Artichoke Dip Is For F--king Assholes

It's New Year's Eve. As a 30-year-old parent, I'm well past the days of buying a $100 wristband for some bar, waiting in lines 9-deep for a beer and then convincing myself I'm having fun. It's a quiet night in the BDD household. I'll drink a nice toast to the awesome power of my penis, have a Lindt truffle, offer sex to the Mrs., fail, and then call it a night. But I do know the rest of the gang has some pretty wild stuff planned.

Unsilent plans on drinking some fancy wine from his parents' cellar and then listening to a hip hop record he's convinced himself he likes.

Punter plans on fucking a donkey while wearing a Darth Vader mask and videotaping it.

Ape will be writing a post about the Steelers.

flubby will be maintaining his candlelight vigil for Al Davis' official death.

Caveman will be trying to nail a Becky by busting out some of his fanciest Marine jargon (example: "You pretty. I want make vagina cry.")

And Falco will continue to slowly decay at the bottom of the East River.

As for the rest of you, as you go out into the neverending promise of the night, I'm here to make two important public service announcements:

1) My email address has changed. If you want to send an email for Reader Mail Bukkake, or if you'd like to tell me I'm a big fag, send it to bigdaddydrew@gmail.com.

2) You will probably be attending a party or two this evening. Perhaps you will even be hosting one. If they have artichoke dip wherever you're going, bomb the place to the ground. Artichoke dip is fucking disgusting and should be banned. It has three things in it:

-Artichokes
-Mayo
-Cheese

Okay, only one of those things is good. And it's ruined by the other two. You mayalready know my stance on mayo. Mayo makes any food taste British. Guhhhhhh. And artichokes are the go-to vegetable for people who don't like eating.

Avoid this horrid shit. And if you're serving it tonight, a pox on your Ikea-decorated apartment. I hate artichoke dip.

I'm that star up in the sky / I'm that mountain peak up high / Hey I made it / Mmm... / I'm the world's greatest

The NFC East is the greatest division in all of sports. Yeah my Redskins suck and Dallas and Philly are both going to get killed in the playoffs but that doesn't change shit in my mind. Of course that's because the NFC East is home to best damn cheerleaders this side of Dillon High. Who cares if the Giants are too gay to field a squad of their own, the Iggles, Redskinettes, and Cowgirls might just be the three best representatives of tits and ass in the entire league.

So today I've decided to combine my love of the NFC East's pant-tighteners with something everybody needs this time of year...CALENDARS! That's right you drunks, assuming you just woke up this morning you should probably know it's already the last week of December, if you don't get that calendar now you're gonna be really confused on Monday. Speaking of which, I hate the last week of December. The days jammed in between the Winter Solstice and New Years fucking suck and should be turned into a holiday for everybody to enjoy...I'm thinking All Taints Day.

So without further ado, lets look at some shimmery goodness!

Exhibit A- The Dallas Cowgirls

This is Becca, but you should already know that, she spends more time gracing this site than Footsteps Falco and Drew's wife combined. Before you start calling dibs you should remember that she's completely infatuated with our own Captain Caveman...at least that's the word on the street over at Karmic Payback. Even though she's not quite as thick in the britches as she once was, I'd say she could still hold up to a good bangin'. And really, what more can we ask of our cheerleaders?

Exhibit B- The Shiggles

This is Janipher (I'm guessing her parents were even bigger Donovan fans than mine) and she is fucking lovely. I had a few choices to go with on this one but Janipher just had to win out. Apparently I'm going through that "soaking wet young asian girl" phase...again (see below). The things I would do to this young lady are not appropriate for such a forum, just know that it would involve a kicking tee a tackling dummy and Wellington Mara's corpse.

Exhibit B- My Redskinettes

This is Lisa...I will make her my wife. Yeah, Danny Snyder deserves most of the criticism he receives, but when it comes to the Redskinettes even the most jaded fan will give him two thumbs (and one other appendage) up. Of course he still worships one thing above all else and that's revenue. For this reason we can't actually see the inside of the calendar without actually spending 15 bucks (and no, you'll need more than 15 to see Lisa's insides...trust me).

Bonus Exhibit- The Giant Lesbians

This is Kate Mara, her grandfather died because he saw her munching some serious luxury box on TV. Leave it to those pigfucking Jersey bitches masquerading as New Yorkers to fuck up one of the NFL fan's unalienable rights, the ability to eyefuck future call girls. Well just because they don't put on a show on the sidelines doesn't mean there's nothing worthwhile going on behind the scenes. Of course I'm referring to Wellington's piece-of-ass granddaughter and her onscreen exploits. Here she is dressed in traditional cheerleader atire engaging in what I can only imagine is traditional cheerleader behavior.

Have a good New Year you lecherous fuckers/gorgeous female readers.

This is the end / Beautiful friend / This is the end / My only friend, the end

Welcome to the WEEK 17 edition of Always Be Covering. Once again I'll be taking a look at a sampling of the games that catch my interest for no reason in particular. Today we examine the last final week of the NFL's regular season and as you can tell by the title of this post, I'm a bit emotional high. So this week each game we spotlight will be accompanied by an appropriate lyric from the greatest depressing song of all time (feel free to tell me I'm wrong about that in the comment section, I'm sure you just love Alice In Chains type shit you fucking loser).

Disclaimer
Only gamble money you can afford to lose...because you're probably going to lose. Compared to the NFL Jim Morrison's death makes perfect sense.

I'm posting this picture because it makes them look gay...especially Eli, who is apparently sporting a semen drenched Hitler-stache.

Father, yes son, I want to kill you

Mother...I want to...fuck you
Washington +3 vs. New York Giants
Hmmm...that Eli Manning sure is confused these days, the natural progression should lead him to a nasty Oedipal complex. We already knew of his incestuous fantasies involving Peyton (see above) but this would be the coup de grace. Granted I don't bet on the Redskins, but that doesn't mean you can't. Watching them ruin the Giants season will almost make up for all the bad stuff.

Is this a young Jim Morrison or one of Bobby Bowden's recruits?

