I'm Not Drinkin' Any F**king Harrington! Part 2

Welcome to Part 2. If you haven't read Part I you might want to scroll down.

Pio Cesare Barolo- This is where things start to get tricky. Barolo, a product of the Nebbiolo grape from Piedmont, Italy, is my favorite varietal. But like any good hooker they can be quite tempermental. First they have to be properly aged, usually this is a wine you buy to hold for a couple of years before you drink it...or you could just pay more money to buy an older vintage. When you let a wine like this sit you can't always predict it's outcome, they've had an excellent start but you never know what can go wrong. In wine it could be due to improper storage, in the NFL it's usually because of a contemptible, stubborn, asshole with a clipboard and a headset. I call him Marty Schottenheimer (that's German isn't it?)

Phillip Rivers- Consider the playoffs his uncorking (of course by this I mean that he is going to get corked...in the ass).

Tony Romo- See above. Big Ben played like a drunken grizzly bear in the Super Bowl and they still won, but if they do well in January I'll concede the victory to Dallas.

Vince Young- Tremendous. Upside. Potential. (copyrights Bill Simmons 2005 and Dan Shanoff 2004). I want to stick Vince Young in a small box at a constant 55 degrees for the next five years...if you know what I mean.

Matt Leinart- Fuck it all. Of course he's gonna be a stud, there's almost no avoiding it. I can almost hate him already.

Mmmmmmmmmm...Alba

Pio Cesare Barbera d Alba- Firstly I'll say this. On any given Sunday Barbera's can be fantastic (unless Oliver Stone is prominently involved). But there are issues. This wine is grown right next to the Barolo crop and it's got an inferiority complex. It's a good wine at the outset but it's obvious that it's not getting any better. Maybe Eli just should retire to a vineyard in Piedmont.

Eli Manning- Speak of the Devil('s brother). I think it's safe to say he's never going to be a world-beater but he's more Billy Ripken than Ozzie Canseco.

Jake Delhomme- Why isn't this team competing for home field advantage? Because everyone named Jake carries a defective gene.

Mark Bulger- In first six weeks of the season he looked fantastic, now he looks pretty shitty. Such is the fate of Mark Bulger.

Steve McNair- He's not what he once was but he's still got a flair for greatness, that's why I buy the Barbera and that's why I bet on Baltimore to pay for it. (p.s. Fuck Baltimore.)

Chad Pennington- Like the rest of these guys he's capable of leading his team to the playoffs, but without a dozen Pro Bowl teammates he's never going to win shit.

Alex Smith- Risky but potentially crafty. Small hands...smells like cabbage.

Trent Green- He's well aged but he was improperly stored by the Washington Redskins (thanks a lot Gus) but he's still palatable.

Kendall-Jackson Grand Reserve Merlot- They serve shit like this at dinner parties and other social gatherings because it does the job without being bad enough to generate too many complaints. It's never the answer that anybody is looking for but it can always fill in and do the job like a professional. But in the end it's still Kendal-Jackson, and that's not a championship winery.

Jon Kitna- He'll never be anyone's dream quarterback, but you could do worse.

David Carr- Yeah...he's just not getting any better.

Joey Harrington- A year ago he wasn't worth a bottle of Mango Mad Dog. Shit done changed.

Brett Favre- That's gotta hurt.

David Garrard- I'm not sold on him. The Jags will try to make him their future and they will ultimately fail like always.


Beaujolais Nouveau-The wine for people who don't like wine (pussies). It's called Nouveau because it's straight off the vine and it tastes like a glass of alcohol infused Welch's grape juice. It's really just popular because it's readily available, it's cheap, it's fruity, and it's filled with alcohol...just like JP Losman on Sunday!

Drunken whore!

Bruce Gradkowski- He's a seat-filler like Kramer at the Tony's, only he's never going to win anything and he loves the brothers.

JP Losman- He just sucks.

Charlie Frye- He's now engaged in a budding quarterback controversy with Derek Anderson who apparently never played basketball at Kentucky.

Franzia- The undisputed king of non-bottled wine, it's never any good, it will make you sick, but it's always there for you.

Brad Johnson- The latter years of his career are turning into a personification of boxed wine.

Rex Grossman- One minute he looks brilliant, the next he's atrocious. Let him age for a few years so the tannins can mellow out, then he'll be a serviceable journeyman backup.

MD 20/20- Ah fortified wine, favorite beverage a trendy hobos and high school kids everywhere. It will give you a splitting headache and make you puke every color of the rainbow.

