With peyote at their disposal and Tuesday’s media day in the books, Tom Coughlin and Bill Belichick decided to order up a cactus pizza to celebrate.

Couglin, the world’s biggest Doors fan, decided Glendale was the perfect place to try out his best Jim Morrison “Lizard King” impression.

Belichick, feeling a little bit like Robby Krieger, decided to follow Coughlin into the abyss.

The duo eventually caught up with actress Kate Mara — the great granddaughter of Giants founder Tim Mara — and hiked north toward the Grand Canyon.

Not much has been heard from them since they departed. But a video was sent to us.

All I can say is: ego destruction

Love and insecurities surfaced, along with Belichick’s political views, giving us a true glimpse into the bizarro world of NFL coaches, love and drugs.

Hope these guys can mentally recover by Sunday.

The other evening I switched on the AM dial of my car radio and tuned into WFAN 660, a local sports talk station based out of Queens.

Famous for the Mike and the Mad Dog program and previously Imus, the station also boasts a living dead man in night host Steve Somers.

Somers (pronounced ’summers’), better known as “The Schmoozer,” got his nickname because supposedly couples would be schmoozing underneath the covers during his perverted late night meanderings about Barry Bonds’ shrinking member.

Anyway, as I pulled onto the Taconic Parkway, Somers began talking about a fake bit they did with Giants Head Coach Tom Coughlin.

Normally, I’d just jab the steering wheel with an open palm and pop in The National’s newest CD, cursing Somers’ existence into the night.

This time, however, the seductive dick jockey went too far. He took MY FUCKING TOMMY COUGHLIN and tried to make art out of it.

I went and took the liberty to tweak up Somers’ impostor version, effectively bringing back the Tommy Fucking Coughlin we all have grown accustomed to.

This whole Jacobson business is pretty infantile, don’t you think?

Who hasn’t chugged from a bottle of hard booze and proceeded to tell the ugly truth?

In honor of your courage, Dana, we bring back a classic Charlie Weiss post of yesteryear.

Fuck, we said this shit after drinking some tap water out of a plastic Jets cup.

Based on Will Leitch’s “God Save The Fan,” this video depicts 24 hours of ESPN watching.

Be careful.

You have been forewarned . . .

Viddy well, little brother. Viddy well.

If you thought you’d be lighting a candle for the Knicks this year, don’t bother wasting your match.

However, there is one player who can always light up the game: Renaldo Balkman.

Many confuse him with the popular 1980’s Maverick, Ronaldo Blackman. This Balkman is more like the stoner cousin 2000 version. Laid back, long hair, and shows up late to every game.

His nickname is Kool. No really, it is.

So who is this guy? What else is in Balkman’s closet besides a 5.6 ppg and 4.2 rebound average?

For one thing, he might be the most recognizable player in the league compliments of his overgrown hair, which he vows to never cut again.

I am angered by that statement. He should shave that if the Knicks make the playoffs this year.

His lucky number is 34, which he may someday regain with Eddie Curry only making cameo appearances nowadays. Eddie is pretty much dancing his way out the door.

Besides his hunger for the basketball, Balkman also has an appetite for food, as his college major was restaurant management.

Can you imagine asking for the manager at a restaurant to pronounce your dissatisfaction, and then Balkman comes out?

I know I would quickly change my tune.

When asked what food he would choose to live on forever if deserted, he chose patti melts.

But since he doesn’t cook, he likes to munch on pizza and peach soda. Never heard of peach soda before, but being raised in Florida they probably put peaches in everything.

Pizza in Florida is skeptical at best, so being drafted by New York must be a pizza prayer answered for this guy.

That is pretty much all we could find on Renaldo. The guy is a mystery only Robert Stack could handle.

But hey, this is more than we knew before. And who knows, maybe we’ll all be eating at his restaurant one day . . . Balks Famous Melts. Just check your food for hair first.

