As you may know, Will Leitch, editor of Deadspin and spiritual godfather to this site, released his brand spankin’ new book the other day (Buy it here). Since our definitive Leitch parody went over so well, Will asked for the honor of contributing a post to KSK. Because we feel bad that he so rarely gets the chance to write for Deadspin any more, we granted his request.
You may remember some of our previous forays into the frightening world outside of our apartment -- yes, it's a basement apartment, ha ha -- in which we provided some viral marketing for Spike's "Pros Vs. Joes" by striking out against John Rocker, whom we later interviewed, the result of which is available (with footnotes!) in our new book. We also happened to be wearing an old Rick Ankiel jersey during said strikeout, as of course we never hide our love for Ankiel (which you can read about in our new book), even though he used HGH, to which we're not opposed, as is detailed in our new book.
For our second extended advertisement for PVJ -- which, we think, sounds like a delicious sandwich -- we brought A.J. "The Balls" Daulerio along for a game of touch football with Andre Rison and Kordell Stewart. Despite our noblest intentions, we were undone by an oversized, unexplained pylon in the middle of the field, something that, to be quite honest, we were totally unprepared for.
For this iteration, we -- Daulerio, us, and photographic correspondent Aileen Gallagher -- recently accepted an invitation to once again try our hand against the Pros, this time against former Knicks Charles Oakley and the less-renowned Charles Smith, who we remembered for missing four straight shots in the closing minutes of Game Five of the 1993 NBA Eastern Conference Finals against the Bulls, which were the last Eastern Conference Finals of Kurt Cobain's tragically short life.
Interestingly, PVJ has moved out of its old digs at Grand Central Station and has found a much nicer home at Madison Square Garden. We were nervous we might see Isiah Thomas, but the Knicks were away that day. We didn't even get a customary grope from MSG personnel, perhaps because we neglected to shower that morning. We are, after all, a blogger.
We fear, however, these girls got no such reprieve.
Because it's Spike, of course, cheerleaders were needed, and we feel it's necessary to share this information because Gawker's new pay system is based on page views, and pictures of cheerleaders are more likely to lead to a click-through than three sentences of italicized text.
We did not speak with the girls, of course. Even if they had noticed us as we stared at our feet in a dusty corner of MSG, such conversations seem inappropriate to us. Our Midwestern values frown on such forwardness.
As always, the in-person experience of PVJ is both eye-opening and depressing. These were once great athletes, and now they are reduced to...
Oh, fuck it all.
Do I really have to go through all this shit again? You get the point. These guys are old now, but they're still way better at sports than regular people like me. And along the way you get to see embarrassing photos of me. Whoopdee-fucking-doo. So go ahead, spend the rest of your afternoon making fun of my shoes and noticing tiny details in the background of the photos.
Fantastic life you must have.
Fuck all of you. I quit.