Your Meast of the final week of the regular season is the crusher of souls and all living matter, Bernard Pollard. And not just because he played a small role in the injury of another beloved (to their fanbase, at least) member of the Patriots. Noooo. Perish the thought. The guy also had a fumble recovery for a touchdown and an interception. Those are perfectly Measty contributions to a winning effort. And have nothing at all to do with the infliction of harm on another player. The recognition of clean, stellar play is what the Meast award is all about.
/has oil painting of Welker injury commissioned and hung above his bed
/makes offer of $50,000 to Texans officials for the piece of turf that Belichick said is responsible for Welker’s crippling
/demands Baskin Robbins rename all 31 flavors of ice cream for Bernard Pollard because they are otherwise besmirching his jersey number
/makes it so the Fritz Pollard Alliance has the say over who should coach the Patriots next year
/rewatches this vintage interview Mike Ditka did in his underwear, not because it had anything to do with Welker, but because it’s hilarious
/remember Wes Welker’s injury and laughs even harder
Your first co-Least of Week 17 is the New York Giants. The whole sorry bunch of ’em.
Mmm. Yeah. That’s good Manning Face. Whichever benevolent force responsible (but lacking in HTML prowess) can add it to this fine collection.
Not only did the Giants tank their final two games by a combined score of 85-16, they allowed the Vikings to reclaim the first-round bye that Minnesota did everything in its power to squander the last month of the year. We could’ve been rid of Favre this very weekend. Not we have to wait one more whole week. Damn you!
Speaking of that dumbshit, your other co-Leasts are the four fucknuts writers for voted for Brett Favre for Comeback Player of the Year. Tom Brady won it with 19 votes out of 50, which is fine, I guess. I would have opted for Cedric Benson, personally. But Favre? FUCK. THAT. SHIT. He played all 16 games last year. Having a gimpy arm the final month isn’t sufficient hardship to deserve a comeback award the following season.
We know Peter King is one of the four. That’s a given. He might have even bought off another writer with promises of caffeine-supercharged hand jobs. But PK’s pull (tee hee) only goes so far. He had help. We demand the NFL release the identity of the others so they can experience the public shaming they have so recklessly brought upon themselves. Be no longer an accomplice to dumbfuckery, NFL. Give us the names!