his girlish chest.

Now we can look forward to a winter/spring of debating such crucial topics as whether C.J. Spiller is the next Marshall Faulk, or just another undersized, over-hyped slashing running back along the lines of say… I dunno… Reggie Bush.

Other time-wasting conversations will undoubtedly involve the draft value of ’09 phenoms like Ray Rice, Miles Austin and Sidney Rice. Is Randy Moss still first-round worthy? Will Chris Johnson supplant AP as the consensus number one overall pick next summer? Where will bullet train wideout DeSean Jackson be drafted?

So many questions, so few answers, so little time. Well, actually, we have months. Nevertheless, all this crazy uncertainty is like watching Christopher Nolan’s mind-bending Memento:

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Playoffs! Yes, Jim Mora, I’m going to talk about the playoffs. Well, the fantasy playoffs anyway. Maybe you’re like me and lost in the semi-finals because the stupid Cardinals turned it over seven times last Monday night. Or perhaps you’re like my pal Sean, who started the Browns D/ST and Mike Wallace on Sunday and won by 45 points. Asshole.

Whatever the case, the fake team postseason is in full swing. Many a fantasy nerd is crossing fingers, knocking on wood and praying to Jobu to help them capture artificial glory. They are sweating worse than a serial killer during a police interview whether or not Peyton and Reggie and Dallas will be rested. They are scrambling worse than Tiger Woods after Elin found his cell phone to acquire last minute waiver wire claims that will improve their odds at winning the prize.

It’s the silly season, after all, so undue amounts of stress and borderline insane behavior is pretty much par for the course. Nobody knows this better than one of my favorite Christmas flick characters, Detective Martin Riggs:

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Cheating in sports is as American as apple pie and corporate downsizing. In an ultra-competitive, kill or be killed business, some are compelled to take extreme measures to gain an edge. The allure of being the best and staying on top can sway even the most successful sports figures to put aside good judgment and take the easy way out.

Breaking the rules is all well and good until the guilty party or parties get caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. The first decade of the 21st Century proved that sports scammers are alive and well. Despite rampant drug testing, growing technologies and a gaggle of bloodhound websites and media outlets, a few fools still chose to walk a fine line.

Here are the the biggest cheaters from 2000-2009:

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This is a few years old, but I still found it amusing. The Detroit Pistons performed a sterling rendition of the Yuletide classic “Jingle Bells” back in 2006. From my experience, athletes singing usually equals comedy gold.

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Remember a couple weeks ago when the Patriots-Saints game was supposed to be the fantasy matchup of the season? Thanks to the Pats playing like shit, it turned into a snoozer with the Saints cruising to an easy win.

Turns out the fantasy bonanza of 2009 was played this past Sunday night between the Eagles and Giants. Wait, two rough and tumble NFC East teams? Battling in the cold wet Jersey Meadowlands? Yup. 83 points. 876 yards. Zero defense.

There were five touchdowns over 60 yards. Donovan McNabb and Eli Manning combined to toss for an evil 666 yards and five TDs. Three running backs and Michael Vick ran for scores. DeSean Jackson racked 261 total yards with a pair of sixers. Rookie Hakeem Nicks caught four for 110 and a trip six. Nobody played a lick of defense.

It was a spectacular symphony of fantasy destruction reminiscent of the final scene in Fight Club (minus the male genitalia):

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My lack of height and vertical hops precludes me from experiencing the joy of throwing down a monster dunk on a regulation-sized hoop. I’ve crushed at Nerf basketball for over twenty years, but I’m pretty sure posterizing my brother on the seven-foot-high rim in my parents garage isn’t the same as Dwight Howard executing a baseline windmill.

There are few things as thrilling in all of sports as watching a skilled roundballer perfect a twisting, thunderous dunk. It really is a thing of beauty. On the flip side, when someone – be it pro athlete or Pete Pedestrian – blows a jam, it’s pretty damn hysterical.