Aaron Brooks- Uh...he's black? Ouch UM, that was uncalled for. Seriously though, he's fucking awful, he's on the Raiders and he's a glaring weakness. That's like going to Arizona and being known as a huge coke-head.


Ben Roethlisberger- It's all downhill from here.

Shaun Mondavi's Reddish-Style Wine Drink- You can make this shit in your own backyard/prison cell's toilet. First mix equal parts tequila and Five Alive (sugary drink not super-intelligent robot), mix in the seawater and fish, and then funnel it into a dirty Mountain Dew bottle. Garnish with a sprinkling of mini-marshmallow's...and voila! This is reserved for the most distasteful degenerate ever born...

Jake Plummer- ...please leave. I can't trust you anymore. Just go. Get out of here. Go!

I cannot classify Mike Vick, he can be anywhere from Cakebread down to Mad Dog. As for Jay Cutler and Jason Campbell...give me another couple of bottles.

My Eerie Calmness Should Tell You I'm Totally Off Steroids

Well, I think that should set the record straight. I came back last week, notched a sack, and helped the Chargers assume the mantle of hottest team in the NFL. And I did it all without a lick of steroids. So I hope this proves to you folks, once and for all, that I'm clean.

Did someone just brush against me? Who the fuck just brushed against me?! WHO?! Show your face, coward! You don't pipe up now, I'm gonna fucking perform live surgery on you and then stitch the wound shut with human hair!

Oh, sorry. Think I nodded off there for a moment. Anyway, now that I've served my suspension without complaint, I'd like to think I have a clean slate with everyone. Heck, Peter King says I'm still in the running for Defensive Player of the Year! I think that's proof enough that I've made amends.

Did someone move my shampoo?! It was right here in my locker. Well, who the fuck moved it? I didn't move it. Was it YOU? I swear to God, if I find out you moved my Pantene, I will fucking crack open your sternum and suck out a gallon of your blood with a crazy straw!

And where the fuck is my Gold Bond?! That shit keeps my crotch nice and dry. It's like a breath mint for my balls. The menthol burning lets me know it's working. So help me God, if someone took my Gold Bond without asking me, I will tear off their scrotum and use it as a motherfuckin' speed bag! Not such a merry man anymore, am I?! AM I?!!!!

Did I just nod off again? Oh, dear. I think I may be having an adverse reaction to the Joe Weider Protein Fuel I just bought. Nothing to worry about. As I was saying, I think I do deserve some consideration for DPOY. I never took steroids willingly. And, you can rest assured, I never will.

Who's that female reporter in the back? She's wearing a skirt. I'm gonna fuck her. And if anyone gets in my way, they're also gonna get fucked. Boy or girl. My cock is the Juggernaut. Don't get in the way if you don't want to be a human shish kebab. I want that. I want it I want it I want it! Don't tell me what I can and can't have! I take the fuck! Look at my flared nostrils and decide if you think I'm to be fucked with!

In fact, I'm going to become even more vigilant about the kinds of things I put in my body.

What the fuck?! Do you see that? You see that man in the gorilla suit in the back corner?! Am I the only person who sees him? Get the fuck away from me, Monkey Man! I have done your bidding for long enough! You can't see him? He's right fucking there! I can hear his voice in my brain. I will not go to BananaLand with you, Monkey Man. We rescued the Princess already. I will not go back! Never again!!!!!

But I'm gonna be the same Shawne Merriman I've always been.

(breathing heavily) My name is not Shawne Merriman. It is Gigantosaur! Lord of the Cities and Oceans! And those who do not bow before me will have their lawns fertilized with their own entrail juices!

Hmm. I seem to have torn the flesh off of my body. That's odd.

THERE IS NO ESCAPE FOR ANY OF YOU! YOU WILL KNOW TRUE FEAR ONCE GIGANTOSAUR COMES FOR YOU! MANKIND WILL BE CONSUMED IN THE BITTER FLAMES OF MY NEVERENDING WRATH! ALL LIFE WILL EXIST TO FEED ME! GIRAFFES! LOBSTERS! ORANGUTANS! GOD HAS CREATED LIFE AS FUEL FOR MY INSATIABLE APPETITE! SOON NOTHING WILL REMAIN! RUN! RUN! RUN!

Hey, where's everyone going? I thought we were all cool.

I'm Not Drinkin' Any F**king Harrington! Part 1

Two of my five favorite things in life are football and wine (the others are obviously steak, kush, and the fulfillment of manly needs). So when I looked over Sunday's box scores I couldn't help but notice the truly dreadful quarterback stats and react with the same expression reserved for tasting the worst wine of all (kosher). This league is struggling right now, it's as if half the quarterbacks have either shit for brains or the arm strength of Jamie Moyer.

