This Is It. You’re My Only Hope, Mr. BPLC.

Andy Reid: I just can’t take this. I’m at my wit’s end. My family is crumbling and I can’t seem to find a way to make things better. I wish I could, but things are too far gone now for me to find a simple answer.

I need help. I’m man enough now to admit that I need help putting this family back on the right track. You’re my only shot here. I heard you have quite a good reputation for solving problems. So I’m asking now for you to help my kids through this dark time. Will you help?


Bill Parcells, Life Coach: Sure. That’s no problem. I’ll shape up your little shithead kids. You fat fuck.

Andy: Hoo! They said you were brutally honest. But I have to admit, it’s downright refreshing.

BPLC: Oh, I’m honest all right. To a fault. Beyond a fault. Some people would argue that it borders on pathological. Where’s you wife? You married WAY out of your league. She’s hot and I would like to masturbate to her.

Andy: She’s out at lunch. But I need you to focus on the kids. Perhaps you could give them a taste of your legendary sarcasm?

BPLC: (sarcastic) Oh, like that’ll work. You fucking loser.

Andy: Yes! Just like that! That’s the kind of blunt, in-your-face attitude that I think can make a difference.

BPLC: My daily rate for family consultations is $1 million. If you don’t like it, you can suck it. Also, I may bail at lunch.

Andy: That’s fine. Shall I introduce you to the boys?

BPLC: Oh yeah. Bring the little girls in.

(Britt and Garrett walk in)


Andy: Uh, boys? This is Mr. Parcells. He’s going to be your life coach for the next few days.

Britt: Fuck you. Annnnnndy!

BPLC: Are you Britt? I could tell by that loser goatee of yours. It looks like you took your old man’s mustache and threw it on your chin. I can still smell the Elmer’s Glue.

Britt: Fuck you. Why should we listen to you, you old fat asshole?

Garrett: Yeah, you couldn’t even win a playoff game in Dallas.

BPLC: There were mitigating circumstances you two little jagoffs couldn’t possibly fathom. Perhaps, if you two listen to me, maybe you wouldn’t still be living at home. Maybe you’d be able to talk The Big Pushover here into setting up an apartment for you. That way, you wouldn't have to sneak around to get beer and pussy.

Garrett: Really? We could do that?

BPLC: Sure. I let LT have his old place, and that guy was a fucking wreck. You see, it's all about PRODUCTION, kids. But you two Corkys can’t even manage that. Now I’m going to call you both faggots, that way you’ll think I think you’re gay.

Britt: We are SO not gay!

BPLC: Prove it. (whips out issue of Swank) Jerk off to this picture of Tera Patrick taking a PVC pipe up the ass.

Britt: You want me to masturbate right now?

BPLC: Yup.

Britt: In a room full of guys?

BPLC: Yup.

Britt: Isn’t that kinda gay?

BPLC: Not if you use the right technique.

Britt: I… I can’t do that.

BPLC: Then I’m afraid I’m just going to have to keep thinking of you as gay. Now, to establish your layalty even further, I’m going to treat both of you with extreme coldness in the hopes that you take the bait and become desperate to please me.

Garrett: That is so lame. That isn’t gonna work, you old dick.

BPLC: I’m sorry, Andy. Do you hear something? I thought I heard a real man talking, but all I see in front of me are two girls. Two girls with big gaping vaginas that are dripping with horse load.

Garrett: You take that back! We are not girls!

BPLC: No? Then prove it. Show me your balls. Whip ‘em out.

Garrett: Right now?

BPLC: Yup. If you two don’t have vaginas, show me your penises so that I have confirmation of it.

Garrett: Fine.

(They whip their dicks out.)

BPLC: Whoa! What are you two showing me your dicks for? You two really ARE faggots!

Britt: But you told us to!

BPLC: Oh, I’m sorry. I’m afraid you fell for another one of my ingenious mind games. I have a camera crew set up right outside this kitchen. And you two are now on the record as having whipped your dicks out in front of me. And I can tell you both had very small dicks, as well. All I need to do now is snap my fingers, and the world will know that you two are gay, and that you have small penises. My friend Bobby Knight will get a real kick out of this tape.

Garrett: Wait! Please! Don’t do this!

BPLC: Too late now! Nothing I can do about it.

Britt: We’ll stop dealing drugs!

Garrett: Yeah! And we’ll obey more traffic laws!

Britt: And we’ll respect the authority of our family structure! Please, don’t humiliate us like this.

