And then there were four. If you went to your local bookie after taking my picks for the NFL Divisional Playoffs to bet the farm and wish to contact me about it, my name Peggy. You have problem?

But let's face it, my prognosticating methods are a bit unconventional (see: demented). I picked Seattle for one reason only. Because if they won it would totally blow your mind. Okay, two reasons: Chicago QB Jay Cutler is a head case and has a perpetual smug expression that makes you want to hit him in the face with a pie (Made with Ex-Lax and broken glass).

I picked Baltimore because I have a thing against rooting for rapists.

But Bill, what about Ray Lewis and that obstruction of justice thing with a murder investig...

Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-let's not muddy the waters any more than we have to, m'kay?

I thought the Pats were hot and the Jets were hot air. Looks like somebody replaced coach Belichick's videos of the Jets private practices with Hard Knocks. Serves Tom Brady right. Now he can watch the Super Bowl like the rest of us. At home. His 22,000 square foot home on a 103-inch plasma screen TV resting his feet on a stack of cash. I'll bet his supermodel wife makes him get his own beer. Ha! Sucker. Get a haircut, hippy!

Back with a hybrid of the Binge and the Grind (think shampoo and conditioner or Alien vs. Predator dumbed down) for your reading and listening pain pleasure. Flip and Bill meet at the studios, shake hands, turn on the mic and go. It's raw, it's unrehearsed and it's awful...

Awful good! Sorry, I was choking on my own spit. I meant awful good.

Let's peruse the menu for today's specials. Think of us as your sports power lunch. Quick, cheap and by the time you get back to work you're gassy and ready for a nap.

The 2010 college football season is over (pause for tearful hanky blow) and your Auburn Tigers are the new National Champions over the Oregon Ducks in one of the most exciting sphincter-puckered-to-the-very-end games in BCS history. Bitch, moan or smugly offer up your own unsolicited playoff formula if you want. But you must admit the two best teams somehow seem to wind up playing each other in the end, no matter how many bizarre if's and but's you hypothesize on the way there. When all is said and done, one inescapable conclusion remains. The Oregon uniforms looked absolutely f***ing ridiculous. Seriously, those fluorescent leg-warmers looked like a Flashdance and Tron car crash.

It's an SEC thing. People still cock their head like a dog hearing a high-pitched fart when they hear me rooting for Auburn, the boil on Gator Nation's ass since Pat Dye left. Two words: Conference pride. The better they look, the better we all look. The worse they look, the more red meat is exposed for the starving SEC-bashing bigots to chew on all of us. We're a family. Families fight. And while it's fun to inflict wedgies, noogies and swirlies on our siblings all year long, once the punks down the street shove our brother, we band together and unite. Five titles in a row, bitches. That's a tough case to argue. But you can try. You're adorable when you're angry.

Cam guilty after the fact. Auburn QB Cam Newton was cleared by the NCAA to play, claiming that there was no evidence directly linking the shenanigans of the father (Cecil) to the son. As cynical as it sounds, it is not impossible to believe that a parent can keep a secret from a child, particularly in this case where plausible deniability is a huge plus (think Jack Bauer keeping the president out of the loop while he badasses his way through the city. Man, I miss that show). But something happened after the game that compromised that theory. During the post-game hoopla, Cam was seen on the field hugging his Pop. Far be it from me to begrudge a family celebration. But for the story to hold water, this kid should be furious at his father for embarrassment and betrayal or at the very least both of them should be aware of the fact that it may be in poor taste at best to let him on the 50 yard-line for a public embrace. Cam may not be an accessory, but he appeared in that moment, complicit. Bottom line is this: If your spouse clears you of hooking up with an ex, it may not be the smartest move to be seen drinking champagne out of her shoe on New Year's Eve.

