Thursday, November 30, 2006

I'm Putting My Money on the Gap-Toothed Bagel Nosher in Jersey

Welcome to the 12th edition of our weekly feature, Always Be Covering. The following is a sample of the games that I find particularly intriguing.

While I may appear startlingly brilliant (or possibly not) you must remember that this is a humor site. Gamble at your own peril you degenerate son of a bitch.

Good lord, the New York Giants of New Jersey are falling apart right before my eyes...and I couldn't be happier. As I hater of all things NFC East that don't incorporate the proud Injun logo nothing pleases me more than watching the collapse. The icing on the cake is the glut of douchenizzles (sic) occupying the field every Sunday.

Granted there are a lot of players that I hate (in fact hate is quite possibly my favorite word...after nosh) but combining the likes of Eli "More Archie than Peyton" Manning, Jeremy Shockey, Plaxico Burress, and Michael Strahan is just too much.

Strahan and his former teammate boyfriend Jason Sehorn,
he's smiling because he has a finger up Strahan's anus.

Now that the everybody has gotten to know the pugnacious bagel-chomping yenta for the crazy fucker that he is the picture is complete. With a coach who's always struck me as a closet necrophiliac I think the Giants team is finally ready to die. Which is why this week's primary pick is so damn easy.

The NY Giants of NJ +4
vs. The Tony Romo Experience

That's right bitch (no not you mom...go away...Because this is my basement! it weird that I read aloud while typing? I think somebody snuck some PCP in this peyote) I'm taking the Giants. Why? Because we're gambling on the NFL and I'M OUT OF FUCKING IDEAS! This shit doesn't make any sense and sometimes you just gotta say, what the fuck...

Yeah, I spend my winnings on high class whores...jealous?

Who do you like this week? We welcome you to share all of your ill-fated picks in the comment section.

***This is probably one of the last posts of "Giants Bashing Week" here at KSK...enjoy.

Your Cable Company Has Decided To Cuff Your Ball-Gagged @$$ To A Chair And Bring In The Gimp

I hate to beat a dead horse, but this is fucking bullshit.

There was a healthy amount of bitching last week when the NFL broadcast its marquee Thanksgiving matchup on its own Network, instead of free network TV, and shut out millions of potential viewers in the process. Shut the fuck up, I thought. You're already getting two free games. All you're missing is Jake Plummer and Trent Green, the AFC's answers to Brett Favre and Drew Bledsoe, respectively (And did you see that shit in SI where the Chiefs were voted to have some of the best unis in sports? What the fuck? I've seen slabs of concrete that were better designed).

Besides, I thought, I already have the NFL Network on my cable package. I won't have that problem. Won't happend to me. And, even better, I can watch my Bengals play the Ravens next week. I'll actually get a Bengals game down here in East Buttfuck, SC. And all will be right with the world.

But earlier tonight, about 3 minutes before kickoff, I flipped on said Network, and this is what I found:

Actually, I wish I would have seen this, so I wouldn't have had to wait for a scrolling ticker to tell me that I was NOT GETTING THE FUCKING GAME EVEN THOUGH I WAS WATCHING THE VERY SHIT-ASSED NETWORK ON WHICH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BROADCAST.

No Chad Johnson touchdowns. No shitty dances from God's Linebacker. Just shitty NFL films reruns. Not my game. Not any game. Not tonight.

Sadly, the only Chad Johnson available in my area tonight was this frat fuck, and while I'm sure he celebrates every score with style and pinache, it's just not the same. Actually, I don't know anything about this guy; I just found this pic with an image search. I'm sure he's a cool dude, and you would only need one had to count all the underage girls he's date-raped.

This network situation, simply, will not stand. These cocksucks are not fucking with my allegiances. It's bad enough that I have to go through life feeling like shit that I don't drive a Hummer, eat every meal at Olive Garden, or use other luxurious items like Colgate Total. All I want to do is watch football, and the League and these fucking cable people are cockblocking me worse than my fucking mom. Playing with my football is like playing with my emotions.

The NFL Network insists it's not their fault, like some fuckfaced 6-year-old standing over a broken cookie jar. You just look for an hour and then sit on the porch like a goon. You get your ass out there and you air those fucking games!

And then there's the Subset B of aspiring child molesters: the fucking cable people. They say it's too expensive to add the NFLN to basic service. No, really. How can any organization with a natural monopoly on a service used by 5 of out every 6 GODDAMN PEOPLE IN THE COUNTRY look at any single thing in the world and go, "Ya know, money's kinda tight right now." Bullshit. I call bullshit on you, sirs.

Well, fuck them too. Here's a quote from one of those sorry, broke assholes, who probably has a parade of Lithuanians parade to his fucking bedroom to tie his shoes in the morning:

If we put all expensive sports programming on the standard tier of service, that would increase our rates to all of our customers, even those who didn't particularly care about football or these games,

Those who didn't particularly care about football or these games? Did I just fucking read that? What about that other group, Those That Don't Give A Flying Fuck About Animal Planet/ABC Family/A&E/Lifetime/We/Style Network/E!/BET (sorry, thebigo)/History Channel/TV Land/FoodNetwork/HGTV or their rigamarole? I would think this group dwarfs the librarians, dog owners, and interior decorators that don't particularly care about football. (Actually, bigo, I'm not sorry. Go turn a barstool upside-down and sit on it).

I got cable to watch football. That was it. I don't beat it to Mariska Hargitay and I don't need to watch Star Trek marathons. I want Boise State-Fresno State. I want Florida-Arkansas. And I want Bengals-Ravens. So that's it. I'm cancelling cable tomorrow. Both of these fucks can keep counting their money for all I care. At least none of it will be mine.

God Speaks, Sounds Oddly Like Big Daddy Drew

The good folks at interviewed me today for their podcast. You can listen here. My shit starts about halfway through.

A couple things about this interview:
-Holy shit, do I like to use adverbs
-My dulcet voice will melt your heart
-I make absolutely no valuable football points
-I did this interview on a cell phone. Since I only heard about half the questions, enjoy listening to three people carry on what seems to be portions from three separate conversations. I'm so accidentally evasive, I should run for office.
-You will finally learn my last name
-I totally make racist jokes

I'll be honest. This is not the most exciting thing ever. Unless you love me, in which case it's like swimming in Valrhona chocolate while having an orgasm.

NOTE: You'll notice the host call me different first names throughout, as a joke about my anonymity. I liked Dexter the best.

Tough guy Michael Strahan brings the crazy...

If you haven’t seen the clip of Michael Strahan responding to questions (and getting caught in a big-ass lie) about his comments to WFAN regarding Plaxico Burress, by all means do so now. It is transcendent comedy. Apparently, Strahan only suffers the media when they are fawning and obsequious, like when he set his bullshit sack record.

Where the hell does Strahan get off trying to tell Kelly Naqi how to ask a question? Naqi has been an ESPN reporter (a real journalist, not some sideline airhead—sorry Suzy) for 20 years, back when Strahan was an unknown kid on the Houston sandlots; his monumental gap still a mere crevice.

If Strahan has the nerve to tell a seasoned pro how to ask the questions, then I certainly have the nerve to tell him how to answer the questions. First, before proceeding with your nonsensical, meandering diatribe, please properly masticate that entire bagel you just stuffed into your enormous craw, you big fucking slob.

“Mr. Strahan, what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

Strahan’s original criticism of Burress was well-founded. Plax clearly quit on the play and did nothing to stop Adam “Loogie” Jones from intercepting the ball. Worse still, once the pass was intercepted his attempt to tackle Jones was half-assed, at best. Plax, to his credit, has been savvy enough to play the “poor, poor pitiful me” role during the ensuing chaos.

Strahan needs to either grow a pair and stand by his statements, or apologize for them. I’m not talking some bullshit, non-existent “team meeting” apology. I mean an apology delivered in the same medium in which the original statements occurred.

But instead of doing either of these, Strahan attempts, in vain, to flip it on Naqi. Bullying, browbeating and intimidation might be an effective communication tactic within Generalissimo Coughlin’s ranks, but that shit doesn’t fly in the real world. Naqi comes off looking like an unflappable pro, while Strahan reveals himself to be the most petulant, blustering moron on a team that includes Jeremy Shockey. And that, amigos, is quite an accomplishment.