I was so curious that I decided to bend one of KSK's founding rules and conduct a bit of amateur stat-crunching. What I found might startle you...take for example this week's collective stat lines (this does not include Monday Night Football because I'm too lazy to do any more infernal arithmetic...543/879 33 TD's 42 INT's for a rating of 74.87. Maybe it's an anomaly, but that sucks more dick than a high school girl who smokes.

So what are we left with? A league filled with guys who throw interceptions the way Drew grows stomach hair. What I've decided to do is break down most of the relevant quarterbacks in the league and match them with a wine that suits their unique characteristics...buckle up, it'll all make sense soon enough.

And no, loving wine is not gay, drinking it out of your boyfriend's bellybutton is gay. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

Opus One- I've never had more than a whiff and and a sip but I know it's the best (and once Dan Snyder gives me $40 million to cover punts I'll be able to afford it). These three quarterbacks represent the best of the NFL, the only difference between them and Opus is that I'd be really upset if a truck happened to run over a bottle of the wine (imitation is for bitches, irrational hatred is the ultimate flattery...and yes, I am blown away by the irony presented by my current imitation of Peter King and a thousand others).

Peyton Manning- Setting aside his fetus-like good looks and all the hatred I've harbored for him since his days in Tennessee, I have to admit he's the man.

Oh Tom, you'll never get a goat
to drink out of a wine glass.

Tom Brady- I actually like Brady a lot more than than Manning but he's pretty, he fucks goats, and he's always winning. Opus can claim at least two of the three (although Mr. Mondavi was recently spotted at a petting zoo).

Donovan McNabb- When he's healthy McNabb is as good as anyone, just look at the rosters he dragged into the playoffs year after year. Freddie Mitchell was practically as starter!!!

Cakebread Cabernet- Yeah, that's my shit, it's still a little pricey so I can only get it on special occasions (I'm currently saving a bottle for Vinny Ceratto's public flagellation). It's got everything you could want from a bold red, and I'd happily enjoy it during my last meal on Earth. Similarly I'd have no problem trusting the abilities of these quarterbacks when it matters most. Oddly enough, I like all of these guys quite a bit. Unlike Opus One they aren't all pretentious; they are not in the elite tier but the drop-off is negligible.

Carson Palmer- He's just now getting back to full strength and he's starting to look great again.


Matt Hasselbeck- The picture says he belongs above, but he's just good enough.

Drew Brees- I never thought I'd compare the football abilities of Drew Fucking Brees to the robust deliciousiocity of Cakebread.

Part 2 will be coming soon, then you will experience the true dregs of of the league culminating with the great debate; is Rex Grossman more Franzia or Shaun Mondavi?

A Message from Will Leitch

Hello.

You should know that we're a social person. We go out to the bars, we drink with friends, we've even written essays wondering if we don't have alcoholic tendencies.

Also, we're a friendly guy. We're accommodating. When a sports radio show on the West Coast asks us to do an interview just before midnight out here in New York, we'll almost certainly assent to it.

But we can't promise you that you're not going to get a "three tequila shot interview."

Naturally, we would have preferred KSK didn't dig this up, but it's not that big a deal. It's out there: we drink. We are not ashamed.

Luck be-ah crazy

Vile temptress

Other than being able to engender the occasional false start penalty, there's little we fans can do to shape the outcome of any given football game. And that's only if you're Kingshit McBigshot and can afford to go in the stadium. That, of course, doesn't stop the rest of us from sublimating our maniacal fandom in ways we think put our team over the top. It gets to the point that we're (okay, I'm) wracked by guilt following a loss because there was some bad juju shit that was done before the game that arrayed the cosmic forces of football against them.

Everyone has their bizarre superstition with their favorite team, be it some rank unwashed underwear you wear every game day to a ritual meal beforehand. With the Steelers in full-on freefall, there's a lot of soul-searching and hand-wringing on my part. And it starts with my moronic fan rituals.

Full Contact Fandom: This is probably the dumbest of them all but it's the tic I've followed most religiously over the years. Basically, (I have to pay Drew royalties now) I have to jab/punch/kick objects that I come across with the opposing team's colors in the days leading up to a game. We're not talking about a haymaker, but still harder than a love tap. It's very Tourette's-like. And the more significant the game, the more I do it. Before the Super Bowl last year I was going after everything with the Seahawks' mix of not-so naturally occurring colors. All in all, it's not an easy thing to finesse without looking crazy. There are some short cuts, mind you. It can be something with the colors of the opposing team or just something that clearly represents that team. For instance, the Steelers play the Browns on Thursday and I would be excused for kicking pieces of shit. Playing the Colts? Punch a fetus. In two weeks, when the Steelers travel to Carolina, I can always hit my cat. Problem is, she fights back.