Falcons fans listen up. We were the only ones who weren't completely dumbstruck by the Seahawks' upset of the Saints. Why? Same criticism of the Bucs. Wussy schedule. New Orleans enjoyed a similar stroll-in-the-park spanking of Cleveland, Cincinnati, Carolina (twice) and the JV NFC West on their way to the playoffs against a team and a home stadium that had had just about enough abuse all week long. An upset? Of course. But Seattle wasn't just going to sit back with their decaf cappuccinos and suck on it. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

PLUS! We make our weekend NFL playoff picks (Will Atlanta suffer the same schedule cupcake curse as New Orleans? They beat the Bucs. Whoopee, so did Detroit with that quarterback you will never guess the name of. Hey, no googling!); Think TCU got stiffed out of the title shot? We point out mathematically the final rank numbers of the dreaded strength of schedule comparisons (Then we point and laugh. Shortest. Debate. Ever); Last year's Super Bowl contenders are out, our Super Bowl picks are still in (Bonus prediction: Fergie suffers a wardrobe "lady-lumps" malfunction and as a result, next year's halftime show will revert back to octogenarian bands); And in a blatant but unintentional narcissistic tangent, Flip and I share our New Year's resolutions (Warning: May cause drowsiness)

So sit back, minimize the porn and solitaire, put aside the TPS reports and enjoy. What else are you gonna do, go out and play? It's freezing out there.

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It's been a about month since Flip and I wasted an hour or so of your time enjoying the sounds of our own voices gabbing about sports and junk. To kick off the new year, however, we decided that it might be kind of fun to do, wait for it, the same damn thing. So, let's check the whine list and see just what we think we know we're talking about this time around. Sure, some of the stories are a few weeks old. But it's our unedited, unrehearsed and ill-prepared opinions that are fresh out of the oven. Mmm, you can almost smell the brain fart.

The NFL regular season is over, the Bucs were one win away from embarrassing themselves in the playoffs (Thanks, Detroit!) and the post-season picture is set. We break down the remaining 12 teams (12 teams, right?) with our usual dizzying intellect and deductive reasoning to name the two contenders in the Super Bowl and actually go balls out and pick a winner. Book your tickets to Vegas, baby. I smell early retirement (Warning: Picks are for recreational purposes only. Flip and Bill are not responsible for lost life savings or college funds, destroyed marriages, or nose-dives off the Skyway Bridge).

All of college football is in the books minus one game (cough, take Auburn and the points, cough). Between the two of us, we managed to watch every single bowl game from the Poinsettia to the Rose. Also? We're dating Erin Andrews, Ben Roethlisberger won the Bart Starr Award and about 45 minutes in to the show, monkeys fly right out of Flips butt. Seriously, it was like the Wizard of Oz in there. His poor butt. Insurance won't cover that, either. Where was I? Oh, we share our much anticipated thoughts on the bowls we actually did see, why Urban Meyer left and whether or not we need a playoff system in college (spoiler alert: hell to the yes).

PLUS: Is Will Muschamp good or bad for UF (Can Gator Nation truly love a former Georgia Bulldog? Hey, we all did stupid shit in college. Like this one time after I was downing Cisco, a buddy of mine and this other chick dared me to put my...never mind), the future of the Tampa Bay Rays (Hold on, let me see who's left...BJ! Whew, nobody's better at  striking out looking. Plus we giggle when we say his name. What, like you're so mature) and we discuss what we did over the Holidays. Stories include: The French Quarter, Karaoke, Mexico, shots, nipple-twists, motor-boats, BBQ, Elvis, vomit, ATV's and balloons shaped like wieners. Jesus would be proud. Or pissed. But definitely one of the two. Happy 2011.

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Back by popular demand (What? Yes, were gone for like three weeks. Glad you noticed. Jerk). Flip Satchel and Bill Freitas once again take to the cyber-waves to give you some stripped down, raw-ass, FCC can't touch us sports news and comment guaranteed to make you dive for the volme control when you realize you just heard an F-bomb and the boss has the office door open. Let's see what's on tap for the best Tampa Bay weekly podcasting sports program in Creative Loafing online named The Grind to date. Hey, make realistic goals and you achieve them. Like this morning I made a promise to myself to put on pants before noon. Success!