Here are ten such videos of what happens when dunking goes wrong:

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I’m not in the mood to lambaste the logic or fairness of the BCS. That’s a tiring endeavor and ultimately pointless. It ain’t going anywhere anytime soon due to large sums of money, under the table deals, compromising photos involving cattle and Notre Dame.

What I’d rather do is put on my magic pretend hat and conjure a… wait for it… gulp… playoff scenario. Whew! Much to my surprise, I was not struck by lightning or shot dead by an assassin’s bullet. Since I’m still among the living (for now), I’ll get to my, ahem, playoff scenario.

It features the top 8 teams according to the last AP Poll. Apologies to Georgia Tech and Iowa, but you lose out. My plan only has room for eight teams. Better luck next year.

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Seventeen receivers and tight ends topped 100 yards in week 13. Nine quarterbacks tossed for over 300 yards. The days of relying on a pair of stud running backs to capture fantasy glory are long gone.

You better bring the air assault if you wanna compete, unless you’re fortunate enough to own Chris Johnson and Adrian Peterson. I’m guessing that would be no one in leagues with more than four teams.

The Saints, Colts, Cardinals, Eagles, Patriots, Chargers, Packers, Cowboys and to an extent,Vikings, all feature pass heavy offenses. Not coincidentally, these squads are the best around in the NFL. Wait, did I just write the “best around?” Cue The Karate Kid montage:

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For whatever reason, I’ve always found people with food names amusing. I once new a kid in college named Dave Burger. Everyone called him “cheese.” Not very original, but it was better than “ham” or “double.” We gave him loads of grief, but he was a good sport about it.

Which brings me to sports, or rather those in some way affiliated with sports who happen to have a food name. I’ve identified 20 delectable personalities from past and present who would feel right at home on a restaurant menu. Unfortunately, there is no Steve Pizza or Ted Lobster, but there’s enough here to tantalize the palate and quiet those pesky hunger pangs. Bon appetit!

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Kittens and NASCAR go together like rednecks and domestic violence arrests. Don’t think so? Well, adorable little Nick is here to set you straight. Forget catnip, little Nicky gets stoked watching super-fast cars make lots of left … [visit site to read more]

Week 12 began with a trio of Thanksgiving snoozers and ended with a classic showdown between two of the league’s best. Well, it was supposed to be a classic. It turned into another Saints shellacking. Drew Brees shredded the Patriots defense like a stand-up comic shreds a drunk heckler. It was both impressive and embarrassing.

In my mind, the ’09 fantasy MVP is coming down to two fellas: Brees and Chrissy Johnson. You could make a case for Favre or MJD, but neither has crushed like Brees and Johnson. Drew dropped 371 and five on Monday night. Chrissy totaled 186 and a touch against a very good Arizona run defense, and is still on pace to rush for 2000 yards.

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If you’re a fan of the band Tool, you might have already heard this amazing cover of the song “Vicarious.” The dude responsible is named Adam Monroe (adammonroe.com). Not only does he sing the vocals, but he does so while tickling the ivories. … [visit site to read more]

Here are a few things we should be thankful for in fantasy football: teams that score 30 points on a weekly basis; guys like Brett Favre and Wes Welker, who bring it every Sunday; injury replacements like Jason Snelling and Bernard Scott; the upcoming Saints-Patriots showdown, which could end up being the greatest fantasy game in the history of the universe.

As we prepare to stuff our gullets with turkey and yams on Thursday, we should also be readying our fake rosters for a playoff push, for those of us lucky enough to be in such a fortuitous position. Making the correct waiver wire claims, studying matchups closely and relying on a little bit of luck should give you an opportunity to capture fantasy glory.

Don’t forget to dot your i’s and cross your t’s or you’ll end up feeling like Steve Martin in this memorable scene from the Thanksgiving classic Planes, Trains and Automobiles. (WARNING: COARSE LANGUAGE DEAD AHEAD.)