And usually wins.

Location, Location, uh, Furburger: The Steeler bar I go to is on Capitol Hill in D.C. It's three floors of displaced Yinzers and it's frequently packed from top to bottom. During big games, the bar has to turn people away. Sen. Arlen Specter came in during the playoffs last year. It's quite the scene. The funniest aspect of it is that there's palpable tension between floors in the bar. The regulars on the ground floor often accuse those on the top floor of being snooty and less than passionate. They're right, of course. I was actually told I was being too loud by someone up there during a game once. Well, I had to deal with their half-hearted fandom and sidelong stares, because the place was damn lucky. Starting with the Vikings game through the Super Bowl, I sat up on the top floor and the Steelers won. The magic, sadly, now is gone. All three games I've watched on the top floor this year, the Steelers have lost, including the Raiders game. Apparently, I wore that bitch out.

Betting: I never bet on a Steelers game under any circumstance, UM and his parlays be damned. The last time I did was Super Bowl XXX and that was traumatizing enough for me to swear off it for life (Nevermind the fact the Cowgirls didn't cover in that contest. However I bet on a straight up win with a huge underdog. Ah, the life of a dipshit 13-year-old). HOWEVAH, drunk with hubris earlier this year, I bet my former roommate on the fortunes of the team this season, so I take fully responsibility for the horrific collapse.

Those are just the big ones, though. When dealing with obsessiveness of this sort, even the most miniscule of factors take on huge import. I took Italian language in college as an elective* and decided to take it back up with classes on Sunday mornings last winter. When was the first class? The Wild Card game against the Bengals. There was even no class in the week break between the conference title game and the Super Bowl, I shit you not. Kizmet, I tells ya. I stopped during the summer. I also moved before the season started. And bought new shoes. And banged a gypsy. Any of these things could be responsible.

I'm nuts, I know.

*I realize cat ownership and speaking-ah dee Eye-talian makes me the gayest member of the KSK Gay Mafia. This I can live with, especially if it involves going for a mani-pedi on Friday with Jeff Garcia and Chris Simms, then going to see The Holiday and having a tickle fight afterwards. Y'know, real manly shit.

Getting Vicktimized By the Master

You'll know you've been Vicktimized if you see
these guys crawling all over your precious sack

Yesterday I had the distinct displeasure of sitting through Washington's Shitapalooza. After a dominating first quarter (it's a start!) the Redskins succumbed to Mike Vick (that just sounds dirty) and ended up getting their asses kicked hard. Of course after the game they realized they were wearing "Kick Me Hard" signs on their collective back, it did seem as if they were being kicked especially hard.

Needless to say I began losing interest in all of the men running around on the field, instead I focused on the brilliance of the Atlanta fan sitting in front of me. After Deadspin featured the Mike Vick "HERPES" jersey we now have the Mike Vick "VICKTIMIZER" jersey. Of course I spent the next two hours reeling off all of Vick's potential victims.

Who needs "mega" pixels anyways?

Thanks to OutSports we know all the naughty words that we can't see on the back of an Atlanta jersey (I'm not sure how that guy gut away with the Herpes jersey...probably custom). Hold on! I can put "SHULER" on the back of a jersey but not "BACKDOOR MAN"...what a fucking country.

So what would you put on the back of your official NFL jersey? Don't limit yourself to Ron Mexico, there's a whole league full of people ripe for mockery.

Here's a suggestion to get you started: Washington Redskins #7 "SNAP"

Roughing the Passer: The Next Perverse Sex Act on Urban Dictionary that No One Will Ever Actually Do

NFL fans may have noticed a growing trend in the game: supposedly preposterous "roughing the passer" calls. The truth is that the league put some new rules into effect this past offseason, and the referees are merely following the new guidelines, known henceforth as the "Dwyane Wade" rules. Below, an in-depth look at what we already knew to be illegal, along with the changes.


Still illegal:

- Late hits.
- Helmet to helmet hits.
- Picking up a quarterback up and driving him into the ground.
- Hitting a quarterback in the helmet.
- Hitting a quarterback below the waist.