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill
Rams -3 @ Minnesota
This lyric goes out to The Lou's most fearsome player on and off the field, Leonard Little. Regardless of whether you are a quarterback or a a woman out driving he's the last guy you'd want coming from the blindside. Seeing as how Morrison attended Florida State and Minnesota just benched Brad Johnson, I'd say this one's a lock.

The west is the best
The west is the best
Get here, and we'll do the rest
Seattle +3.5 @ Tampa Bay
All the Seahawks have to do is show up to cover this spread. They have enough veterans to know they can't keep playing like a bunch of retarded 12 year-olds (keep your panties on Siobhan) if they are going to do anything once the playoffs start. Besides, Jon Gruden has a long history of losing out to Mike Holmgren starting way back at the buffet lines in Green Bay.

"I shit bigger than you"

The blue bus is callin' us
The blue bus is callin' us
Driver, where you takin' us?

San Diego -13.5 vs. Arizona
Lorenzo Neal is the baddest motherfucker to ever play fullback. If you don't bet on him he'll probably take a shit on your mother's chest just to assert his dominance. San Diego has to win this one to lock up home field advantage all the way through the playoffs. The only way they can blow this is if Marty Schottenheimer remembers that he's a fascist fuckwad with a propensity to pussy out when it matters (i.e. two weeks from now).

That's it for the regular season, but I'll be back for the playoffs. Feel free to offer up your own ill-fated prognostications in the comment section.

Redskins shake their Rumph...

One of KSK's favorites got rumph'd for the holidays. Mike Rumph, who played sparingly this season, was cut by Washington yesterday. We don't know what Rumph has been doing with all this free time but it's definitely not updating "his" blog: MikeRumph24.com.

In the course of writitng this post, I serendipitously stumbled upon Big Daddy Drew's Urban Dictionary entry for "rumph." Dear Readers, it was only through your collective efforts that KSK won Best Sports Blog of 2006 (a fact we intend to work into as many posts as possible, even at the risk of Pennington-esque shoulder surgery from patting ourselves on the back). On the heels of such a triumph (tri-rumph?), we are loath to ask you for anything else this soon. Nonetheless, if you are so inclined, your "thumb's up" vote on Urban Dictionary could help make "rumph" a household word. Imagine-- next year at Christmas dinner, you and your family could discuss who could use a good rumphin'.

Remember: football careers are ephemeral, but legacies are forever. We hope Mike Rumph catches on with another team, but if he doesn't, at least he has made a contribution to our vernacular. Lord knows the world needs another lewd sodomitic euphemism.

Steve Irwin Memorial Meast of the Week - Week 16

It's almost January 1st, which means that some of you will make sincere but halfhearted resolutions to finally get in shape. This is good news for places like Bally's and Gold's Gym and the like, as they can expect an influx of yearlong memberships that will collect nothing but dust and your hard-gambled cash from May onward.

As such, here's KSK's guide to your new gym membership.

Another failed Caveman love interest (no, not the dude)
Selecting a Gym

The ideal gym is a no-frills establishment. It should have mirrors but no windows. Free weights and nothing else. No air-conditioning, only huge fans that recirculate stale, hot air. The stereo system should be primitive and play only pre-Black Album Metallica. Women should be given dirty looks reserved for traitors and Cowboys fans until they show an aptitude for the clean-and-jerk. That's a fuckin' gym.

Alas, those days are gone. I belong to a New York Sports Club just north of SoHo. It has lots of elliptical trainers and those big rubber balls that people use to strengthen their core muscles. And also hot chicks in sports bras. It makes working out very enjoyable, which is horseshit. Working out should be PAIN.

Attire

Men: sneakers, shorts/warm-up pants, t-shirt. Sleeves may be cut off for those wanting freer range of movement/shoulder tattoo exposure. Wifebeaters are for peacock dipshits who want to show off their muscles. Disagree? You're a peacoack dipshit. Also, if you're the guy wearing Airwalks on the treadmill, kill yourself. Now. Same thing for the guy lifting weights in jeans. That guy deserves to have a 45-pound plate dropped on his Adam's apple.

Women: Wear what's comfortable. Sports bra? Sure. Hot pants? That's cool. Extra layer of baby oil? Green light. Makeup? What are you you, some kind of pretentious bitch? Leave the makeup at home.

Fatties: Far be it from KSK to pass judgment on fatties; several of our distinguished members are heavier individuals. As natural gluttons for beer and Buffalo wings, we wholeheartedly endorse people being fat. Unfortunately, fatties don't have the same rights of attire at the gym. Food blisters may wear baggy shorts and t-shirts only. Spandex is strictly verboten. Display of man-boobs -- whether from a too-small shirt or side-boob cleavage resulting from sleevelessness -- will result in the loss of monthly gravy rations.

Work-out Etiquette

At no time should you offer any workout tips or technique critiques to a stranger. If somebody wants to slip a disc by bouncing the bar off their chest on the bench, that's their God-given right. In the gym, every man is an island.

Grunting and groaning during sets should be kept to a minimum. You just benched 315? Way to go, meathead. No need to scream like Bruce Lee to announce it to the rest of us, though. Exception: Feel free to grunt like Peter North during a money shot if you can burst a capillary in your eye. Because that's fucking sweet.

The Opposite Sex

Women, while encouraged to wear tight, revealing clothing, are not to be spoken to. Talking to women at the gym means you're at the gym to pick up girls, which means you're a fucking douchebag with no respect for the Church of Physical Fitness.

Women are to be eye-fucked subtly, preferably in between sets and through the use of mirrors. Women are to understand this rule, and must not make eye contact with men under any circumstance. Eye contact is an invitation for inter-sex conversation, which is a mating dance best left to bars and whorehouses.

...And with that, Week 16's Meast:


Steven Jackson: 6 catches for 102 yards and a TD, 33 rushes for 150 yards and the game-winner in OT over the Redskins. Plus, he's got the best dreds in the NFL this side of Mike McKenzie. Measty.

Ape Thanks The Helper Monkeys

Kissing Suzy Kolber would, in the vein of every obnoxious football telecast over the holiday weekend, like to take a treacly 10 minutes moment to thank our support staff behind the scenes for their assiduous, thankless, exemplary whatever-it-is-they-do. Cue the twinkly music and superimpose a picture of holly. This has got to be classy.