We dive helmet-to-helmet into what's left of college football 2010 and discuss the pain and irrefutable hind-sight of Gator Nation (new quarterback, new defensive coordinator, new defense, questionable offensive coordinator, and a doctor that insists Urban should take it easy. What could go wrong?), the jubilant schadenfreude experienced from the Boise State loss (Nevada? Really? Plus, you're giving your kicker death threats? We would expect better from a backward delusional pack of hicks with a hyper-inflated sense of self), the final Miami meltdown (Last year Bowden, this year Shannon, lose to USF in this state and you lose your job. Urban Meyer wipes sweat from his forehead in relief...or should we call a doctor), Auburn's chances of SEC supremacy and beyond (you bet your hot laptop), and much, much more (and by that we mean we can't remember).

Bucs host the Falcons for yet another test of legitimacy in front of hundreds for an NFC South rematch. Will this be yet another Buccaneer loss to a team with a winning record? Judging by the fact that our secondary has more holes in it than Sonny Corleone, let's just say they'll be cleaning up dirty bird-shit off the endzone for days.

PLUS: Coach Raheem Morris defends ghetto behavior (No, not like saying, "Dy-no-mite"), attention starved, self-absorbed, front-running douchebag fans of other NFL teams that infest and pollute our local sports bars (Yeah, baby! Touchdown Bears! Everybody look at me! I'm from Chicago! Deep dish, Ditka, Ferris Bueller! Bad attention is still attention! Hey, you in the back! Why aren't you looking at me? Bears!), and Flip shares the best Karaoke story ever. If you know of a better one, then you spend way too much time at Pete's Place on Henderson (Free plug. You like dives without knives? Then you could do a lot worse than Pete's Place. Pete's Place: Nobody goes there, but everybody winds up there).

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You're over-caffeinated yet tired. Your back hurts, your eyelids are heavy and the boss was scheduled to blow out early but is still hanging around telling painfully unfunny jokes in another futile attempt to be one of the guys. All you can do is laugh uncomfortably until you fake a frantic phone call, side-step to the fax machine for an imaginary receipt, or grab your gut mumbling something about a bad chimichanga and haul-ass. So as not to interrupt the Friday flow, I'll keep it shallow, random and quick.

Gators host Cocks for the right to be pummeled in Atlanta. South Carolina heads to the Swamp for an unexpected winner-take-all showdown to represent the East for the SEC Championship game. One word. Lattimore. If Florida doesn't find a way to stop that man-child, Gator Nation will be hearing his name in their bourbon-fueled nightmares. Nobody thought Saturday would be one of the biggest games of the year for either team. What's more amazing? I managed to get through this paragraph without making a single cock joke.

Panthers at Bucs will once again fall in a forest and nobody outside Raymond James Stadium will hear it. For the 5th straight time, the game will be blacked out. The Panthers will be starting rookie quarterback Jimmy Clausen and will be without running-terrors Jonathan Stewart and DeAngelo Williams. Introducing, Mike Goodson. A 2009 4th round running back out of Texas A&M so hot, the St. Pete Times misspelled his name. Not to worry, Mikey. They'll get it right after you pop your NFL 100 yard cherry on Sunday. I can hear it now.

"They're not booing, ladies and gentlemen. They're just chanting, 'Ruuuuud.' Huh? Oh. Never mind. They are booing."

-Fox commentator you won't hear

Quicker Hits: John Guilland, A local lunatic was refused a restraining order against Tim Tebow in an Alachua county court. Says Guilland in a petition, "I was trespassed from the Kangaroo Gas Station on University for saying T-Bo sucks...I personally hate any type of exercise although I feel Billy Blanks has a wonderful video." (the answer is yes, John can cancel out your vote); Redskins running back and worst stand-up comedian since Michael Richards, Clinton Portis donned a Philadelphia Phillies hat at a press conference leading up to a game against the Eagles because it "matched his hoodie" (ghetto fabulous, Clinton. I guess if you win enough rings, you can act like a douche. Whoops); Anyone with cable apparently missed the Atlanta Falcons comeback against the Baltimore Ravens Thursday night because it was exclusively on the NFL Network (the good news? You also missed Joe Theisman and Matt Millen cover the game. Thanks, Brighthouse!); An Australian star rugby player quit the team after a picture surfaced of him in a sexual act with a dog. Yes, a dog. No, not an unattractive woman, a dog. Think the Urban Legend of the chick with the peanut butter minus the peanut butter. Or just a really affectionate and apologetic Michael Vick.