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I love the NFL. I really do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate it sometimes. Pro football is kinda like my chick. Most of the time, she’s great. I have zero complaints. Other times, I’d like to chain a cement block to her leg and kick her in the nearest river. That’s just how the love ball bounces.

My relationship with the NFL is similar. Most Sundays I sit back and allow myself to be ensconced in pigskin goodness. Besides annoying talking heads that bring nothing to the table and a few missed calls by increasingly awful officials, my blood rarely heats up, let alone boils to a head.

That being said, there’s always room for improvement.  Just like my chick. I wish she’d pick up her damn shoes. Everywhere I look there are shoes, shoes, shoes. Do the Reebok workout sneakers and Jimmy Choo pumps have a problem with the closet? Are they too good for the closet? Does their patent leather shit not stink?

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Any fantasy baller worth his/her salt has had the pleasure of renting the services of either Peyton Manning or Tom Brady for their fake teams.  There’s nothin’ more satisfying than plugging these stud signal callers in each week and watching them drop 300+ and 3-4 touchdown passes.

Mucho points are a virtual automatic, unless some jackass safety dive-bombs into Golden Boy Tom’s knee on opening day. Seeing your fantasy prospects explode during the first week of the season is not cool. I recall losing a starting running back and tight end on the same opening Sunday a few years back. It was a bit distressing, but I got over it after smashing a coffee table with a hammer.

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I get downright giddy when young whipper snappers lose their shit over a video game. This poor lad had been waiting and waiting for the release of Modern Warfare 2 his whole life. Unfortunately for him, he struggled … [visit site to read more]

(Be sure to check out EverythingPowerRankings.com, FanSided’s daily review of the hottest stories and videos on the Net.)

Love him or hate him, Peyton Manning has transformed himself into quite a pitchman. Coming out of college, I never would have imagined the pimple-faced goober with a grade school haircut would become a Madison Avenue superstar. Everyone was aware of his cannon arm and professional pedigree, but the winning personality and comedic timing were hidden attributes.

Turns out Peyton can shill a company’s product just as easily as he can dissect a top-rated defense. Over the last decade, he has appeared in countless TV spots selling everything from credit cards to televisions. Here are the ten best Manning commercials:

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Now that Microsoft has released the secure and stable Windows 7, we can look back at all those other faulty operating systems and laugh. Although I have yet to test drive the latest and greatest OS, I’m fully confident it will be smooth as fresh cut glass.

It’s not as if Microsoft would lie to consumers about the functionality of their products. That would be cowardly and immoral. Rich and powerful corporations like Microsoft are many things, but cowardly and immoral they are not.

The introduction of Windows 7 means a fond farewell to Windows Vista. I’m gonna miss Vista. It had a cool name and a rockin’ music video dedicated to Service Pack 1. Is that Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band? Don’t be silly, it’s Bruce ServicePack and the Vista Street Band.

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Let me just say that Ray Rice and Randy Moss are totally bitchin’. Thanks to them and big tight end named Vernon Davis – whom I shrewdly snagged off the waiver wire a month ago – I am in prime position to lock down a playoff berth in an 18-team league. That’s right, I said 18!

If you think you know how to manage a fake roster, you should really test your skills in an 18-team league. With bye weeks and only four bench spots, it’s a daunting challenge, to say the least. Well, not for someone as savvy as myself, but ya know, for all the amateurs and wannabees out there.

Basically, I rule. My knowledge is second to none. My talent is unparalleled. My dominance is unquestioned. My ability to crush on every level reminds me of Chow Yun Fat in John Woo’s classic crime actioner, The Killer:

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It’s nice to know that even the rich and famous can be afflicted with bad hair. One would think that assloads of cash would afford the glitterati the best hair technicians money can buy, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. Especially when it comes to professional athletes.