Roger Goodell Wants More Chicks

It's not enough that Roger Goodell wants to move NFL games overseas in order to increase football's international appeal; now he's after an even more foreign crowd: women.

There are two competing schools of thought on women football fans. On one hand, some of KSK's most highly esteemed commenters (hi, Brooklyn Becky!) are female fans who are knowledgeable and passionate about the sport. On the other hand... woman! I'm trying to watch the game!

Yes, I'll come out and say it: I'm not entirely comfortable with women enjoying football. They're competing interests I'm exceptionally passionate about, and I like to keep them separate. A woman who likes football is like your wife befriending your girlfriend. It's just two worlds that should never collide.

I'm poorly designed for this new age of female football fandom, but in my defense, I'm shaped by my own experiences. Understand this: I never stop admiring women... except for the few hours each week I watch football. So when these two fulltimes (I can't call them "pastimes") collide, it confuses my simple, Neanderthilic mind.

Example 1

There's a regular at the sports bar I frequent, a really cute girl who wears a McNabb jersey every week. She has a delightful habit of turning around on her bar stool every few minutes and flashing a friendly -- yet somewhat flirtatious -- smile. It is a terrific part of my Sunday.

But that fucks my entire football process up. Ah crap, why'd I dress like such a slob today? Oh right, 'cause I'm watching football. Right. Football... Man I'm hungry. Time for some wings -- crap! I don't want wing sauce on my face when McNabb looks at me! That'll totally mess up my game!

Please, somebody, tell me I'm not alone in this regard.

Example 2
Another regular at the aforementioned bar: a female Seahawks fan who I've kind of struck a rapport with. She's cute and friendly. I like her. And it is the most unnatural thing in the world to high-five her after a touchdown.

Example 3
I once briefly dated a Steelers fan. Yes, it's true. This was before a Seahawks fan had any reason for a beef with the five-time Super Bowl champions, back in Big Ben's 15-1 rookie season, back when saying I'm a writer was Caveman-code for I'm unemployed.

She's quite the little starlet, with a failed NBC series and a major movie already behind her, and IMDB claims that she's got more films lined up. This is her:

Why she had a passing interest in me is anyone's guess, but it probably had something to do with my boiling-point sex appeal. Anyway, here's an actual conversation we had:

: I feel so bad for him.
Me: Who? Roethlisberger?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Why?
Her: It's just got to be so hard. There's so much pressure on him every week. He has it really tough.
Me: You don't think millions of dollars and his choice of groupies maybe makes him feel a little better?
Her: [long pause] No.
Me: ...

As you can imagine, ours was a love that was not meant to be.

Perhaps that last example isn't the best representative of today's female fan. The new NFL woman knows her shit, and -- as the argument goes -- isn't it better that potential objects of sexual desire can share in the raw, base enjoyment of the NFL?

To which I say: not particularly. It's already hard enough finding a woman who's hot and smart but still shallow enough to make fun of ugly people with me; I don't need the extra degrees of difficulty that come with screening out Steelers and Rams and Cowboys fans. Could you love a woman who cheered for T.O.? Only on the outside, friends. Only on the outside.

In a combination of chauvinism and the defense of my feminine ideal, there's a limit to how much I want a woman to know about the NFL. Is it attractive for a lady to know that Peyton Manning is the fetus-headed scarlet prince of chokery? Absolutely. But is it attractive if she brags about kicking ass in her fantasy league because she picked up Marques Colston off the waiver wire?

Let's put it this way: I can talk to women in Manhattan about fashion because I know who Tom Ford is and I can sometimes recognize a pair of Manolo Blahniks. That shows an appreciation for a (stereotypical) woman's interests. But at the instant I rave about how excited I am for the spring line from, I don't know, Donna Karan or something, then I cross the line into faaaa-laaaaaaaminnnng.

But it's a new millenium. There's a new dickhead of a commissioner, and he's not going anywhere for a while. The only choice is to adapt, to embrace (both literally and metaphorically) women football fans, to accept them into our sports bars and exchange high-fives with them like they also have the right to vote and serve in our military.

I guess I can do it. Anything to make experiences like this a thing of the past:

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

City Of Cleveland Continues To Demand Football Team After Losing Browns In 1996

Bernie Kosar was my favorite football player when I was a kid. No joke. Lots of the great QB's back then - Montana, Marino, Elway, Laufenberg - were brilliant athletes who made the game look easy. Kosar was the exact opposite. Kosar made every play look like a complete fucking struggle. Which made him easier to identify with for fat, slovenly children such as myself. I would sneak downstairs to watch him play on Monday night. I also snuck downstairs back then because we had just gotten Showtime and "Candy Stripe Nurses" would come on late at night. But in between spanking myself raw, I watched Kosar work similarly hard for wins.

In fact, the entire Browns teams of the late 80's were like that. They were winning teams, but they sure weren't very graceful. They were the kind of teams that ran the ball a million times, got a few big plays (usually on trick plays), and then desperately tried to hold on with big defensive plays. That's what made The Drive so devastating. After struggling mightily to gain leads against the Broncos, watching that horse-faced prick Elway easily march straight down the field to snatch the game away felt unfair. The Browns worked hard for those games, and then some asswipe Homecoming King coach's kid just swiped them away, like Henri stealing Woody Boyd's girlfriend. Fucker.

The Browns haven't been relevant since. At least teams like the Cardinals have the common courtesy to be entertainingly bad. The Cards suck, but they still played in the most memorable game of the year (the Bears loss). The Browns just got shut out 30-0 by the Bengals in a game so bad I would rather have looked at Britney's exposed furburger instead. And that thing is feral.

I blame two people for this. The first, of course, is Arsenio Hall. Stupid triangle-faced fuck. The second is this pompous dipshit on the right:

Carmen Policy. Policy made his bones as the GM of the 49er teams that won all those Super Bowls. But GM wasn't the right title. He was more like the Executive Producer, some fuck who managed to get his name on the credits without actually doing anything. Bill Walsh picked the players. Eddie DeBartolo paid them under the table (and who wouldn't take laundered money from a shady asswipe with Simon Cowell's haircut?). What did Carmen Policy do? I think he made some Shiraz so everyone could celebrate.

But when you're BFF's with Chris Berman like Policy was (allegedly, DeBartolo and Policy wanted to give Berman a 49ers championship ring, but ESPN viewed this as a conflict of interest and disallowed it, which annoyed Berman. And now you know why Chris Berman should die by Ooga Booga), you get the kiddie-glove treatment. Which is why Al Lerner thought Policy and Dwight Clark would make such a stellar tandem when he hired them in 1999. They then proceeded to give the team the Angry Pirate by drafting uninspiring player after uninspiring player. And the Browns have been horrible ever since, with injuries and bad luck compounding their efforts to recover.

Worse than that, they continually get upstaged in badness, which makes them hard to ridicule. Sure, Romeo Crennel has one mighty black FUPA. Probably has some hair on it. But Crennel doesn't rock the pleated shorts like Bill Parcells does, so his FUPA fades in to the limelight while Parcells' gunt flaps about for all to see. Kellen Winslow's Gary Busey impression got upstaged by Ben Roethlisberger's Gary Busey impression. Reuben Droughns' DWI got upstaged by Odell Thurman's (Chris Henry vomited on Odell's car, Reuben. Bring Braylon next time and see if he'll whip his dick out in front of a female police officer). Browns fans tossing bottles on the field got upstaged by Piston fans who had better aim.

No matter what the Browns do to get attention, someone else ends up taking the spotlight away from them. Elwaying them, as it were. And that's sad, because the NFL is really a better place when the Browns are interesting. So I have a plan devised to do just that. This plan won't make the Browns competitive. Far from it. It would likely make them even worse. But it will guarantee that people sit up and take notice, which is half the battle.

Step 1 - Trade for Drew Bledsoe. Don't worry about Bledsoe being fucking horrible. The magic is in benching him.

Step 2 - Have a player murder someone. And not in a pussy way like Rae Carruth. Get someone willing to pull the trigger himself. That would be fucking sweet.

Step 3 - Dump Crennel. Hire Ditka. I'm pretty sure Ditka can't read. You may go 0-16.

Step 4 - Stop affiliating yourself with Drew Carey.