After you throw up from the doggie images, here's a bonus "debate" I had with Flip about Cam Newton and the subject of paying college athletes that just deteriorated into an argument. I sincerely apologize for the profanity and my incoherent blabbering that will no doubt be looked back as early signs of dementia.

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I can promise you this, folks. You can't get this kind of coverage in terrestrial radio. And that may be a good thing. Flip and Bill get hip deep in the mud that is the week in sports (or slow news day lifts the toilet seat and goes snorkeling). Let's take a peek. Hold your nose.

It's Halloween and the BCS looks scary. The number one spot is a spooky bed of snakes covered with red ants and the ghost of a horny Marge Schott. No wonder teams don't stay there long. We discuss the upsets, the matchups and the team about as frightening as a mini-pack of Milk Duds; Boise State. Boo!

Jerramy Stevens was busted and booted with enough wacky-tobacky to share with the Miami Heat. Makes you wonder. Just how dumb are these guys? Seriously. For millions of dollars, what wouldn't you give up? Flip shares personal anecdotes with assorted losers he's worked with for an in-depth investigation into the bong-water soaked mind of your average pothead. You'll be surprised at just how stupid is as stupid does. How these globs of meat find the front door every morning is nothing short of a miracle.

Speaking of globs of meat, tired of hearing about Brett Favre's penis? Then you haven't heard us drone on about it. We tackle the issues everyone else is afraid of. The art of courting 2010: Cock-shots. Is there a right way of doing it? What could Favre have done differently? First off, Jenn Sterger can't get interested in your shlong-a-dong if you clearly are not. Where was the pregame? A picture is worth a thousand words? That saggy old snapshot seemed to say, "Hey. Just finished a bag of stale saltines. Here's my penis."

Yawn

Really? Dude. Watch some porn, find a sock, jog in place with baggy shorts, grind a pillow, do something. Show you care. Get that member three strokes away from ruining your Wranglers and say, "I'm Brett Favre, bitch! Giddy-up!"

I mean if you're gonna risk it all, get primal, grab a couple of beers and jump off the plane down the emergency escape chute, for God's sake.

Ah, L'amore.

PLUS! Our stream of conscious thought travels from the Florida/Georgia weekend all the way to loofahs. How we got booted off the radio, we'll never know. At least we can say the F-word. Which Flip does. A lot. So join us if only to hear what it would sound like if Scarface grew up in Arkansas.

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Another hangover, another disappointing, frustrating, hair-pulling, WTF Rays loss. That's it, folks. Season's over. After the final out, with the crinkled area on the bridge of my nose indicating a befuddled cracker-mind, there was nothing left to do but finish the beer, tip the waitress handsomely for an academy-award winning performance of pretending to like me, then listen to the lame-ass postgame excuses on the way home for some semblance of perspective. For Flip, there was the big picture of a division championship and an overall successful season. For me? Not so much. To mop up our collective puddle of pride and jerk us back into a series tie that was all but done for, only to prolong the inevitable just made it cruel and unusual. After Game 2 it was as if we were strapped to the electric chair; our peace made with God and our final good-byes all wrapped up in a bow. Flip the switch, Rangers. We're ready. Then the phone rings. It's Governor Maddon, the warden tells us. You've been pardoned. A feeling of indescribable elation and relief sweeps over our body followed by an admission that, in actuality, we didn't want it to end. But just as the prison guards were about to unstrap us, instead they just tightened it, laughed in our face and said, "You really didn't think we were going to let you go, did you?"

"BUT"...BZZZZZTTZZTTZZTZTZTTTZT!!!!!!!

End of The Sopranos.

We discuss.

Fridays, typically awesome, don't quite have the same pep this time around. Flip is full of piss and vinegar, Bill has an epic Ferg's hangover and the Rays went from playoff party-crashers in 2008 simply to uninvited guests double-dipping at the loser buffet. Over at the bar, the Texas Rangers are whispering to the Yankees asking how they got past security, the Phillies are rolling their eyes while canoodling with a giggling cocktail waitress, and the Rays, suddenly noticing the stares, awkwardly check to see if their fly is open. Embarrassing. Purge with us, won't you? Here's a peep.