Newly illegal:

- Hitting a quarterback at all.
- Running at a quarterback in such a manner that may frighten him to throw a bad pass.
- Breathing on a quarterback within five yards of either sideline.
- Failing to yield to a quarterback at an intersection.
- Not being attracted to Tom Brady.
- Damaging a quarterback's spleen beyond repair (AKA the Simms Corollary).
- Making sweet, sweet love to a quarterback, then not offering a reacharound (AKA the Simms Corollary 1A).
- Shaking the quarterback's hand too hard before the game.
- Holding a door open for him.
- Suggesting Brett Favre should retire.
- Taking the quarterback out for a nice seafood dinner, then never calling him again.

Still legal:
- Somersaulting into quarterbacks' knees.
- Hoping the quarterback falls down on his own accord.

Note: not helping the quarterback up if he does fall down on his own accord results in a rouging the passer penalty.

KSK Kaption Kontest: Bobby Martin

You know things are bad for a football team when it adds patches of quick sand to make the games more exciting.


Next week: the minefield at Ford Field.

(Speaking of Browns, I'm more than a little gay for a certain Seahawk named Josh.)

NOTE: I should make it clear that Bobby Martin has an incredible story of perseverance in the face of adversity. The picture was just a little offputting for me is all.

You May Now Enjoy Becca in Fathead Form

Fathead -- a little-known company that rarely advertises its life-like wall coverings -- announced that it has added three Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders to its roster, including britch-thick Becca, who has graced the spotlight of KSK's cheerleader post before.

And, without further ado, here they are, horndogs (I'm placing Caveman favorite Becca last):




Interested masturbators can purchase them here... though this new-fangled wall technology makes me long for the days of a simple, faded Cindy Crawford poster. Ahhh, freshman year of high school. Such an innocent time. Just me, Cindy, lotion, Kleenex, and a web belt.

...What?

Steve Irwin Memorial Meast Of The Week - Week 12 (And What Did Sexy Rexy Say?)

People are loving the Sex Cannon that is Rex Grossman these days. They can't enough of his wild neck stubble, smug facial expressions (I heard Duke gave him an honorary degree), and devil-may-care passitude. The man is a menace. A sexy, large-cocked menace waiting to impregnate end zones with his massive deep balls.

But some people aren't so amused. As the Bears try and put the division away this weekend against the Vikings, safety Darren Sharper has dared to accuse the Cumslinger of talking trash after throwing the winning touchdown in Minneapolis during the two teams' first meeting back on Sep. 24. What was said shook Sharper's foundations to the very core:

In 10 years in the league I haven't had a quarterback do that any time to me, so we definitely remember that and the guys in the locker room remember that.

You hear that, Grossman? Football players don't bother to remember things. But, in your case, they will make a notable exception. Even Grossman admitted he may have gone too far:

I probably said some things that I regret, but the whole game their DB's were talking to me, just really getting under my skin a little bit and probably more than I should have allowed it to.

Now, there have been some pretty great trash talking QB's in NFL history. The best, of course, was Ron Powlus ("This is our house! Apparently, I think I'm still in college even though this is the preseason and I'm playing mop-up for the Titans!"). But Grossman has now set the bar at a new level. What could he have said to make a veteran like Sharper so pissed off? Perhaps you commenters would like to chime in. Here are my ideas:

-"The dragon's been unleashed! Taste my FIAHHHHHHH!!!!!!"
-"Sexy Rexy just kicked you outta bed."
-"You just experienced another patented Sexy Rexy Throwgasm."
-"Without Asante Samuel around, I can fucking do what I want."
-"Not bad. Considering my intended target was Duluth."
-"Go fuck your mother. Yeah, I said it. You just got Oedipus Rexed."
-"Fifty years ago we'd have you hanging upside down with a fork in your ass!"
-"That one was for the motherfucking Rexettes!"
-"In Soviet Bear-Viking game, Rex rape and pillage you!"
-"Let's see you throw a pass that pretty, Sharper. Oh wait, I forgot. You're a fucking defensive back. You can't throw shit. You're just a receiver who can't catch. Taste my jellied cum."
-"You know the video for 'Just' by Radiohead? Yeah, well I know what the guy says at the end, you whore. He says, 'Lie the fuck down.' Which is what you bitches just did."

Your ideas welcome.

Oh, and the Meast of the Week is Bart Scott of the Ravens.


This is for the Pittsburgh game, not last night's Bengal loss. If Ray Lewis is God's linebacker, then Bart Scott is Bob Mould's linebacker. Because Bob Mould is better than God. Did God write "Celebrated Summer"? No, he did not. Suck it, God.

Sexy Rexy remains unimpressed either way.