Step 5 - Ditch the current doodie brown uniforms. Doodie brown plays slow.

Step 6 - Move to LA. Become the Flaky, Effete, Liberal Dipshits.

Step 7 - Copy the Detroit model. Hire an unpopular analyst to become an even more unpopular GM. But up the stakes. I'm not talking Theismann. I'm talking about the King Retard himself:

Are you an interesting team now, Browns? Yes, you are. Bernie would be proud.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

The Good News Is That Vanderjagt Can Sell That Earring for Rent Next Year

You people don't see what goes on behind the scenes here. For every post you get here at KSK, the five main writers of this site plus Monday Morning Punter exchange somewhere between thirty and forty emails (How in God's name Drew keeps up with his 20th-century Yahoo account, I have no idea).

Yesterday I promised the Krewe of Suzy that I'd get to work on something about Mike Vanderjagt's abrupt dismissal at the hands of Herr Parcells. I didn't have anything in mind per se, but any time a kicker with a multi-million-dollar contract -- who notoriously got served by quick-witted king of one-liners Peyton Manning -- gets cut like a line of yayo at Lawrence Taylor's locker, I figure it's worth mentioning.

But what was I going to do? Re-attack the "idiot kicker" theme for the seven hundredth time? Examine the Curse of Scott Norwood levied upon Parcells? Create a transcript of a symposium of exiled Parcells kickers, co-chaired by Jose Cortez and Billy Whats-his-face -- you know, the young guy that sucked at kicking field goals a year or two back? I forget.

Basically, I didn't have a good angle to effectively mock Vanderjagt.

Then I saw this picture:

(Thanks to Dave's Football Blog)

And I rested peacefully. That pretty much says it all. A picture is worth a lot of words, you know. It used to be upwards of a thousand, but pictures have been depreciating a lot recently, so in this case it's only a few hundred.

Anyway, sucks to be you, Mike Vanderjagt. Have fun on the Redskins. Haw-haw!

If There is Hope, It Lies in the Proehls

Rather than doing something to, say, shore up their porous run defense, the Colts are continuing their strategy this year of surrounding Peyton Manning, that fetus-headed scarlet prince of chokery, with players who actually rise to the occasion in big games, such as Adam Vinatieri and now Ricky Proehl, pictured below getting some afterplay delight from Dick Vermeil, will fill the role of "gritty, deceptively fast, possession" receiver left open with the injury to Brandon Stokley.

"May I sup of thine tear ducts, Dick?"

He's one of those players like Robert Horry or Moises Alou who always seem to be in the playoffs, even if in reality he's had to while away the majority of his career with the Buzzsaw, the Seahawks and most of the shitty Rams teams. Proehl would probably be better remembered if his new teammate Adam Vinatieri not foiled his two Super Bowl-tying TD catches (with two different teams) by twice making game-winning field goals. He better have a good reason to come back, because he would have ended his career with 666 catches, and how would have Kurt Warner have felt about contributing to that?

Colts fans are keeping their usual clearheaded perspective on the matter:
this is a really good move. now with a decent slot receiver as stokleys backup, we can start gettin back to dominating all the time.
Absolutely. Because 10-1 isn't a dominating record. And conversely, all those years of losing in the playoffs can be directly attributed to the lack of a viable option at backup slot receiver. Or blocking. Or purple Gatorade over blue on the sidelines. Or Kenny Chesney not returning calls. But not Manning meltdowns. Heavens no.

To shed some light on these and other matters, we here at KSK welcome the receiver in the latest installment of our long-dormant feature, 10 Yards of Awkwardness.

Christmas Ape: Thanks for coming, Ricky. The last two quarterbacks you've played with were Jake Delhomme and Kurt Warner, and now you've got Peyton Manning. A real glutton for douches, aren't ya? Delhomme pushed Bojangles, Warner pushed Jeebus and Manning hawks everything else. Do you feel you're being crowded out of endorsement opportunities by this gaggle of dicks?

Ricky Proehl: Jake and Kurt were great quarterbacks and I'm looking forward to playing with Peyton.

CA: Do you like Kenny Chesney?

RP: He's not really my thing.

CA: Fuck. Then I have some bad news for you. Peyton pretty much insists on it all the time. In the locker room, on the team plane, at meetings, synched into game tapes, after sex. You know all those audibles he calls at the line? They're Chesney lyrics. You'd better familiarize yourself in a hurry.

RP: .........

CA: Say, you're a white guy playing a predominately black position, so I figure you can answer this for me: Whatever happened to that guy, Thicke? He had that one song a few years ago, "When I Get You Alone" and everybody thought he was Justin Timberlake with a wig on. Kinda popular with the brothers, but not really.

RP: I'm not really sure I know who you're talking about.

CA: Well, here's what I think: he's not a very talented musician and he's struggled in recent years to find a second hit song. Just crazy enough to be right, huh?

RP: Sure.

CA: CBS ABC is broadcasting A Charlie Brown Christmas this evening. What trait most makes Peyton like Charlie Brown, the self-deprecating humor through adversity, the obnoxious relatives or the big fetus head?

RP: I don't see the connection.

CA: I'm sure you don't. Anyway, thanks for coming, Ricky. Enjoy being the scapegoat this year when the Colts don't go all the way.

Peter King Is Seeing Beyond the Shadows of the Cave

In the world of knowledge, the idea of good appears last of all, and is seen only with effort. -Plato

At KSK we've presented you with our opinions regarding Peter King and his nemesis, one James Arthur Monk. I've never had all that much against PK, mostly because I stopped reading his articles when I got tired of SI's anti-Redskin agenda (sure, call me paranoid...they'll come for you next). The one sticking point for me has always been his irrational opposition to the election of Art Monk to the Pro Football Hall of Fame. For this I've always held a grudge against the grandiose Oracle of Starbucks (although he's also known by such affectionate epithets as Fucktard, His Dudeness Doucheness, and Manning Family Rectal Inspector).

And now, just like that, PK is flipping the script. All in some pathetic misguided attempt too court my forgiveness and loyalty (I know how you think Peter, I have a key to your diary). Listen PK, just because you contradicted everything you've ever said about my favorite wide receiver doesn't mean that you're getting one of my conceptually flawed, yet undeniably popular, Hanukkah Hams (he's obviously not in it for the Christmas much profanity and so little pig fat).

It can't be that simple, the guy has spent years bashing the candidacy of the venerable Monk. When Bill Polian told PK he was acting like a donkey raping shit eater (I'm paraphrasing from memory...does THC hinder memory?) King decided it was about time to change his mind. And get this, Dr. Z approves! (somebody's off his meds).
Sometimes we get so involved with inner-sanctum nonsense that we lose sight of the big picture. It's good to have an outsider knock us on our ass every now and then.
Well what the fuck do you think we've been trying to do all this time, improve Monk's confidence? It's as if all of the football guys at Sports Illustrated have just recovered from the worlds longest hit of nitrous (Tom Jackson's Pac-Man impression makes me giggle). Now that King has looked at Monk's true contributions he's been deemed worthy of entrance into the Hall that PK guards with all tenacity of Cerberus on a five-day meth high.

Let's just say that I'm not quite ready to drink the kool-aid promising a "new and enlightened" Peter King (although I'm down with the "new and lightened" PK...big ups vanilla face). The last time I fell for the "phony nice guy" routine I wound up with an Anvil tattoo above my ass crack. For all I know this could be his way of teaming up with Brian Pillman only to turn heel and join up with those Canadian bastards in the Hart Foundation (yeah I had to sink down to that level, the Sports Guy already had dibs on the Rockers and Piper/Snuka).

In my heart of hearts I am still holding out hope. I know that PK is a great football mind, despite his penchant for douchebaggery occasionally veiling his knowledge. Perhaps one day Peter and I could be friends, maybe we could even meet for one of his coffee-like beverages (although I take mine sugarless and blacker than Kueth Duany). Yet non of this can happen until Monk's sultry bronzed visage is resting in its rightful spot in Canton. There is nothing gay about seeing the beauty in a sculpture!!!

For now we can call things even, maybe one day I could even be dating one of your lovely daughters...or not. Too soon? Yeah, it's probably too soon.