Maddon admitted the Rangers took a vital component from the Rays' game plan. The component in question? Walks. I remember walking a lot in little league mostly because I sucked ass at the plate and was afraid of getting hit by a pitch. So, many at bats I just sat there and hoped I'd get more balls than I apparently had in my pants. I never dreamed it would be a playoff team's strategy. Um, Joe? Yeah, we have just a teensy issue with that.

One of the ugliest plays in baseball? A bad hop to the junk. But a close second would be striking out looking. And we can say without a single atom of sarcasm that it's something a paralyzed monkey on dope can do.

Note to professional athletes everywhere. When you call out the fans, you damn well better back it up. When you don't, expect a shit-storm. The clouds are forming, Longoria. There's a small-craft warning, Price. You've opened yourselves up to the always dependable and infinitely obvious argument that you cats are being paid millions of dollars to play a game and we're spending them to watch that turd of a shut-out. Get better. Fast. Everything's bigger in Texas, up to and including ass-poundings.

PLUS: We announce a remote (say we suck to our face, tough guy), Flip describes his experience with deep-fried chilidogs (you had me at deep-fried) and a baseball player allegedly has a touch of the AIDS (his ex's, quite understandably, have a problem with that).

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It's been a fortnight since our last podcast. That's two weeks for you Florida State grads (BAM). Rays won then lost, then won again. The Bucs won then lost and lost spectacularly. Michael Vick had an orange jumpsuit two years ago and now makes more per week than you will in your whole life. Yep, lots to rap about. So let's peruse the cheat sheet for a half-assed transcript of today's cyber-ramblings. On we go.

The Bucs suck. Want something a little more cerebral? How's this? The Bucs indubitably suck an ardent amount of burro gonads. We discuss the political correctness of describing a crappy 2-0 team (example: A win is a win) before the inevitable reality check of the Steeler molestation.

Speaking of Steeler molestation, only one more week of banging erasers in detention for Big Ben before he can once again take the field and wag his metaphorical genitalia to law-abiding fans everywhere who send their kids to community college so they can afford tickets to watch him throw a football. Meanwhile, international crime-boss Michael Vick is winning over the (soulless) hearts and (vacant) minds of the Phili faithful. Back here at home, Bucs fans want to see more of that running back that punched out everybody but the cotton-candy guy because he ran a few garbage yards against the Steeler scrubs. What's wrong with this picture besides everything? We get all up in commissioner Roger Goodell's grill about his complicity of the NFL's transformation to the NBA.

Speaking of complicity, we take issue with Raheem Morris' stance on Tanard Jackson's suspension for whatever the hell he smoked, snorted, or injected. Not to mention the "legalize it" crowd with their whole tired and overused retread what's-the-big-deal-it's-just-a-little-weed argument. First off, we don't know if hippy-lettuce was what the dip shit tested positive for the go-zillionth time around in the first place. Secondly, if it's not a big deal, then it shouldn't be a big deal to quit to save your career and make millions of bucks, should it Sherlock?

Speaking of Sherlock, you don't have to be Holmes to tackle the whole Rays attendance issue once and for all. We're not afraid to say it. The location totally sucks ass. Want something more cerebral? The locale unambiguously nurses my hindquarters. Period. There are other peripheral reasons, but our biggest beef is with the question itself.

Why aren't people going to the Rays games?

The premise is false. It's an all-or-nothing, close-minded, close-ended question designed to end the discussion before it begins. As soon as somebody mentions that the drive is too long, the avalanche of transplant anecdotal horseshit obliterates the poor bastard.

"Back in New York it took us 72 hours, two trains, four buses and a cab to make a Yankee game."

So f***ing what? There's people starving in Africa but if my Outback steak is cold, I'm sending it back.

My point is, the location is not the reason why people aren't going to Rays games. The location is why people aren't going to more Rays games. If it were closer, people would go more. Ta-da!

Put it this way. You have two friends. One lives next door, one lives 20 miles away. Which bud would you tend to hang with more? Oh, and your friend is on TV. Did I lose you?

Speaking of more, there's much much more unintelligible sports gab on The Grind podcrapcast.

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