Technical Support: The Blogger Hamster

The grittiest, indefatigablest little guy this side of David Eckstein. Without his help, how else would this crew of motley measts get together to write a cursorily edited football blog for free? But seriously, little dude, we don't want to sign up for Blogger Beta, so just lay the fuck off.

Couch Leg Support: Footsteps Falco

See? He didn't vanish. His rotting carcass is propping up a couch. What a team player, that corpse.

Script Girl: Chris Simms

Just until he heals, then gets to hold the clipboard on the sideline like a big boy.

Make-up: Cris Collinsworth

Because Drew's gut doesn't naturally have that much eczema.

Special assistant to Mr. Caveman: Scarlett Johansson

Don't ask me how it happened. Guess that's just how those paid sports bloggers roll.

Additional services: Mary Beth King.

My attorney advises me not to reveal any more about this arrangement.

Now that Christmas is over and this simian has spent some quality time with KSK spokescat Jean Grey and the rest of the family, my threshold for feigning affection and interest in things not football related has been decidedly crossed.

However, despite the Bengals and Jags being kind enough to drop their key games Sunday, my beloved, bedeviling Steelers mistakenly figured seven points in two games against the Ravens would be sufficent to manage a series split. Now, barring some mid-week defection to the NFC, they are, guhhhh, eliminated from the playoffs.

So, how to direct this festering homer energy for the next six weeks? Well, I'll be rolling out the Hater's Guide to the Postseason later this week, chocked full of trenchant reasons why you should let the hate flow through you toward each team in the playoffs. There might even be bullet points.

She's no good at wrestling, but you should see her box...

We don't celebrate (or for that matter understand) Boxing Day in the United States, which is a shame since anything that stretches a long weekend by another day is fine by me. So in the spirit of giving, this post goes out to all the poor bastards who are stuck at work today. Better you than me.

Packers at Bears has been picked up for this week's Sunday night game. NBC can't resist reminding us one more time that Brett Favre loves football with the such a child-like wonder that it makes me, you and all other fans and players look like cynical stacks of reindeer crap. I intend to commemorate the occasion by mixing up some Favre-inspired Mississippi Martinis (Old Milwaukee + Vicodin).

Good news for the Bengals: you won't have January travel plans to clear with your probation officers.

Peyton Manning is continuing with his plans to get his annual January collapse in a month early. Ron Dayne ran for so many yards he was looking for Bucky Badger on the sideline to make sure he wasn't back in Madison. At this point I wouldn't bet on the Colts with Unsilent Majority's money.

Rushing for 140 yards and two TDs long after it would do any good, Shaun Alexander delivered a special Christmas Eve "up yours" to all the fantasy owners who drafted him and then missed their leagues playoffs. This anecdote is a transparent excuse to post a picture showing the resemblance between Alexander and the anthropomorphic hamburger from "Better Off Dead," as pointed out by KSK commenter (and revolutionary Christmas tree decorator) Michigan Becky a few months ago.

Everybody wants some. How 'bout you?

Prediction: after the Giants lose in DC Saturday night Tom Coughlin will go from no-nonsense disciplinarian to unemployed dickhead.

Remember this past summer when the Titans locked Steve McNair out of team practice facilities? James Brown's widow can totally relate to that. She was barred from JB's house on Christmas Day by his Jewish zealous lawyer and Jewish cautious accountant.

JB's lawyer sez: "Now I ain't sayin' she a golddigger, but she ain't messin' with no dead singer's estate until it has been probated under Georgia law."

They brought the Cleveland Browns back from the dead; but they plan on burying James Brown. This world is FUBAR.

Like You I'm at Work and I'm Quite Bored

...so here's a picture of Barbaro


Maybe I'll do a real post later, for now feel free to chat amongst yourself in the comment section. I'll give you a topic: Why Christmas presents always suck balls.

ESPN stuffs your stocking with guy-on-guy shower action...

As if the whole quarterback-center dynamic wasn't homoerotic enough, ESPN has managed to make it even more swishy. This morning on ESPN's "Sunday Countdown", Chris Mortensen played Santa to all football fans who put hot manlove stories on their Christmas wish list. Mort was positively giddy when he announced that in preparation for possibly inclement weather, Philip Rivers and Nick Hardwick practiced taking snaps in the locker-room shower.

Decorum and a respect for holiday sensibilities prohibits me from providing a complete transcript; but Mort breathlessly discussed "15 wet snaps" and went on to describe Rivers and Hardwick "going full blown with that shower head turned all the way up." Mort then encouraged viewers to let their imaginations to run wild, "Pcture that," he gushed, "Rivers and Hardwick under the shower in the locker-room." Pervy Mort seemed absolutely crestfallen when he belatedly added that the duo were in their practice uniforms at the time of this suposed tryst.


In 2005, we were blessed with the miracle of the Carolina Panthers cheerleaders incident; a story that has served as spank-bank material for a generation. Today, we have arrived at the complete polar opposite-- and on Christmas Eve no less.

Thanks for messing with Christmas, Mort, you cock. Visions of sugar-plums are supposed to be dancing in my head, not visions of burly men grunting on a wet tile floor. It will take a lot of Maker's Mark to wash away this stain on the holidays. I'll let you know how it turns out...

KSK - Home For The Holidays

It's Christmas week, which means we'll gonna be awfully busy running base for Esteban and trying to leverage him against Corky in a chess-like plot to free our sister from the hell of addiction and flee this rotting corpse of a town once and for all.

Oh, wait. That's the plot to 1994's Fresh, one of my favorite movies. I'm actually going to Connecticut.

Which means we won't be posting as much next week. Ape will be working and is certain to unleash his fury here from time to time in some sort of Steeler-related manner. So until 2007, KSK bids you adieu. Go make your own dick jokes, for shit's sake. I've got smoked turkey to suckle on like titty.

Two-and-a-Half Shopping Days Until You Have To Put Up With Your Cranky-A55ed Grandparents (Why did the set I actually LIKED have to die first?)