Peter King's Monday Morning Quarterback

Monday, November 27, 2006

F--k It. I'm Throwing It Downfield.

Is that Berrian? I think he's triple-covered. You know what? Fuck it. I'm throwing it downfield.

Yeah, I see Jones open on the flank. But fuck that. Dumpoff passes are for faggots. I'm fucking Sexy Rexy Grossman. I can get that ball in there. And, even if I can't, I bet I'll be able to pull it off the next go round. I like throwing the ball long. It makes my dick hard.

What's that? I should throw a quick slant? Fuck that. That's gay. Button hook? Gay. Flare out? Gay. Screen pass? Kevin Spacey gay. This is fucking football. You can't just expect wins to come to you. You can't massage that shit. You gotta grab that game by the throat and rape the ever-loving shit out of it. You think a 5-yard out is gonna win you a game? You're a pussy. This ain't John Shoop running this offense. Sexy Rexy's got the arm. The dragon. You gotta unleash the dragon.

Okay, I'm throwing it. Nice. Look how far it went. I look good. I bet I made that Pats cheerleader wet her panties with that throw. She fucking wants me. I bet she likes it over a stair railing. I can hit that with 100% accuracy, my dear. Mmmmmm. I am delicious.

Oh shit. Looks like Samuel caught it. Again. Oh well. It still felt fucking great to throw that shit. Tell me that wasn't one of the prettiest passes you ever saw. You know what? Not only am I gonna throw it long the next time we hit the field. I'm gonna throw it even longer. Harder. You see that kid in wheelchair sitting in the end zone bleachers? I'm gonna nail him right between the fucking eyes with a Sexy Rexy fastball. Why? Because I can.

This is Rex Grossman we're talking about here. We're talking 210 lbs. of twisted steel and sex appeal. I'm not just a gunslinger. I'm a cumslinger. Throwing that ball long tells all the Rexettes that I am fucking out there. On the edge. Where I gotta be. The ladies love the danger. The unpredictability. Oh, maybe I'll tease them with a pretty touch pass every now and again. But then I'm gonna go right back to pumping that ball out for all it's worth. It tells them I throw like I fuck. That's how we do things in the sexy business.

Tell me you're not turned on right now. I am.

I Wish Everyone Had Listened When I Said My Favorite Sport Was Squash

Do you see now, people? Have you finally fucking figured it out?

I do not like football. I don't know how much clearer I can make that point. This sport blows. Everyone's running around and hitting each other... yikes. All I wanted when I was a kid was to hang out with my mom in the kitchen and make some zucchini bread. But nooooo, everyone's all like, "You're a Manning. You should play football!"

Fuck that. You should hear my dad in interviews. "We never pushed football on the boys..." Yeah right, old man. I just fell into this shit naturally. It had nothing to do with the family football games we played every afternoon for SEVENTEEN FUCKING YEARS, Dad. Or the film study sessions after dinner. No, that was for fun. Ass.

And Peyton! Guhhhhh, what a fucking dickwad. "Hey, Dad! I've memorized the playbook!" "Hey Dad, want to go look at your old game films?" "Hey Dad, I audibled to a slant-and-go pattern!" Fucking brownnoser. Hey Peyton, I just threw two picks and blew a game to Tennessee because I'm not as good as you! Isn't that exciting? Fuckface.

But those two aren't even the worst offenders in my family. No, I always get Cripple Boy pulling me aside and spouting off some shit like, "Cherish these games, Eli. You're lucky to be playing in them." Oh, yeah? I got crazed loons like Albert Haynesworth trying to chase me down and stomp on my fucking nuts. Does that sound like fun to you, Cooper? You get to sell real estate and ride Jet Skis on weekends. Meanwhile, I got Coach Stalin chewing me out and the New York tabloids writing punny headlines telling everyone what a dipshit I am. Oh yeah, bro. I'll cherish these moments. They're fucking sterling.

God dammit, do I look like I enjoy playing this game? Have you ever seen me smile? Have you even ever seen my expression change? No. I always look like someone just asked me to solve a trigonometry formula. I only play this game because everyone expected me to. I don't like hanging out in the locker room. I don't like slapping asses after a win. I don't like any of that shit.

Give me squash. There's a sport. You got two guys in a box swatting at a dead superball. Now THAT I can get on board with. No coaches. No annoying family members telling you about how "great the game is". None of that crap. Just you, some other sweaty guy, and lots of grunting. Bliss.

I got a bigass signing bonus, you know. I could play that shit all day. All I have to do is prove to everyone that I'm not good enough to play this bullshit football. Critics say I'm inaccurate. Wanna bet? I'm the most accurate fucking passer in the world, people. Those aren't interceptions I'm throwing. They are FUCKING CRIES FOR HELP.

Don't you get it? I don't want to do this anymore. Let some other moron run sit back in the pocket, waiting to get jacked. If only I could just quit, like that dipshit Tiki. He says he's quitting and the entire media slobs his knob for going out "before he does permanent damage to his body". Whore. If I quit tomorrow, everyone would call me a gutless pussy. What a bunch of bullshit. Eat shit, Tiki. Eat my shit.

I'm gonna get out of this game. And if it means throwing another 20 dead-on picks and costing the Giants the playoffs, then fuck it. I'm doing it. You can't stop me. Nothing will keep Eli from that squash court.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Brilliant Piece Of Journalism Determines Gregg Williams Is A Douchebag

I have a list of teams that are woefully undercovered on this site that I'd like to get to (Cleveland, Denver, and any other team you commenters would like to see get some attention), but I have to call attention to UM's favorite team right now. Largely to make him suffer more, which is terrific fun.

You might think we blog folk exist just to rip on everything and say everyone sucks. Not so. In the giant ocean of suckitude that is sports journalism, some work stands out, and Tom Friend's article on the Skins is one of those works. Read it here. Friend takes the pulse of the Skins locker room and coaching staff, and what comes out is a portrait of an organization that, apart from Detroit, is the worst run in the NFL. Particularly damning is the portrayal of defensive coordinator Gregg Williams, who comes across a thoroughly arrogant prick. Some of the lowlights:

Williams told people that the offense was almost "high school" that first year.

Williams was heard bragging that he made more money than the head coaches he was recruiting against, that he carried more lumber than some head coaches in the league.

One player on Williams and the coaching staff: They think they're f------ geniuses, thinking they can just let guys go and get away with handling people badly.

The Redskins' safeties and corners do not meet together, which is practically unheard of.

There's also a brutal assessment of safety coach Steve Jackson. Read on:

Other defensive coaches became officially peeved at Jackson for making Taylor "play like a robot," and for turning him into a confused, regressing player who now tunes out coaches and teammates.

"And then Steve Jackson began pouting at practice," the player said. "He pouts at practice. He'll stand by himself and won't coach anybody. This last game in Tampa, we had a player at halftime go up to him and say, 'Are you going to just sit there and pout, or are you gonna f------ coach your guys up?'"

It gets worse. Reading the whole article, if you hate the Skins, is a joy. Brilliant work by Friend. If Peter King wrote this article, he'd spend 7 paragraphs telling you about an omelet he ate that morning.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

"I Done Soiled My Britches!"

Thanksgiving isn't just about the NFL. All across the nation, Turkey Day is one of the biggest days in high school football. Rivalry games, playoff games and championship games are often played early on Thanksgiving, so that millions of the high school football players that come out on the losing end of things will contemplate suicide during the bird carving.

If you were watching SportsCenter back in 1994, you may remember these highlights from the Plano East-John Tyler game. Plano East trailed in this game 41-13 with just under three minutes to go. What happened next is the kind of thing that happens in one out of every one billion football games, if that. And, if it ever happens again, it probably won't be presided over by two of the biggest redneck, stereotype-justifying yokel announcers you'll ever hear. If you haven't seen this clip, take a deep breath. It's my favorite sports highlight ever. Enjoy.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Nobody Ever Goes For the White Meat

The rest of the KSK Gay Mafia, presently face down in puddles of turkey giblet infused vomit (or in Drew's case, regurgitated breadwiches) have left the damn dirty ape at the controls today. And, come hell or hangover, I'm gonna get you your Friday cheerleader fix. I'm stuck at work, and I'll be fucked in the ear if I'm getting anything productive done today while everyone else in America is busy rioting at Best Buy.