Tommy “fucking” Coughlin, fresh off the NFC championship win over Green Bay, was out of hand in the post game press conferences.

His demeanor and intensity mirrored a buzzed Charles Bukowski.

In the first video, Tommy sounded off on Troy Aikman’s comment about his spotless complexion and Brett Favre’s seemingly forgotten drug use. Oh, yea, he left a little parting message to his favorite melanoma-head, Tiki.

In the second video, Tommy wails on about his drunken Scottish kicker, Lawrence “Tynes Tyme.” Tommy, seen funneling a 12-pack of Natural Ice during the locker room celebration, once again brought Tiki into the conversation. Real big surprise, I know. But when Tommy’s blood begins to mix with booze and tingle, evil Tiki thoughts sprout from his subconscious.

Enjoy, sickos.

Can you imagine this face on the Wheaties’ box? Yeah, me neither.

(Hat tip to KSK for finding this classic photograph.)

Seeking:  Head Football Coach for Multi-million dollar Miami Dolphin Franchise.  Needs to look like Adolf Hitler.  Name must be marketable, (i.e. Homer Simpsen, Michael Jacksen, Tom Bradee).

Salary & Benefits:  Anal rapings by Bill Parcells.

The Giants and the Patriots have a chance to be in the Super Bowl, so life as a Jets fan is pretty much equivalent to, well, life as a Jets fan.

Jetnation.com – a website devoted to Jets fans, but more reminiscent of an AA meeting — offers me free sports therapy.

Today, I think I finally had a break through …

In a post started by Max, the “Head Idiot” at Jetnation, there is a letter from Dolphins owner Wayne Huizenga, giving his many thanks for “us” courteous Jets fans (the letter was originally addressed to a poster named GreenDNA).

In the letter — addressed to Jetnation — Wayne laments the hardships of a season that was saved by a Long Island frat-looking-boy.

Life as a Dolphins fan, with a hemorrhoid infested GM in Bill Parcells and a spotted brained owner in Huizenga, is officially beyond repair. Tom Brady fucking ripped a giant load all over Mercury Morris’ face, too.

Sorry, Miami.

Anyway, here is the letter.

Eat your heart out, boys.

There’s an entire cornucopia of reasons that made yesterday’s Giants victory over the Cowboys a euphoric moment for football fans across the nation. From the failure of Tony Romo, to the TO mental breakdown, to the simple fact that the Cowboys losing equals pure, unadulterated joy, it was a reminder that you can actually be happy on a Sunday. The day does not always have to end up with you taking out the chainsaw and spinning around with it in the middle of the street a la Leatherface at the end of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

My favorite part of the game’s result is the fact that now the NFC Championship Game will be played in Lambeau Field in Green Bay, the Mecca of the National Football League.

If the Cowboys had won, I’d be disgusted just thinking about another game in the rathole that is Texas Stadium. The name alone causes me to froth at the mouth and break out in hives. Texas Stadium? I know Texans tend to have the circulation to their brains cut off by those ridiculous bolo ties and umpteen-gallon hats, but it’s still a mockery that the franchise is allowed to call their home a stadium.

Just imagine your friend gets a new car. He tells you it’s a convertable and your psyched to go cruising in the summer with your hair blowing in the wind. You tell him to come over and pick you up. He shows up in a 2000 Maxima with a sunroof and you’re wondering where the new whip is. This is it, he tells you. My convertable.

Nonsensical, right?

Well, Dallas, that’s you. You’re the friend. So cut the fucking charade already. Man up and admit your “Stadium” is just a fucking dome with a sunroof.

Fucking Jerry Jones. What kind of shit is that? Who greenlit this monstrosity in the first place? Only a Texan — or maybe a Carpathian — would pull a move like that.

But, once again, we have proof that there is a God. Just like every other non-Dallas fan, I’m geared up to get to see this Giants-Pack matchup live from Lambeau this weekend. Nothing beats NFL football outside in January, where it was always meant to be played.