Contributor's Note: This was originally planned to be today's cheerleader post, before it was learned that Mr. Ape had facilitated that need earlier in the day. Probably a good thing, since this piece does not feature any "cheerleaders." In fact, it probably has nothing to do with football at all, so continue at your own discretion.

I suppose that Unsilent Majority would agree with me on what I'm about to elocute here, which may be the first instance, documented or otherwise, that The Semi-Semitic One and I have seen eye-to-eye on anything. Anyway, let's have it out, and let's put it in italics:

Christmas is retarded.

I can say that now, primarily because I'm over 25 and my parents no longer spoil the shit out of me, now that I have "grown up" and "[got my] sorry ass a job." It's challenging for me to pretend that I don't loathe my family, even if it's only for a few hours. This year, however, I've managed to cultivate that resentment into an awesome Christmas shopping strategy.

1. Gift Cards
2. Gift Cards
3. Gift Cards

What's that, you say? Gift cards aren't thoughtful? What a coincidence, neither am I. Never mind that all I'm doing is GUARANTEEING that you're getting something that you like, something you can load up in your wood-paneled PT Cruiser without a hemmorhoid flare-up. You're just pissed off that I didn't suffer in the mall for 35 hours like you did. Come to think of it, you're just pissed off at everything.

What is it about being old that makes you hate the world? Seriously. I thought about all the old people I know and made a list of stuff that they like and dislike:

How the fuck do you shop for this person?

Some of you, bless your hearts, are going to try. Good luck with that. If you still have grandparents (or anyone else) and have a desperate desire to fuck with them while making the appearance of an effort, I say go expensive.

Get them either a PS3 or a Wii.

See? You've already got it narrowed down to two choices that will be hard for anyone to turn away. But how to decide between those two? How to decide? How to decide...





That should keep your yuletide a little less gay for a while. So, while I'm busy slashing the tires on the '89 Cutlass parked in front of my parents' house, I hope you and yours are having a safe and happy holiday.

Put Slap 'pon de Grinches, Santa Still Vicious

It's three days until Christmas, I'm not done with my holiday shopping and the most important thing on my mind is whether that professor is really mouthing, "What. the. fuck?" to the stylishly wonkish chick in the Dr. Pepper "23" commercial. I'm still on the fence.

But before I run out and get everyone I know "Free wig with purchase of another wig -- Downtown Wig Emporium" coupons, there's still the pressing matter of the weekly cheerleader fix. (Quick aside: the best New Year's Toast I've ever heard, and couldn't verify, comes from Jimi Hendrix, who toasted, "To good health and a fix." Yes, concise and drug-related. Quite nice, says I.)

Appy-Polly-Loggies if this photo of the Cold Miserettes is no larger than the lump of shit I'm getting is my stocking (coal being too expensive). I felt the need to get the Colts in on the holiday action, as the post-Christmas period is never particularly kind to the fortunes of Lil' Ronnie's favorite squad, and this year appears even more dismal, so they might as well get all that merriment out of their system now.

Here's a negligibly larger one of the Rockets - Rockets!? As in basketball? - cheerleaders or dance team or somesuch nonsense. Sorry, apparently tracking down photos of cheerleaders in chintzy Santa hats is more than five minutes' work. Next year, I'll stick with cheerleader gift certificates.

I feel like the guy who didn't go to Jared.

This Holiday Season Give the Gift of a Parlay!

Welcome to the Week 16 edition of Always Be Covering, the following is a random sampling of games that look appealing. If you bet them and lose it is your fault, if you win I expect a cut of the money or your first born daughter.

Requisite Christmas Cheer!

Down and out KSK reader or Jeremy Shockey circa 2015?


Disclaimer
You are probably an idiot, just send us your money. We could use it to buy that donkey that MMP's had his eyes on.

Pontifical Parlay

America's Team -3 @ NY Giants

Remember that "home" game New Orleans had to play in the Swamplands (it's not a meadow you fucktards)? Well the Saints remember it vividly...except for Reggie Bush, although I imagine he was all up in Katrina Kaif around that time (at least that's what I'd be doing if I was Reggie Bush). The bitches in blue have one win in their last six "efforts" and they're more likely to throw the world's gayest temper tantrum than cover a spread.

Unsilent's Team +2 @ St. Louis
Laugh if you want, but St. Louis is fucking terrible. They're 1-5 ATS in their past six while the Redskins are 3-1-1 in their past five. Washington is finally starting to play relatively well while St. Lou's season is going about as well as a Chinua Achebe novel.

Talmudical Teaserboth games teased six points
Indy -4 @ Houston

It's time for the Colts to get serious, the playoffs are coming and they can snag home field from the Chargers. The Texans are just fucking awful, it's not even funny anymore. Fortunately they've been scheduled for an unprecedented (outside of Texas) 53 man execution this February...alright, they're still a little funny.

Kansas City -1 @ Black Hole of Civilization

As bad as Houston might be Oakland is even worse. They should have been left to die in the forest like a redheaded child by now. LJ better put up a season high, otherwise LT won't let him be his oil boy in Hawaii.

Did I just pick all road teams? This should be interesting.

Bizzaro World's Measty Picks for the Year

Big Daddy Drew and I are very different people; he's funny and I'm mean, he's a father and I hate children, he's a bad Christian and I'm a bad Jew, he has sex with red-assed baboons and I prefer the company of...well we're pretty much the same in that regard. But mostly we differ in terms of our choices in entertainment (the exceptions of course being football and Estonian snuff films).

Earlier today Drew posted this week's honorary Meast along with his "best of" picks for the year. Once again his overwhelming whiteness confused and frightened me and apparently I'm not the only one. An intrepid commenter suggested that I offer up my more soulful selections (by "soulful"I obviously mean "druish") so here we go...

Favorite Movie- Truthfully I don't go out to the movies much anymore. All other people are annoying and they always laugh at shit that isn't funny. Needless to say, I hate all other people. The other problem I have with the movie theater Gestapo is their whole "no bong" policy. It's bad enough that I can't light up a Parliament halfway through, but denying me the right to see a movie with an appropriate mental glaze is unconscionable. So there were only three movies I recall seeing that were worthy of my attention. While Borat and Talladega Nights were both funnier than watching a bear turn into a eunuch (synergism) I thought that Little Miss Sunshine was the best.