I had wanted to do a gamebook on the inaugural NFL Network regular season game last night, but, like many of you out there, I don't get the channel. I did, in fact, until roughly three days before the first game of the season, when I moved into my new place. Now I am sans premium channel football goodness. Woe is me to the third degree.

What I missed, besides a Gumbel-induced migraine, was a fine curb-stomping by the suddenly ascendant Chiefs administered to the quickly fading Denver Broncos. I remember catching heat a few weeks ago for stating that the Broncos defense was nowhere nearly as good as the Bears'. Well, I got some Thanksgiving leftovers for you in a few hours. I'll leave it in Drew's Tupperware container for you.

Anyway, on this post-Thanksgiving Day we wish to honor the Chiefs' victory and the noble Native Americans, who received forks up their asses from the white man 50 300 years ago, by presenting a couple pasty white Chiefs cheerleaders.

The one on the far right looks eerily like the slightly hotter of the Bush twins. The one on left is about as Plain Jane as they come by NFL standards. And the second from left resembles a young Sandra Bernhard. Nnnyyyuuuuhhh. That leaves you, blonde cheerleader with the fake tan. You're the one for me!

Enjoy your weekend.

Crud Diamond

You've survived another Thanksgiving and its attendant glut of crappy butternut squash, pontificating relatives and lopsided football games. What awaits you now is a year's worth of schmaltz and cheap sentiment tightly packed into the next month. There are many things that will drive you up the fucking wall in the following weeks and chief among them are, other than unending hype about the Bears, Colts, Tony Romo and Jake Plummer (just funnin', Broncos fans - he's terrible), constant exhortations to do goodly shit you would never consider otherwise because it's "the holidays," agonizing about how you're going to spend less on gifts for other people than they do on you without looking like a cheapskate and that local radio station that plays 58 shitty soft rock artists covering seven Christmas songs.

Okay, that was Gloria Estefan singing "Walking in a Winter Wonderland." Up next, we have Michael McDonald with "Walking in a Winter Wonderland." After that Bing Crosby, Clay Aiken, Aretha Franklin and Rosemary Clooney sing, you guessed it, "Walking in a Winter Wonderland." We can keep this up all day, people. Call the station and complain why don'cha? I'll tell you why: I'll play a block of Burl Ives for an hour. That's why. I work for Clear Channel and I'm not afraid to die.

Worse still are the omnipresent holiday jewelry ads. These are the most cynical and insulting things on TV, save maybe beer commercials, and not just to women. But unlike beer commercials, they don't have the saving grace of being occasionally funny. The men are all gawking, emasculated, clueless submorons while the women are calculating, hypermaterialistic rockfiends who can only be appeased by being handed a diamond locket in front of a roaring fireplace with a tinkling piano overlay every fifteen minutes leading up to December 25.

The fundamental problem I have with them is that they operate under the notion that anyone is stupid enough to have a clear preference in crappy chain jewelry stores. I mean, you're getting something substandard regardless. It's like having an adamant desire for signing a particular journeyman quarterback. I can see the ad now - a woman slaps a bumbling GM, who then turns to the camera and exclaims, "Aww, I knew I shoulda signed Steve Beuerlein."

Of course, if I had my druthers (whatever it is druthers are) the following two ads would play on loop during every commercial break throughout December.

Why, yes, I am single. However did you guess? That's okay. My customary masterbation gruel will suffice, thank you.

Anyway, I'm still a wee woozy on tryptophan and several kinds of alcohol, so this isn't the most football intensive post ever. Feel free to speculate in the comments on which store Peyton Manning goes to for Kenny Chesney's diamond-encrusted cock ring. I'm leaning toward Zales.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Giving Thanks to the 7 Deadly Sins...Gambling Advice Included!

This is money from Turkey. If that doesn't
make sense, I'm probably high.

Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year because it allows me show off my full arsenal of sin (we're talkin' deadly sins not Jesus sins...although he probably would have hated Thanksgiving, what a killjoy). Let's take a quick look at the full rundown.

1. Lust- I must admit I harbor improper sexual desires for Kara Henderson, mostly they involve a field hockey uniform and a pool full of jello. You might not know her but she used to cover sports for CNN. Now she's the sideline p.o.a. on the NFL Network's Run to the Playoffs...although I haven't seen her in awhile.

2. Gluttony- If you're not a total fucking pig on Thanksgiving then you should probably just kill yourself now. Eating is third best thing in the world behind sex and football, if you don't overdue it on all three ever once in awhile then I pity your deprived soul...and I call you a bitch.

3. Greed/Avarice- Ah, my specialty. Without question the fourth member of the above list would have to be money. I love the shit and I am completely unapologetic. If you think that makes me a bad person just tell me, I'll buy your ass. Now in the spirit of the Thanksgiving/NFL Holiday let's take a look at tomorrow's gambling opportunities.

  • I'm liking Detroit at +3 over Miami. I know this is contrary to public opinion but taking the points can offer you a better payout (-115 vs. -105). Besides, Miami is still playing with Joey Harrington at quarterback...AND THE GAME'S IN DETROIT!!! There's no chance he walks out of Ford Field feeling good about himself...can't happen. That would be like Heath Shuler coming back to Washington as a Congressman...oh just kill me now.
  • 11 is a big line but I like Dallas. Tampa sucks, my Redskins almost tied them! Side bet: over/under on number of times I use the word "hate" during the 4 pm game, 72.5. It's a toss-up.
  • I took KC earlier this week at +1, now they're down to -1. Obviously this means that I'm a fucking genius. Jay Cutler is so close to Plummer that his cock is all up in his shit...maybe that's why he looks so uncomfortable.
4. Sloth- I fall asleep early on Thanksgiving and I do so with authority, you got a problem with that? Go fuck yourself. I'm drunk on wine and full on starches so just back the fuck up before I hurl the nearest object in your general direction. I'll wake up when I'm sober enough to drive home.

5. Wrath- I don't like other people...there, it's been said. Toss me in a room with 25 or so people (many of which are family) and I'm bound to threaten somebody's life with a sharpened turkey bone. Especially when football, gambling, and fantasy outcomes are on the line. Yeah, I'm playing my brother this week...and if I start losing he's gonna fuckin' die.

6. Envy- Sometimes I envy other people's appetites...of course this is a crossover with gluttony. I really wish I had the ability to pack in that second piece of pie but I just ate four pounds of mashed potatoes...stupid tempting potatoes, you are the flashy whore of the Thanksgiving spread.

7. Pride/Hubris- Those who know me best know this about me, I'm better than other people, and I know it. And no, I didn't steal that line from Dodgeball, Rawson Thurber liked it so much he asked to borrow it. Hell, I'm directing most of Mysteries of Pittsburgh. And if you say different it means that you are a worthless ignoramous.

Dennis Green's Ass Crowned with Walking Papers

Dennis Green will not return to the Cardinals next season.

Oh my God this is shocking. This blows my fucking mind. I knew Bruce Willis was dead halfway through The Sixth Sense, and I had a feeling about 9/11, but this... This. Wow. I did not see this coming, not after the Monday night meltdown where the Bears didn't even need an offensive touchdown to mount a huge comeback, and certainly not after losing to the Raiders.

The firing I can understand. But cutting his arms off seems a bit draconian.

Really, all that the Cardinals can play for now is pride. But seeing as how they don't have any pride, they'll have to settle for losing out and getting the #1 draft pick.

The Buzzsaw is reportedly looking for a replacement, and the early favorite is Steve Mariucci. If they can't get Mariucci, they'll settle for anybody who sucks between one-third and three-fourths as much as Green. So Mike Martz is probably on the list.

Happy Thanksgiving, Denny. This year, you should be thankful that you lasted as long as you did. And also Fishing Across America. But we're all thankful for Fishing Across America.

p.s. Anybody who picked the Cards for the playoffs this year: stand up and let us mock you now. You know who you are.

Big Daddy Drew's Thanksgiving Itinerary

Hello, friends. It's that special time of year again. The time of year to gather round loved ones, share a hot meal, have a good laugh, say one appropriate thing after having too much wine, have your mother overreact, tell her she's a goddamn micromanager and that she should mind her own fucking business, listen to your sister pipe in with some whiny bullshit, and then leave town early.

