With the Pittsburgh Steelers enjoying their hard-earned bye, Steeler Nation can likewise do the same.  This will be the last stress-free weekend for many of us until some time early in February.  It’ll also be the last time many of us shave.  Remember, guys, the playoff beard superstition goes in to full effect as of Monday.  Ladies, I’d invite you to join us but if you grow hair anywhere other than your head, that’s pretty disgusting.

How to pass the time?  Well, you could watch Pitt embarrass our city once again in the Tidy Flush Toilet Bowl.  I’m so glad I went to CMU.  Our offensive line may not be able to run the 49 Rocket Go but they could devise a fuel to make a rocket go in about 49 seconds.  Us non-masochists will probably read a book.  Over the holidays, reader Steve Lowe sent me his debut novella Muscle Memory and I give it my full recommendation.

Imagine if one morning everybody woke up to discover they switched bodies with the last person they screwed.  Tom Cruise would wake up as that guy who pretends to be his assistant, President Obama would wake up as a taxpayer, and Roger Goodell would wake up as James Harrison.  *Shudder*  It wouldn’t really inconvenience West Virginians, though, since most share the same last name with their cousins.

That’s the basic idea behind Muscle Memory.  It’s a “Twilight Zone” meets “X-Files” meets “Tales From the Crypt” type story.  And Terry Bradshaw is the Cryptkeeper!  Not exactly but he does make a pivotal appearance in the story.  And, unlike in Failure to Launch, there’s no danger of seeing his magnificent ass.  This being Steve’s first published work, the writing sometimes varies from extremely good to a little rough.  However, his sharp characterizations and sense of atmosphere remind me of early Stephen King except substituting the New England flavor for something decidedly more Rust Belt.  As somebody who took a ton of creative writing classes but was always too chicken to try getting his work published, I am more than happy to support Steve’s efforts.  If you’d like to support a fellow Steeler fan and read a creepy little yarn to boot, Muscle Memory can be picked up for $9.95 on Amazon.com by clicking here.

Of course, after reading books and/or watching Pitt get blown out, there’s a little matter of four playoff games to watch.  Never hurts to scout the opposition.  Here’s a quick run down of sure-to-be-wrong predictions about this weekend’s games.

New Orleans Saints @ Seattle Seahawks

People are predicting a blow out but I don’t see it.  New Orleans is not that good.  They squeaked by the Steelers on Halloween but that was Ben’s first real tough game of the season and the offense was still very rusty.  Last week, the Bucs went up and down the field on the Saints defense.  Unfortunately, Seattle’s offense isn’t as good as Tampa’s and they don’t have Black Ben Roethlisberger.  My heart wants me to slip into some skinny jeans, paint my fingernails, crank up the Sonic Youth, and predict a Seahags upset.  But my head says Saints will pull it out.

New York Jets @ Indianapolis Colts

The Jets are the only team the Steelers cannot face next week because they’re the 6th seed and New England gets the lowest seed remaining.  People are jumping back on the Colts bandwagon because they managed to win their crappy division after all the other suckass teams shot themselves in the foot like a bunch of Elmer Fudds on speed.  I’m not buying it.  Yeah, the Jets are overrated but Peyton Manning is the ultimate playoff choke-artist.   New York by a field goal after Rex Ryan pumps up kicker Nick Folk with a vigorous foot massage.

Green Bay Packers @ Philadelphia Eagles

I believe Green Bay is the best team in the NFC.  They certainly play the best defense, coached by former Steelers D-coordinator Dom Capers.  Philly’s worship of Michael Vick turned out to be a case of puppy love after he stumbled a bit toward the end of the season.  Does Vick have the leadership to guide a team through the dog days of winter?   I think people betting on the Iggles are barking up the wrong tree.  Thank you, I’ll be here all week.  Try the pot roast.

Baltimore Ravens  @ Kansas City Chiefs

Ah, talk about a Sophie’s Choice.  Our hated enemy against a bunch of cornfed yokels.  The Ravens D are typical bullies, they run their fat mouths a lot but whine and cry when people stand up to them.  And I still maintain Joe Flacco is not an elite quarterback, no matter how much talent surrounds him.  Then you have the fact I simply cannot ever bring myself to pick the Ratbirds even though we’d have no problem beating them in the Divisionals.  So while I’m pulling for the Chiefs, the fact they got slapped around by the Raiders last week doesn’t instill me with much confidence.

If you listen closely, you can hear the hearts of millions of women breaking.

Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback and uber-bachelor Ben Roethlisberger is reportedly engaged to Ashley Harlan (pictured above).  The news began circulating online yesterday but I dismissed it as local gossip in the same vein of Bill Cowher having an affair with Kordell Stewart’s sister.  He doesn’t have a sister, people.  However, the story picked up steam when KDKA’s John Shumway questioned Ben and the Post-Gazette added more credence when they did what any respectable newspaper would do; send a reporter out to ambush the alleged fiancee’s family.

My natural reaction to this story was, “That’s the best he could do?”  Then I remembered he’s a goofy looking lug.  My next thought was, “How gullible do they think we are?”  According to the PG article, Harlan’s mother was introducing Ben as her daughter’s boyfriend last summer.  We are to believe they began dating four months after he got in trouble for banging a drunk skank in a bathroom stall and now they’re engaged less than six months after that?  Maybe if they met on the super-secret website used by Charlie Sheen, Michael Jackson, and Tom Cruise specializing in conveniently timed sham marriages.

In hindsight, I guess the shenanigans in Milledgeville could be viewed a bachelor party.  Sure would have been a whole lot safer (and smarter) to just hire a stripper instead of seeking free entertainment from loose sorority girls.

Whatever the case, Ms. Harlan is certainly a PR person’s dream.  She’s a local, having graduated from Laurel High School in New Castle and went to college at St. Francis.  She currently works as a Physician’s Assistant, which puts her somewhere between highly educated nurse and undereducated doctor.   So despite her plain-jane appearance, you can certainly sell her to the gullible media as a bright young woman not at all interested in Big Ben’s monopoly money.

While I certainly applaud Ben’s efforts to become a better man after the debacle last March, part of me hopes this news is not true.  Despite his dickish behavior, I always appreciated the fact Ben was true to himself.  Tom Brady is a deadbeat dad who pretends to be everybody’s dreamy All-American.  Bret Favre is an unfaithful pervert who texts his junk to random women while pretending to be a loyal husband to his unbearable shrew of a wife.

Ben never pretended to be anything but a big goof who loves getting hammered, banging sluts, and playing football.  He wasn’t a Christian gentleman like Tim Tebow or an overrated famewhore like Tony Romo.  For better or worse, Ben was Ben.   And far be it for me to question the power of true love (which no doubt blossomed over a beer bong) but I guess I’m a little sad he decided to sell out like so many others before him.