BPLC: Hmm. Well, I’ll think about it. I, of course, can’t give you a clear solution to this. I prefer to leave this situation open-ended, so that you’re always unsure of just where you stand. It should help keep you two GIRLS on your toes, always in fear of me. You see how that works? (walks up to Andy) You can cut me that check now, Andy. Make it out to The Head Grocery Shopper. Got it, jackass?

Andy: Damn, he’s good.

A Sunday Afternoon With... The Cutlers!

On Monday, Michael Silver of Yahoo noted this very interesting tidbit from Sunday’s Broncos-Colts game:

Were Jay Cutler’s parents having a "competitive conversation" in the RCA Dome stands after their son's touchdown run, or did they just pick the most embarrassing possible time to have a full-on fight, with cameras rolling? If any flies on the wall out there have any insight, I would love to know.

Now, we at KSK have yet to stumble upon video of this incident. If you have it, please send it to us post-haste. But, we were indeed at the stadium on Sunday. I even had a Dictaphone handy. Amazing! Here now is a transcript of the conversation that took place between Mr. and Mrs. Cutler.

Mrs. Cutler: Great game!

Mr. Cutler: Yeah. Nice to some here and watch our boy play. I hope they win!

(five minutes later)

Mrs. C: Honey, honey. You gotta move your arm.

Mr. C: What?

Mrs. C: You’re hogging the whole armrest!

Mr. C: Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Jesus.

Mrs. C: What are you saying “Jesus” for?

Mr. C: Well, you don’t have to get all mad at me if I don’t know I’m hogging the armrest. Just ask nicely and I’ll be happy to move it.

Mrs. C: Oh, quit being so sensitive.

Mr. C: I’m not being sensitive. I’m just looking for a little courtesy. That’s all.

Mrs. C: Okay, okay. I won’t do it again.

(five minutes later)

Mrs. C: God, do you HAVE to chew that pretzel so loudly?

Mr. C: Hey, you just did it again!

Mrs. C: Did what?

Mr. C: “Do you HAVE to chew that pretzel so loudly?” I don’t know I’m chewing it loudly. Just fucking ask, will ya?

Mrs. C: Well, you keep chewing with your mouth open every goddamn day. Okay? And it gets a little old when I have to ask you over and over again.

Mr. C: Then don’t fucking ask me! Let me be how I am. I’m not fucking perfect.

Mrs. C: I’m not trying to make you perfect! And I resent, any time I ask YOU to do me the courtesy of something, you treat me like some kind of horrid fucking nag.

Mr. C: Well, maybe you are.

Mrs. C: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?

Mr. C: I said maybe you are a horrid fucking nag. Maybe I’d like a wife, instead of a goddamn study hall monitor!

Mrs. C: Oh, is that why you fucked your receptionist, then?

Mr. C: That was five years ago! And she wasn’t a receptionist! She was an Associate Account Executive!

Mrs. C: Why the fuck are you defending her?

Mr. C: Maybe because she didn’t mind if I occasionally hogged the goddamn armrest!

Mrs. C: FUCK YOU!

Mr. C: No, FUCK YOU!

Mrs. C: I’ll fucking take this goddamn plastic knife and shove it up your ass!

Mr. C: Go ahead. You’ve been dying to do that since our wedding day, you hateful old cunt!

Mrs. C: Take that back! You take that back, or so help me God I will find that big black guy that plays running back and bear him a child!

Mr. C: Joke’s on him! Wait till he gets you in the sack, Ms. Halfway In Hurts Too Much!

Mrs. C: FUUUUUUCK YOUUUUUU!

(attacks him)

Innocent Bystander: Excuse me, sir? Ma’am? Would you mind taking this somewhere private? My son and I are trying to enjoy the game.

Mr. & Mrs. C: FUCK OFF!

(Mr. C grabs a hot dog vendor’s grill fork.)

Mr. C: C’mon, little girl. You wanna dance? Let’s dance.

(Mrs. C grabs the pepper spray from her purse.)

Mrs. C: What would you know about dancing? You haven’t invited me onto a dance floor since high school, you limp old fuck.

Mr. C: Good! Good. I’m glad you’re finally laying it all on the table. Now maybe we can finally end this charade. You miserable queen of the harpies.

Mrs. C: I am gonna fork out your eyes, and I am gonna enjoy doing it.

Innocent Bystander: Uh, your son just scored.

Mr. C: He did?

Mrs. C: He did? Whatever. He’ll score again some day. Your ass is mine, fuckface.

Mr. C: Bring. It. On. COCKWHORE.

Innocent Bystander: SECURITY!

Photoshop courtesy of flubby and Ape.