I keed, I keed. I'd say, by the time you hit your 20's, you make the transition to enjoying Thanksgiving more than Christmas. It really is the best holiday in the history of everything ever. There's food, wine, football, napping, and at least one family member who accidentally farts, triggering a round of farting and laughing from everyone else in your clan. What, that doesn't happen at your house? Pfft. Whatever.

Now, we all know the tradition behind Thanksgiving. I learned it in kindergarten. The Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock because the English made fun of their gay shiny shoe buckles. Then they met up with the savage Indians. But they managed to tame the wild beasts with delicious brown whiskey and games of chance. Then Squanto taught the Pilgrims how to plant corn by putting dead fish in the ground. Then they all sat at a big table and broke bread. Then John Smith nailed the shit out of Pocahontas after dessert. Then the Indians busted out the peyote and moonshine and they all played dice. That's what I was taught, so it must be true.

And, in that same tradition, I will share with you my schedule for tomorrow's Turkey Day festivities. I'm a dad, so I wake up early now. Your schedule may vary. Feel free to post yours in the comments.

7AM - The Girl (my daughter) wakes up. Lie perfectly still so that Mrs. Drew thinks I'm still asleep and goes to get her.

7:05AM - Mrs. Drew goes to get Girl.

7:06AM - Masturbate. Fall back asleep.

8:00AM - Wake up for real. Go downstairs. Check email. Get glare from Mrs. Drew. Stop checking email and feign being a good husband and father. Consider having first drink.

8:05AM - Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

9:30AM - Put Girl down for 1st nap. Check fantasy lineup. KJ is out. I'm officially uninterested in Dolphins-Lions.

9:35AM - Uh... what do I do now? Okay, okay. I take it back. I'll watch a shitty football game. When does it start? Three fucking hours from now? Christ.

10AM - Wait.

10:05AM - Wait more.

10:10AM - Watch the Macy's Parade on TV. Listen to Meredith Vieira use the same script for the Bart Simpson balloon that's been used every year since 1990: "Cowabunga, dudes! Bart Simpson is hanging loose up over 5th Avenue. Don't have a cow, man!" Those morning show anchors just exude spontaneity.

11:00AM - The Girl wakes up. Change her diaper and her outfit. Bring her downstairs. Have Mrs. Drew tell me the Girl's outfit isn't acceptable. Let out five-minute, audible sigh. Go back and change her again. Repeat as necessary.

11:30AM - Eat bagel and omelet for light snack.

Noon - Turn on NFL Countdown.

12:01PM - Turn off NFL Countdown. Wonder why I even fucking bothered.

12:30PM - Lions-Dolphins kick off. Yay, I can start drinking!

12:32PM - Dolphins 23, Lions 0 (They get a safety in there somewhere).

12:37PM - Flip around. That Barefoot Contessa is a fucking snob. Not all of us live in East Hampton like you and your precious Jeffrey, slutbag. And, while I'm at it, fuck Alton Brown. Bossy sack of shit.

12:45PM - Ooohhh, Death to Smoochy is on Comedy Central!

1:00PM - Start making stuffing. I volunteer to make stuffing every year. I've heard of people who put oysters in their stuffing. That's fucking gross. I've never eaten stuffing and thought to myself, "Hey, you know what would improve this? Shellfish." Why don't I make shrimp raisin bread while I'm at it? Disgusting.

2:00PM - Halftime. Dolphins 97, Lions -1. Matt Millen gets a seven-year extension and is legally adopted by William Clay Ford.

2:30PM - Pack up shit for 15-minute drive to the in-laws. Make sure there's backup wine for the backup wine.

2:45PM - Arrive. My mother-in-law has the appetizer spread already set out. Fucking tremendous. Scoop entire bowl of hummus onto single piece of pita bread and eat it.

2:50PM - Watch the end of Dolphins-Lions. Final score: Dolphins 156, Lions -39 (in overtime).

3:30PM - Start of Bucs-Cowboys. I have TO on my fantasy team, so this game actually interests me. Except when the Bucs are on offense, in which case it can fuck off. I'd also like to announce that I will, from here on out, refer to Bill Parcells as the Titty Monster.

3:31PM - Fall asleep.

4:30PM - Mrs. Drew wakes me up for a haircut. Yes, Mrs. Drew cuts my hair. No one crimps like Mrs. Drew.

5:00PM - Haircut over. Shower. Officially allowed to start binge drinking. Grab beer and head downstairs.

5:01PM - Cowboys 14, Bucs 0. TO has already caught one TD pass and dropped seven others.

5:02PM - Mrs. Drew tells me to turn off the TV and come upstairs to be social with everyone. Oh, okay.

5:59PM - Hey, I'm drunk! Nice.

6:00PM - Dinner. Do you like white meat? Then fuck off. I'm a dark meat man. None of this bland white meat shit. Dark meat is moister and has more fat. It's like Kate Winslet. And who doesn't enjoy Kate Winslet?

The rest of the evening's menu:

-German stuffing (It's stuffing, but with bacon. I approve of that addition.)
-Sweet potatoes (which get cold in exactly 4 seconds)
-White trash church basement green bean casserole (the one with cream of mushroom soup and fried onions. So. Fucking. Good.)
-Gravy (NOTE: There is never enough gravy at Thanksgiving. Everyone says, "Hey, don't use too much gravy." God dammit, it's Thanksgiving. I want to rub gravy all over my body and lick myself clean. Make more gravy, people.)
-Pumpkin pie

Pretty simple. If we were at my folks' house, there would also be mashed potatoes (good) and creamed onions (guhhhhhh).

6:30PM - Fourths.

6:35PM - Check final score. Cowboys 28, Bucs 3. Since Madden left FOX, I think Aikman gives out an award for the best Thanksgiving Day player. I think it's a crystal scrotal clamp, but I don’t remember.

6:45PM - Bourbon. Chocolate.

7:00PM - Leave.

7:15PM - Bathe Girl. Feed Girl. Put Girl to bed.

7:30PM - More bourbon.

8:00PM - Watch Broncos-Chiefs. This is the only good game of the day. My eyelids barely function.

8:01PM - Plummer throws an interception. Mike Shanahan benches all his running backs and throws in Sammy Winder, just to fuck more with Tatum Bell owners like myself.

9:00PM - Interrupt Broncos-Chiefs for Mrs. Drew's 2-hour Grey's Anatomy event. Shit. Hey, people with TiVo: I fucking hate you. I'm assuming George's dad dies because the uptight Asian doctor lets the black guy with bad hand operate on him. What a bitch.

11:00PM - Turn back to Broncos-Chiefs. Broncos 28, Chiefs 27. Amazing finish. I missed it.

11:01PM - Biiiiiiiiiiiiig dump.

11:15PM - Throw up.

11:16PM - In bed. Thanksgiving rules.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. Hope you all have a great time with family and friends. And, if you're traveling, I hope your trip is as painless as humanly possible. Enjoy the food and games, everybody.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

The NFL and the Cable Companies Are Thankful For Your Money

If you’ve got cable and you want to Run to the Playoffs with the NFL Network you might have to run to the nearest sports bar. The lucky ones are those of us who have Comcast, and we already know what it’s like to be anally violated by a demonic corporate beast (What the fuck is a service charge? The only service they provide is the not-quite-optional reacharound from the ex-con fixing your cable)…fuckers.

As you probably know by now, this Thursday marks the debut of the NFL Network’s live televised NFL action…what a concept. The downside here is that this Thursday is also Thanksgiving, and there’s no way in hell I could ever go to a sports bar on Thanksgiving…usually I’m drunk and drugged by the 8 pm. So the millions of subscribers to other company's services are pretty much shit out of luck. But here’s the best part…nobody cares.

Another beautiful example of a professional sports league bending their loyal fan base over a barrel in the pursuit of extra revenue. I’m starting to think Roger Goodell might be a member of the tribe after all (“They have return! And they shape shift!”). The most troubling part of all is of course the reaction of us, the fans. If Seth Sutel's article from Business Week is any indication, we are long overdue for a shit storm (literal not figurative you pussies) outside the offices of the offending cable companies and the NFL Network (which are in Los Angeles...their assholes but their sense of irony is spot on).