For whatever reason, ballers and shot callers have no problem sporting questionable coiffures. Some jocks are lazy, others don’t give a shit, and a select few are insecure camera whores who need to be the center of attention in order to feel good about themselves.

Here are the ten worst follicle mishaps in sports today. Well, maybe not the absolute worst, but these are pretty awful.

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My friends get their jollies sending me links to videos they claim are “really cool” or “totally awesome.” Most of them suck. The videos, not the friends. Except for Troy. He’s a fu**ing asshole.

As for the vids, the ones involving circus freaks, barnyard animals and amputees are good for a few laughs, but they’re a little too risque for the Chronicles. I like to keep things highbrow around here. For example, I see no need to expose the kinky goings-ons at a certain sports network (unless they involve John Kruk, Buster Olney and a sheep).

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Points o’ plenty once again during week 8. Ten of thirteen winners racked 30 or more. The Eagles and Saints make sense, but what got into the Titans and Panthers? Vince Young and Jake Delhomme led their teams to victories. 2009 continues to be an enigma.

I’m taking the Fiasco in a different direction this week in order to pay tribute to one of my favorite flicks. That movie would be Office Space. Ten years ago, Mike Judge’s seminal cubicle comedy slipped in and out of theaters without much fanfare. Word of mouth and the advent of DVD helped turn it into a modern-day classic.

Working in an office environment sucks. I did it for a few years and managed to escape with my dignity and common sense still intact. Enduring pointless committee meetings, douchebag bosses, asinine theme days and a general uncaring attitude toward employees is no way to live. I’d rather spend my days writing about sports and movies and pointing out the absurdities of our inept institutions.

Without further ado, here is the best and worst in fantasy football for week 8, Office Space style.

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There’s nothing worse than being a fan of a really awful sports franchise. Enduring year after year of piss-poor ownership decisions, laughable general manager moves, questionable drafting, nonsensical coaching and dreadful player performance can make even the sanest person bust a brain synapse and drift into a catatonic state of deep depression.

Following your favorite team is supposed to be gratifying, or at the very least, fun. However, when said team has been mired in a prolonged period of futility and is the constant butt of cruel jokes, there is no such thing as joy in the hearts of its fanbase.

On this Hallows Eve, I thought it fitting to take a look at ten scary bad franchises. These teams aren’t just bad, they are a veritable house of horrors from top to bottom. Some are failed expansion experiments, others are former winners that have fallen on hard times, and a few just plain suck.

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It’s been a tumultuous couple weeks for ESPN. Baseball “analyst” Steve Phillips got busted and fired for an illicit affair with what I’m told is a woman. Brooke Hundley sounds like a female name, but an uncanny resemblance to a fat Ozzy Osbourne leads me to believe she might be a dude.

Phillips awful taste in side pussy wasn’t the only headline-grabbing story involving the World Wide Leader. Doddering old fool/NCAA football color man Bob Griese unleashed a not-so-vicious racial tirade aimed at multi-millionaire NASCAR driver Juan Pablo Montoya.

It had something to do with a taco. Who knew such an innocuous comment could get one suspended from their gig. Welcome to the year 2009, a time and place populated by over-sensitive douchebags who can’t take a joke.

Now that Bob has enlightened us all to the fact that Latins enjoy a taco from time to time, we can easily discern some other athlete’s favorite eats, based solely on their country of origin.

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Boo! Halloween came early to the NFL during week seven. Eleven of thirteen matchups were decided by double digits, including margins of 38, 36, 35, 30 and 28. It was a house of horrors and one that clearly separated the class from the dreck.

Sitting through a Sunday of massacres reminded me of the constant bloodletting depicted in a Friday the 13th flick. The hacking, the slashing, the beheading, the impaling, the arterial spray. It went a little something like this:

Funny stuff. That Jason is such a cad.

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Hockey is a rough-and-tumble sport. Watch this spine-rattling shoulder to the face hit delivered by Flyers’ captain Mike Richards on the Panthers David Booth if you don’t believe me.