Favorite Album- Even though my boys Talib and Kanye didn't put out new albums this year we were awash in greatness. There shouldn't even be any debate by now, St. Elsewhere made everything else sound like a newborn being shoved into the garbage disposal...too harsh? Yeah, there were some other great ones, notably Lupe Fiasco's debut Food and Liquor is the best debut album since College Dropout (sorry Jeezy). Honorary mention goes out to last month's Hell Hath No Fury, the latest offering from The Clipse. Also Ghostface Killah's Fishscale is the best thing to happen to Wu Tang since ODB shuffled off the mortal coil.

Favorite Song- Damn there are a lot of great songs. When it comes to football games nothing can beat DJ Unk's Walk it Out...but of course this has nothing to do with football. My two favorite songs off of my two favorite albums were The Boogie Monster and Daydreamin' respectively. But the one song that I'll always remember from this year was The Clipse's Wamp Wamp. Unfortunately the reason I'll never forget it is because my buddy would never shut the fuck up about it, going so far as to label all the bad/wet weed in the city as "the wamp wamp."

Favorite Book- That's another tough one, lots of good choices. My favorite piece of fiction from the past year was Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian. I'm not one of those guys that reads a lot of books by women but oddly enough this one wasn't about ovulation and needlepoint. The best non-fiction had to be Michael Lewis' The Blind Side. Not only was it both well written and about football, but now I have a reason to watch Ole Miss (aside from my crippling gambling problem).

So there you have it, the best of '06 from both Drew and myself. Obviously mine is better.

Oh and just so this has something to do with football, here's my Meastiest Hit Of the Year: 2006. The guy in the video is playing against Lower Marion High School; up until now they were best known for producing Kobe Bryant. Now they'll be forever known as the school to produce the guy who could eat the Mamba...I think he's my new hero.

Steve Irwin Memorial Meast Of The Week - Week 15

This is the time of year when film critic/child rapists like Gene Shalit release their top 10 lists for books, movies, shows, games, and all that stuff. I used to go watch independent movies and buy obscure music, until I realized that I liked the idea of liking that shit more than I actually liked it. For example, I saw The Squid and the Whale. I guess it was all right. But then I rented Firewall. Is it a good movie? Well, at the end, Harrison Ford buries a pickaxe in Paul Bettany's back. And that is fucking sweet. Well worth the $4 rental fee I paid, and far superior to watching a 10-year-old kid pull his pud in the school library.

So, with only my basest desires in mind, here was my favorite shit from 2006:

Favorite Movie: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. This was released last year, but I don't particularly care. It has guns, blood, tits, and cheap gay jokes. Yup, that's a winner.

-So what do you do?
-I'm retired. I invented dice. What do you do?

I would have said The Departed, but the plot holes still annoy me. Let me just fire off 16 text messages during this back alley deal. I'm sure no one will notice.

Favorite Album: Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, by Arctic Monkeys. Songs about getting drunk and being kicked out of clubs? Works for me.

Favorite Song: "Lightning Blue Eyes", by The Secret Machines.

Favorite TV Show: "Heroes", though why they cast Rivers Cuomo as Sylar is beyond me.

Favorite Book: Manhunt: The 12-Day Chase For Lincoln's Killer by James L. Swanson. I read about 2 books every year, and I don't like people who brag about reading all the time. Oh, you read a book a week? Here's a shiny dollar and go fuck yourself. Anyway, this book is tits. Who knew a history book would have so much stuff happening?

And there you go. Our Meast of the Week is Pacman Jones of the Titans.


Between spitting on women, buying his own car back at auction, and throwing birthday parties that would make Sidney Poitier cry, Jones has shockingly managed to become one of the best cover corners and return men in the league. His TD return against Jacksonville helped the Titans shove their noses into the AFC playoff race, a stunning development.

I bet Pacman's list of favorite shit from this year totally mirrors mine.

Have a great Christmas, everyone. Hope you have a good time with family, friends and whoever else you encounter.

Rexstacy Wants To Fulfill Your Fantasies

I made the championship of my fantasy league this year. In my five or so years of playing fantasy, I've never even made the playoffs, let alone the championship. This win will finally validate my razor-sharp football acumen, so there's a lot of fucking pride at stake here. And who might be my starting quarterback for this monumental encounter? You guessed it:


The Sex Cannon himself. Now I know what you're thinking: how the fuck did you reach the championship game with that asshole as your starting QB? Suffice it to say, my roster is deep enough that I can bench the Cumslinger when necessary or make up for those days when Rex wants to impress the ladies by showing he can win a game without even touching the ball. Anyway, Rex has a good matchup against the woeful Lions this weekend, so I'm taking the gamble and suiting him up. I asked him yesterday how he felt going into this all-or-nothing contest:

"We have a game Sunday? Fuck, I didn't even know. They don't tell me when the games are played. I just run out onto the field and start aiming lasers for fucking Saturn, you know what I mean? If there's a defense there, whatever. Sexy Rexy is more than happy to spray hot passes all over the defense's chest. Who are we playing? The Lions? Pfft. Those guys aren't sexy. You telling me Jon Kitna is sexy? I've seen white supremacists in prison who are sexier than that do-gooder. No wonder he's a devout Christian. What kind of pussy would he pull on the open market? Dumpster pussy, that's what.

What's that color the Lions wear? Honolulu Blue? Yeah, well I nailed six Hawaiian Tropic girls last week. So while those assholes are busy wearing Honolulu, I'm busy fucking it. Wore my mesh practice top the whole time, too. And in front of a mirror. Ever stick your finger up your own ass? God, it just felt so right.

Jesus, now that you told me I'm playing Detroit, I'm all fucking hot. God dammit. I gotta go throw something. Now. I just... I just can't take the anticipation. It's driving me buc wild. Such a depleted secondary. So many long, long throws. You know I accidentally fucked Olin Kreuntz once? True story.