The cable companies are in a tough spot on this dispute. If hard-core fans can't see the games they want, the complaints could start pouring in -- something Time Warner says hasn't happened yet. On the other hand, no one's going to like it if the cable companies pass along the costs by raising rates.
Seriously, people aren't even complaining enough to draw attention. Consider this a call to arms to all my brothers (and sexy sexy sisters) on these here ebays of the internets. You can write, you can call, or you can just be a man (or a sexy sexy woman) and start flinging all your spare fecal matter at the offending parties. This cannot fail.

As for the game itself, I have I'm all set (suck it Manhattan!), although it's still likely to be a painful experience. I have relatively high hopes for Bryant Gumble, he's a professional, he gets away with calling out the NFL on their bullshit, and I've really missed him since Gumbel 2 Gumbel was canceled (probably by Rupurt Murdoch who owns's everywhere).

Chris Collinsworth or a drag queen in prep?
What if I told you you're both right!

Sadly he'll be reduced to another bland voice being steupped on by the interminable Chris Collinsworth. I would never wish death on anybody under any circumstances...but if you pressed me, CC would make the top 25 (even being a former Gator cannot save him from my godly vengence). Yes Chris we get it, you are a rare analyst insomuch as you have actual knowledge of the game and we all know how great you are on HBO (Bill Simmons and the Emmy voters just won't shut up about it). All of this doesn't change the fact that you are a pompous douche who's bias shines through like misplaced spotlight off of your forehead.

The only guarantee is that the Smarmy Factor will reach new heights in that booth. I wonder how many times they'll mention how full they are after a big pre-game a viewer I can totally relate to that kind of shit. Thank God Dick Vermeil will be handling the Saturday night duties for the last two games of the year. I'll take man-crying over man-impersonating any day of the week and twice on Thanksgiving.

When you got so much to say, it's called gratitude...

Have you ever found yourself at a Thanksgiving function where for some incomprehensible, infathomable, inexplicable reason they don't have the football game on the television? This happens to me almost every year, and never fails to piss me off. My in-laws have an enormous extended family and it seems every year Thanksgiving dinner is held at yet another cousin/aunt/ who-the-hell-knows' house at some remote location in South Fucking Cackalackee.

Thanksgiving memories: "Eat faster! Holmgren's coming!"

Regardless of which relation (who I may or may not have met years ago at the wedding and have long since forgotten) hosts Thanksgiving, two things remain consistent. First, a woefully disparate chairs-to-asses ratio. I'll never know why someone would invite over 50 people when they have maybe a dozen chairs in the whole rinky-dink place. Is this how I am expected to spend my holiday? People are standing around eating like it's a goddam refugee camp. Indigents at the Salvation Army have a more comfortable dining experience. Second, and far, far more egregious, is that nowhere in this grossly overcrowded shanty is a television tuned to the football game.

Apparently, Norman Rockwell started out his career painting
homo-erotic magazine covers . That pilgrim looks like Bruce Campbell.

Fortunately, I long ago overcame any reservations I may have entertained about making it perfectly clear I need to see the football game immediately. There's no point in wasting time dropping subtle hints like, "Jesus Christ, have you hillbillies even heard of football?" These people are far too dense to pick up on nuanced cues like that. I usually just grab the remote and start clicking until I hear Jim Nantz breathlessly pimping Phil Simms' bullshit 'iron award'.

Occasionally, someone might squawk about my unilateral programming adjustment. What? Your kid wants to watch "A Yogi Bear & Friends Christmas"??? Fuck her. I'm sweating balls to make the playoffs in my money league, I got Kevin Jones' raggedy ass going at 12:30, and I sure as hell intend to watch it.

Fuck. These. Guys.

However, all this self-absorbed bitching and moaning is a roundabout way of leading to what I am truly thankful for this year-- the long-overdue addition of a third Thanksgiving game. Usually, the NFL, given a choice between A, B and C-- "C" being a shit sandwich--- will pick the latter. But adding a third Thanksgiving game is a stroke of sheer, unqualified genius. (Frankly, I am so overjoyed at the promise of the more football, that I am willing to overlook, albeit temporarily, the return to the NFL of the smarmy dickheadmanship that is Bryant Gumbel.)

"I realize many of you
may not get the NFL Network.
Sucks to be you.
Have fun watching 'It's a Wonderful Life'
or some other weak shit. Loser."

For years, Thanksgiving football has provided an attractive alternative to actually carrying on a conversation with my in-laws. Now, with the addition of the prime-time game I am assured three additional hours in which I can avoid any human interaction whatsoever. And that, amigos, is something for be thankful for. Let's play three.

Note: Another thing I am thankful for every year-- easy jokes:

"My buddy Bob Sacamano once committed career suicide."

MNF Gamebook: Cross-Country Flight Edition

Sometimes I'm actually not unintelligent. I actively planned my JetBlue flight home to the Pacific Northwest on a Monday night so that the MNF telecast would eat up 3+ hours of the transcontinental flight. Then some reading, a little Conan and Colbert, and I'm home. It's a shame that this kind of foresight only happens once every three years or so.

• My iPod and headphones have mysteriously disappeared. I have to use the free airline headphones. They’re embarrassing-looking, poorly constructed, and largely worthless… kind of like the Detroit Lions.

• Jack Del Rio looks okay in a suit. Certainly better than Tom Coughlin on the opposite sideline. But Mike Nolan he is not.

Jaguars head coach Jack Del Rio

• Michele Tafoya is missing this week. Must be her turn for Botox.

• Bob Whitfield, famous for loving the thick saddle of this site’s Patron Saint, starts at tackle. Oh please oh please oh please somebody make Suzy interview him.

• I’m reading What is the What, the new novel by Dave Eggers. It’s a harrowing and heartbreaking story of a Sudanese refugee who fled the country’s civil war, spent a decade in refugee camps, then came to America, where he got robbed and dealt with the murder of his girlfriend. It’s a nice bit of perspective that takes the edge off of listening to Joe Theismann. Because in all fairness, I’d rather listen to Joey T than walk naked through the jungle starving, running away from crocodiles, lions, and a ruthless Arab militia.

• On ESPN2, Dick Vitale is calling a Duke game. I would much rather be naked in the jungle, stricken with malaria, and torn limb from limb by lions than watch that.

• Aside from What is the What, I’ve packed Pale Fire and Life as a Loser to read while I’m at home. So it’s going to be Eggers, Nabokov, and Leitch. If Will doesn’t hold his own, we’re no longer friends.

• The Jags’ black-on-black unis look fucking sweet. Well, except for the Jaguar heads on each hip. That's a little gay. But still, note to people starting new sports franchises: black is awesomer than teal.

• Suzy Kolber reports that the Jags’ receivers claim that the difference between Garrard and Leftwich has contributed to their rampant drops. Theismann: “That’s a crock of baloney, Suze.” Christ, Joe. She’s just the messenger. Fuck off for a while, huh?

• With the Giants backed up near their own goal line, Manning has a pass batted at the line that’s nearly intercepted. This is an imporant moment in the game, as we get our first shot of a fan rocking a mullet. Oh man, and it’s a beaut: full-bodied, with just the right amount of curl.

• Mike Tirico really is great as the lead announcer. Following a Manning interception, Theismann launches into a typically bitchy hissy fit about Plax Burress’s lack of effort and Eli’s bad throw. As Thees pauses to catch his breath, Tirico – acutely aware that Ronde Barber, an actual, you know, defensive back, is sitting in the booth – says, “What did you notice about the play, Ronde?” Wow: involving a booth guest in the game, instead of just talking about People’s Sexy issue. Fucking brilliant.

• Jeff Feagles: an NFL record 298 consecutive games. And in some of those, he’s even made contact with other players. Sometimes on purpose.

• Byron Leftwich has to go to Alabama for surgery on his ankle. Translation: Jacksonville doesn’t have adequate medical facilities for its professional football team. And Los Angeles can’t keep an NFL team. I love it.

• Halftime: Chris Berman’s tie is two parts TV test pattern, two parts vomit, and one part Irvin. With just a little dash of epilepsy.

• Eli Manning is having an embarrassing game. The details are simply too much for this bullet-point format. Suffice to say, though, he’s bad when he has time in the pocket, and under pressure he’s downright Aaron Brooks.

