Couch-Scout v.3: Steelers, Squealers, Low-Down Dirty Double-Dealers

So the Admin thinks that two legs of this here aluminum tripod have forgotten about supporting the Orange-Robed Knights of the Front Range (patent pending)? Hardly. It's just that, for the only the second time ever, our local baseballers are rocking the postseason; that, combined with the worst Broncos team I've seen in some time--interestingly, or not, the Rockies lone wild card in '95 accompanied a disappointing first season under Shanahan--has meant that our orange poms have stayed, like Brodie Croyle, in the closet. Royals fans will recognize this experience from the tales their elders told them over the sod fires.

Anyway. Let's break down the game. Shouldn't take too long.


The Broncos are giving up 187.6 yards per on the ground. The Stillers are chewing turf at a 167 ypg, 4.8 ypc clip. That spells bad trouble, stinky smelly trouble, trouble like the dude who pooped on my driveway the other morning (and left behind his toilet paper!)

Plus there are the injuries, the off-field hi-jinks, the boomerang of karma, the falling pianos. Reknowned malicious career-ruiner Tom Nalen is done for the season. Javon Walker asked to Just Get the Damned Ball, already, even though, as Mike Klis mentioned in this morning's Post, he knew he was going to have to get his knee 'scoped. Awesome. Travis Henry sues the league to delay the inevitable, also awesome. Simeon Rice says he's healthy enough to play but goes into this game inactive, started making noises and now threatens to push that little Dutch fucker's finger right out of this creaking dyke, beyond awesome. No Rod Smith, no Al Wilson, just some kids, a bunch of aging mercenaries and Champ Bailey. Who is out tonight. Awe. Some.

Jesus. This is what it must feel like to be, I dunno, a Lions fan. Rooting for a draft pick before the campaign is halfway finished.

The Broncos could, of course, recover and make the playoffs, but to do so they'll have to play like a completely different team than the one we've watched through knotted fingers these past three weeks. Specifically on defense. And offense. And special teams. And coaching. And weather-related acts of Zoroaster.

I doubt it will happen. And though I'll be in my usual rooting posture--drunken fetal position near the ottoman--I carry that doubt into this contest. The Traveling Family of Displaced Steeltown Porkers that show up en masse for every Pittsburgh roadie will be, in between heart palpitations, thrilled by a 38-7 victory. The rest of us will listen to Powerslave in our bedrooms and draw pictures of dragons.