So, you play fantasy football? That's funny. Because I am fantasy football. Girls watch me throw and they ovulate. It's just the way I move. So poised. So strong. So fluid. They know I'm undressing the defense with my arm. Oh, Daddy says that Rex Grossman is up to no good. And you know what, honey? Your daddy is right. I am thinking nasty, nasty thoughts when I'm out there. I throw that ball sixty yards, and I just wanna ram a stick of butter up some girl's ass. I can't help it. Football and sex just go together for me. It's a natural fit, just like any girl is a natural fit on me.

Hope you win, kid. Either way, Rex is fucking that night."

Needless to say, I'm in good hands.

Your Half-Ass YouTube Clip Post That May Or May Not Have Anything To Do With The NFL

Granted, it's been a couple days since Stephen Mara went apeshit on some old man on the NYSE trading floor, because said old man was talking shit about the Giants, just a couple days after getting pwned by the Eagles last week.

The Giants fascinate me; they might be the closest thing football has to an NBA team. You have the youngster with a pedigree for the game (Eli), the infinitely talented athlete who's also infinitely stupid (Plaxico), the backwater dipshit suffering from diarrhea-of-the-mouth (Shockey), and the I-wonder-if-he's-gay All-Star (Strahan) who shoots the ball waaay too fucking much.

Anyway, back to the old man scuffle, we were going to show some footage of the old-man fight, but then we realized, you know, Rocky 6 is already out, and you could get that action there if you were so inclined. Besides, I believe this conflict would be better if dramatized through the prism that is shitty daytime television.

(Clip does not contain beastiality. Sorry.)



Yeah, didn't you hear? Pugilistic midgets are the new the new roadside donkey fucks. Get with it, yo.

"I Could Care Less If The Team Is Strugggggling."

By popular demand, we present you with the video of the Namath-Patron Saint video from exactly two years ago today. And kudos to whoever included us on Suzy Kolber's Wikipedia page. That's using your time wisely.

You can always view this video by clicking on the "Kiss Me, Suzy!" link over on the right. You're never far from drunken come-ons here at KSK. Guaranteed.

The Debut Of The PKMT

How good is your gay-dar? Can you tell the difference between someone being friendly and being friendly? Believe it or not, it's much easier to pick it up with language than physical characteristics.

Take our guy Peter King, for example. He's been covering the shit out of the NFL for a long time, and of course he loves what he does for a living (unlike, say, anybody currently reading this at work). But sometimes the plaudits and punditry that he dispenses can border on, well, homo-erotic.

Is it just me? Am I the only one getting creeped out by the PK man-love? Can we get some impartial, unbiased point of view to sift through the possibly gay debris, if only to see if I just might be freakishly paranoid? Or even (Noooooooo!) homophobic?

Can we do that? Why, yes we can.

Without further ado, I present the Peter King Manlove Translator.

This Week: Cowboys QB Tony Romo

from Week 7: "I love this game. Just love it. And there's a good chance I'll look foolish for writing what I think could happen here. But I see the Giants' front seven attacking and puncturing the Dallas pocket in the first half, chasing down Drew Bledsoe."

Uh, okay. Let's continue.

"I see Tony Romo coming in during the second half -- much to the chagrin of Joe Theismann, who immediately pronounces it a horrible mistake for Bill Parcells to ever think of benching Bledsoe for some kid who has never thrown in a game that counts since playing at Eastern Illinois -- and rallying the troops to victory. A star [will be] born."

Hmm. Not picking up anything yet.

Week 9: "It's Romo time. Bill, you did the right thing."

Eureka! Now we're rolling.

Week 10: "Peyton Manning's first trip to Texas Stadium. I trust the combo platter of Tony Romo's uber-confidence and the double hammer of Julius Jones and Marion Barber III.".

Week 11: Troy Aikman, looking down on this game for FOX, thinks to himself midway through the four quarter, I can't believe I'm considering this in Tony Romo's sixth NFL game. But the kid actually might be as good as I was."

"I am positive that at some point in the second half, former Dallas offensive coordinator Sean Payton will look at Tony Romo and say to a trusted aide: "I taught this kid too well."

Week 14: "Tony Romo recovers from his first bad game since sixth grade to throw for a couple of touchdowns. "Hey," he wonders after the game, "does Jessica Simpson get NFL Network? Think she saw me tonight?"

Special Thanks: Peter Schrager, FOXSports.com

Addendum: PK's classic Rex Grossman quip (courtesy of Sports Bloggers Live/Jamie Mottram)

KSK Reader Mail Bukkake: You Don't Bring Me Cowhers

KSK Reader Mail Bukkake technically falls under the purview of Big Daddy Drew, but he, likely figuring I don't natter on extensively or obnoxiously enough about the Steelers, thought I should field this one:

What is wrong with Bill Cowher? He's been acting like he's on Xanax all season. Remember when he used to physically threaten Josh Miller for a shank? How about when he came oh so close to pulling a Woody Hayes on MNF against the Jags? The time he stuffed a photo showing he hadn't had 12 guys on the field into a ref's shirt? Now his Super Bowl champs can't even beat the Raiders and he stands there with his arms folded, smiling benignly. He's not even 50; he's got his wife and kids out of the house. He should be having the time of his life. Do you think he just still hasn't gotten over the fact Brokeback Mountain got screwed out of a Best Picture Oscar?

-- James and Amy C.

Let me begin by saying I hope Frottager Freddy gets his clammy, semen-encrusted hands on Josh Miller. That fucker gave me nightmares for years when he was a Steeler and I'm pretty sure he cost us the 2001 AFC Championship Game. He goes to New England and all of a sudden becomes one of the league's better punters. Stupid fucktaster. And now the Steelers have Chris NEVER HAD A PUNT BLOCKED EVAH Gardocki, who makes up for that proud distinction by kicking the ball 30-35 yards every time.

Anyway, the Cowher malaise, in my opinion, has been going on for years. It's funny you mention Brokeback Mountain because I know for a fact that Cowher never saw it. Once he found out Kordell Stewart lost out on Heath Ledger's role, he lost all interest. According to Ang Lee: "if we wanted a effeminate black guy with scar tissue, we'd get Seal instead of a sorry, former NFL quarterback. And, uh, sorry about the movie about the green Shawne Merriman"

The anger-fueled Cowher meltdowns you mentioned all happened in the late-'90s to the early aughts, or, namely, during the Kordell era. And who could blame him? The man was an emotional wreck, deep in the throes of soul-consuming, heart-rending jungle love. Why do you think he would never bench the guy? Sure, it would give them more time to spoon on the sidelines, but Cowher wanted to see his man be the strong, successful gay black man he knew Kordell could be.

The aforementioned incident in Jacksonville, when Cowher tried to maim the Jaguar player who returned the blocked potential winning field goal for a TD, happened Week 4 of the 1997 season, or the first year Kordell was the starting QB. Don't nobody embarass Cowher's bitch.

But eventually the fans got between the lachrymose quarterback and his jutting-chined lover, sundering their glorious bond. Kordell, heartbroken, dashed off to Chicago and Cowher had a brief, regretable fling with a turkey-necked insurance agent, before he stumbled upon an Ohio-bred lunkhead to call his own.

Things didn't go well for Swish Stewart in the Windy City or Baltimore (Omar from The Wire wasn't digging him). Soon, he began to resent the success that Ben and Coach Billy were having. He made a proclamation before the 2004 playoffs that the running game and coaching would break down when it mattered for Ben. He was right, of course, but only for so long: Roethlisberger and Cowher became Super Bowl champions in 2005, while Kordell eventually accepted that Kyle Boller was just too gay, even for him.

This year, Roethlisberger and Cowher, having tasted success, have slowed things down to try to rekindle the loin fire from the Kordell years. Roethlisberger attempts to arouse his coach the way Kordell did by throwing the ball directly to defenders and Cowher, in turn, never benches him for doing so. The the dynamic isn't the same, though. Cowher is used to being a dom and Roethlisberger is too damn butch, with all his motorcycling and drinking beer, not appletinis, with women. The Week 1 make out session with Joey Porter only served to further remind him how much he needed his brown skin baby.

You could tell the passion was waning even before this year. Observe Cowher's reaction to the worst call in any game ever. He looks peevish for a moment, then mutters something to a coordinator. Time was, he'd have his foot a yard up Pete Morelli's ass before the teams could line up for the next play.

So, when they cut to the sideline and Cowher stands there passively, armed crossed and a look of mild constipation on his face, know that at the end of that 1,000-yard stare is some jet black scar tissue beckoning him toward his retirement home in Fire Island North Carolina.

The 12 Nights of Christmas Licks Balls, KSK Fixes It

The Twelve Days of Christmas isn't just an a stupid fucking song; it's also a list of presents so shitty that I wouldn't even consider bestowing them upon the sex slave locked in my basement, let alone a loved one. Seriously, if somebody got me a partridge in a pear tree I'd fucking kill the bitch. The rest of the list isn't much better; turtle doves, french horns, and lords a-leaping...even Kordell Stewart and Michael Westbrook think that wedding would be a bit too gay.

Aside from the nine ladies dancing and possibly the eight maids a-milking (if it is what I think it is) the list is filled with more useless crap than your average broadcast of Around the Horn. Needless to say I've taken it upon myself to rectify this debacle by coming up with twelve presents that us as degenerate football players can truly appreciate. Below I've listed the first six (of an eventual twelve) different gifts as well as their intended giver and receiver.

To: Eli Manning
From: Cooper Manning

A Job Offer- If Cooper weren't all fucked up in the spine he could have been a really shitty football player. Not only is he a Manning but he was also a wide receiver who ran a 4.7 40. Despite these setbacks he will probably go down in history as the world's most successful Manning. The least he could do is give Eli a boost into the world of energy commodities, this NFL thing just isn't working out. Hell, Peyton is a good football player and even he can't win win shit.


To: Terrell Owens
From: DeAngelo Hall Drew Bledsoe KSK Everyone on Earth not named Romo

A refill on the Vicodin script- Do me a favor and put down whatever you're doing...don't worry, that Fistin' Fellons website isn't going anywhere. Now close your eyes and picture a world without the cocksuckery of one Terrell Eldorado Owens...so, you jackin' it yet, because I know I am.


To: Joe Namath
From: Bonnie Bernstein and KSK

A flask, a cameraman, and a bare-assed Bonnie Berstein (the dreaded "Reverse Shiksappeal")- The members of this site were so enamored with Namath's brilliant woo job onSuzy Kolber that we dedicated our lives to covering events of such magnitude throughout the NFL. Sadly nothing can ever live up to that piece of drunken sex begging, unless he does it again!

To: Hollis Thomas, Shawne Merriman, Odell Thurman, Ricky Williams
From: Huey Lewis via unemployed scientists

A new drug- All four of these guys have been suspended within the past year for violating the league's biggest buzzkill, the Substance Abuse Policy. It's about time we got some new drugs out of the science community. Yeah a lot of guys are working to develop steroids and other performance enhancers that can beat the test, but would it kill them to develop some fun shit? How much more fun would the NFL be if half of the Ravens defense was doing a little pre-game elephant flipping? A lot more!

To: Roger Goodell and Underlings
From: Football fans everywhere

An elbow of chronic- This league would be infinitely more entertaining if the suits would just loosen the fuck up every now and then. That's why I've decided to forgo their earned present (coal) and give them a present that benefits everyone. If Goodell and co. could just pass a blunt around the room maybe they'd let some shit go. Take for example the shoes Chad Johnson was sporting during warmups (before Merton "the Neck Traitor" Hanks fined him), those weren't hurting anybody but they were the hottest shit on the field. Why the fuck does the NFL have such a problem with free expression? Because they don't have the chronic of course!

To: Unsilent Majority
From: San Diego Chargers

The hook up- First Terrence Kiel gets busted for the lean and now some unnamed entrepreneur(s) has been trafficking knockoff shoes? I need to get in on this shit, I may be a sneakerhead but that doesn't mean I'm above wearing some fakes. My dream is to be ghetto fab, what I need is a bottle of purple drank and some fake Dunks. That's livin' large.


Check back at a later date for Part 2.

I Am An Insufferable Dipshit

Is the camera on me? Is it on? Did you check? I don't see the red light. Well, check it AGAIN. Why is the camera man so far away? Zoom in. No, I wanna be in more of the shot, you fucking zombies. Bring it in on me. Do you know where I got these glasses? Marc Jacobs. They cost more than your household's income for a year. So get a good fucking shot, or I'll just make you do it again.

Is it my turn to talk yet? Albom's still fucking talking. He's been talking for 30 seconds now. I've been timing it. It's my fucking turn to talk. Are you looking at me? I'm sitting all the way at the front of my seat. That should indicate to you that I am READY TO CHIME IN. In fact, my ass isn't even touching the chair, that's how far forward I am. I am the goddamn crouching tiger. Look at Ryan. He's sitting all the way back in his chair. Does he have anything to say? No. Lazy shit. Read my fucking body cues, people.

Pffffffffftttttt!!!! Who gave me this tea? Who?! That girl? Come here, Guadalupe, or whatever your name is. Let me let you in on a little secret, my dear. You remember Mr. Schaap? The nice old man who used to be here? Remember how he died due to malpractice? Yeah, well that wasn't malpractice. That was Lupica. I am the star here now, and you better fucking get used to it. So when I tell you that I want Earl Grey, I don't expect you to bring me fucking sawdust in a Tetley bag. Okay, sweetheart? Tazo. T-A-Z-O. See if you can get that into that teeny tiny itsy bitsy wittle brain of yours. Stupid bitch.

And while we're at it, honey, who told you I drink Deer Park? Deer Park is for the poor saps in payroll. Everyone at Valerio Productions knows Lupica drinks Voss, chilled to exactly 38 degrees Fahrenheit. So why don't you do your homework before giving me this prison sludge? Frankly, I'm amazed you managed to get out of Nicaragua, or Costa Rica, or wherever the fuck it is you're from. Oh, you're crying? You thought I was a nice man, didn't you? Sorry, sweetie. My heart only bleeds for the camera.

Is Albom done? Yes, he's done. About fucking time. That was a nice parting shot, Albom. But you're the undercard, pussy. The people aren't here to see you. Always remember that. I'm about to blow you out of the fucking water. When I'm done, no one will remember whatever hockey bullshit it was you were talking about. Go write another book about people dying, douchebag. I'm about to school you. Take notes and maybe you'll be able to earn enough money to fix whatever the fuck is going on with the tops of your ears.

I'm ready now. My voice is feeling supple. What I'm gonna do is start off with a killer joke. Okay? Here it is:

You know, maybe it's me, but I think Roger Goodell must be taking commissioning lessons from Bud Selig.

Okay, I'm going to half-snicker at my own killer joke now, which is the cue for you three bozos to start guffawing like the idiots that you are. Then, when you're done laughing at my comedic majesty, I'm gonna turn deadly serious. It's gonna show off my range. Watch.

But seriously. If Goodell thinks he can just sweep steroids under the rug, then he is doomed to repeat baseball's history. Because there's a story about steroids and the NFL that has yet to be written. And rest assured, someone will write it. And, when they do, the same bloodhounds that picked at baseball's decade-old scabs will pick up a fresh scent... the scent of pigskin.

BOOM! Fucking nailed it. You see how literary that was? It's almost like I'm outside of my own body when I'm doing it. That's how special it feels. That's the kind of sportswriting that wins you awards, gentlemen. The kind that gets you on Letterman. How many of you assholes have been on Letterman? That's right. Zero. Check and mate. Live with the pain.

Okay, what I'm gonna do now is wrap it all up with one killer fucking line. Something for the kids to think about the rest of the day.

So Goodell better hurry, or else he'll find out the hard way, as baseball did, that ignorance is a miss.

See how I took the phrase "ignorance is bliss" and just gave it that little twist? God, what a dagger. It makes you laugh. It makes you ponder. It makes you wistfully nostalgic. It makes me cream my Brooks Brothers suit pants. You know what? I think I want to shoot it again.

Did you hear me? I said I want to shoot it again. Matter of fact, I don't see my book on the coffee table here. WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BOOK?! You think I come here as a gift?! I want to do it again, and I want my book in the shot. And, if we have to do it 36 times over, we will. What I say, goes. I fucking own you people.

Just ask Whitlock.

Bengals Get Another Entry On Their Permanent Record: A Loss At Indy

The Colts' D, who haven't stopped the run all year, stopped the run. They shut us the fuck down. Depressing, especially since it's the first Bengals game I've had the chance to watch since we were beat down by New England. Everyone has been recycling Miami Hurricanes jokes from the 1990s making jokes about how none of our players can stay out of trouble. I say, just like every other fan of his/her team would say when trouble strikes, "As long as we're winning, it's all good." This isn't a Pampered Chef party.

Someone needs to break it down to Bengals HNIC Marvin Lewis. Marv, my man, what is the point of benching your best DB in a game against Peyton Manning? Yeah, The Rogg called you up. Fuck that guy. HE isn't trying to make the playoffs. Deltha got arrested, fine, but you still gotta play him (do I get time of work when I get arrested?), especially when:
a) His assignment is one of the premeire receivers in the league, and
b) His replacement is white.

You're gonna play a white DB against Peyton Manning? Hey, that's great. And while you're in such a opportunistic mood, why not double your fun and play some Jews and Chinamen? Does anybody even say "Chinamen" anymore? No? Fuck it, I'm bringing "Chinamen" back. Them other fuckers don't know how to act. Wang, let me make up for all the things you lack. Somethin somethin.

Oh, and we finally found out where Merton Hanks' neck vertebrae went after all these years; they're lodged up his ass.

It was reported during the Monday Night game that Hanks, the spastic 49ers defensive back turned gestapho league uniform inspector got a load of the new shoes that Chad Johnson was busting out for the Indy game that Hanks FINED HIM DURING WARM-UPS for wearing the shoes, and then THREATENED TO PULL HIM FROM THE GAME unless he changedn them. Ocho Cinco relented. So, not only is Hanks a puddle of imperialistic cocksnot, Merton Hanks also seems to be Chad Johnson's mom.

But this incident was just a microcosm of the general-unwelcomeness/skullfucking that the Bengals received on MNF last night. It was brutal, especially now that locking up that playoff berth will take at least another week. I liken this game to opening the big box under the Christmas tree, only to find a bunch of pants and shit. Who the fuck wants pants?