• Jay-Z enters the booth, and Joey T and Kornheiser fall silent. I guess they weren’t fans of The Blueprint.

• Suzy begins a 4th quarter report by saying, “Eli Manning is just killin’ himself on the sideline.” And for the briefest of moments, I think she might mean that literally. I could see Eli doing it Elliot Smith-style, stabbing himself in the heart. But not in public. Because that would take stones Eli doesn't have.

And now I'm in Washington state. It's gray, dreary, and soggy. But this coffee is fucking awesome. I'm pretty sure you have to buy it off the street to get it this strong.

Measty Goodness From a Rumphing Good Sunday

When it's all said and done we may look back on this past Sunday as the most pivotal day in the grueling epic commonly known as fantasy football.

On a side note, I think it's about time we change the name of this game that we all love so much. When I hear "fantasy football" I think about Scarlett Johannson trying to tackle the Greased Up Deaf Guy...but I'm kind of weird like that.

Ufford isn't the only KSKer with a wet soft spot for Scarlett

Regardless a number of measty stat lines could be found in this week's box score, but who was most deserving? Lee Evans had a monstrous day that ruined my fantasy football team's week, but he did it against the triple A Texan defense. Frank Gore rushed for over 200 yards but his end zone allergy really started flaring up. Sadly it manifests itself in the form of a condition known as "sloppy wet vagina hands", the very same ailment that nearly ended Tiki Barber's career before he was popular enough to get a television job.

This week I'm handing out the KSK Meast of the Week to Ocho Cinco, CJ 85, Mr. Chad Johnson. I am an unabashed fan of the greatest thing to happen to to Cinci since Tony Cottrell became DJ Hi Tek (not too much happens in that city). Chad finished the ritualistic rumphing with a meast dampening 190 yards and three touchdowns. Those 190 yards just happened to account for 69% of the Bengals' aerial output, and yes, the entire purpose of this sentence was to see 69 in print.

With all that being said I'd be remiss if I didn't point out the single meastiest play of the week. In fact, I'm going to be bold and declare this the official Measting of the Week. This is Robert Griffith, he will not be trifled with.

I haven't seen a Lion get massacred like that since Mufasa...what? too soon?

If you have a new name for fantasy football please feel free to post it in the comment section...unless your suggestion is "huge waste of time for fucktards"...thanks a lot grandma.

Monday, November 20, 2006

If I Did Shit In Tupperware As A Secret Santa Gift Once, Here's How It Happened

NOTE: Like certain other people, I consulted carefully with my lawyer prior to writing this, so every word you are about to read is entirely theoretical, and therefore inadmissible in a court of law.

This whole thing didn't happen about 12 years ago. I attended a rather snooty prep school in New England. And by "I", I mean an undetermined, imaginary person.

There may or may not have been a traditional Secret Santa gift giveaway in my dorm. And this alleged giveaway could be construed in one's imagination as being rather evil. See, the idea was to give an incredibly cruel and spiteful gift, as opposed to a nice one. Again, this isn't the truth. But if it were, this is a reasonable idea of what it would sound like.

Now I may or may not have been the beneficiary of some mean-spirited gifts as an underclassman. One time a senior stole all the things in my room and them gave them back to me. So I (again hypothetically) was all too eager to take my spite out on a junior named Billy (not his real name, not even a real person) that I liked making fun of. So I may have intentionally picked Billy's name out of the draw. But there's no proof that was premeditated. That name in the hat could have been planted. By me.

Then, I may or may not have procured a Rubbermaid container from the local grocery store. Again, the details are fuzzy. This is strictly a dramatization inside my own head of how this thing played out, because I totally didn't do it. I also didn't take that Tupperware back to my dorm, carefully float it in the toilet, and then nail it dead center with a big brown poopy missile. That's all pure speculation. You can't prove that. It's just hearsay. From me.

I also didn't keep that container of poop under my bed for two whole days, not realizing that I easily could have pooped in the container hours before the giveaway. I may have used Glade in my room to mask the scent. But there's no record of that. No Glade was found anywhere at the scene. To imply there was is racist and elitist.

Anyway, if I were to have shat in a box and given to someone, here's how I would have finished the job. I would have wrapped the offending Tupperware in the nicest Christmas paper possible, then placed a lovely bow on top. Then I would have attached a note that said:

For Billy:

A piece of shit for a piece of shit.

Then I would have placed it in a pile next to all the other gifts, made sure Billy's gift was opened last, then squealed with delight as Billy opened the shitbox while everyone in the room recoiled in horrified laughter.

Billy threw the box out of the dorm skylight, where it may or may not rest to this very day. I don't know, because I wasn't there. And I didn't do it. I think Billy was involved in some kind of drug deal gone wrong, because I am 100% not guilty.

But, if you'd care to read my theories as to how I would have done it had I been the perpetrator, feel free to pick up If I Did Shit In Tupperware As A Secret Santa Gift Once, Here's How It Happened by Big Daddy Drew at your local Barnes and Noble, or anywhere else fine Regan Books are sold.

UPDATE: FOX has cancelled airing the OJ interview and publishing the OJ book, citing bad taste. Airing in the place of the interview, presumably, will be a very special episode of "The Swan".

Read more about the controversy in Rupert Murdoch's new book, "If I Did Try And Profit Off The Gruesome Murder Of Two Innocent People By Giving A Pathetic Murderer Millions Of Dollars And Free Publicity, Here's How It Happened".

Sifting Through The Week 11 Massacre

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

11/20. A day that will live in fantasy football infamy. Holy shitballs, what a fucking bloodbath. No one was spared. I think I injured myself just watching it. This follows a week where Clinton Portis, Byron Leftwich and likely Willis McGahee were all lost for the year. Let's take you through yesterday's carnival or horrors, starting with the most brutal one of all:

Donovan McNabb
Status: Torn ACL, Out For Year

This will be the third regular season that McNabb has failed to finish in his career. Making matters worse is the fact that the Eagles have a penchant for picking up backup QBs based upon their knowledge of the West Coast offense, and not based upon whether or not they blow. Hence, the 2006 Eagles are the new 2005 Eagles. Yay! Now you Eagle fans get to spend the rest of the season with the fabulous Jeff Garcia at the helm. Garcia has already suggested new fonts and paper stock sizes for the Eagles' playbook. He's also thinking a sort of creamy butter interior for the team's indoor practice facility. That will soften the harshness of the Eagles' future offensive performances.

Oh, and a note to one Andy Reid: Do you think that perhaps throwing the ball 9,000 times a game puts your QB at greater risk than is necessary? Here's an ingenious idea for you, you stupid mustachioed fat tub of shit: RUN THE BALL.

Oh, and all of the Eagles' skill position players have now been rendered useless. Thanks for playing.

Marques Colston
Status: Ankle Sprain, Time Out Unknown

Colston was having the best rookie season for a wideout since Randy Moss back in 1998 when he turned his ankle and was forced out of the Bengals-Saints contest yesterday. Consider this karmic payback to all you folks who picked up Colston and started him at TE because Yahoo! was too gutless to take the TE designation off of him. What's the matter, Yahoo!? Can't take a few death threats? Pussies.

One other quick note: There's a link on the side of this page to the Fantasy Football Cafe. The forums at the Cafe are the best on the internet for getting instant injury info or spotting players who suddenly get lots of playing time. The people in these forums are completely out of their fucking minds. These are people who would happily fight you to death when discussing the fantasy potential of people like Quentin Griffin and Darius Watts. They take this shit very seriously. Here's what one of them said when Colston went down:

Thanks for 0 points today,cole-slaw!

Yeah, Colston! You were a waiver wire pickup in the midst of a legendary season, helped fantasy owners win tons of games, and then you had to go sprain your ankle. Thanks a lot, dick!

Lamont Jordan
Status: Torn MCL, Out For Year

Consider this a mercy killing.

Kevin Jones
Status: Ankle Injury, Time Out Unknown

Jones was quietly having a great season. Unlike last year, when he loudly had a shitty one. He got plenty of carries, caught balls out of the backfield, and got goal line duty. But with the short week, he's almost certainly out for the Miami game and perhaps beyond. Why so cruel, God?

Brett Favre
Status: Elbow Nerve Injury, Status For Monday Unknown

I think we all know how this will play out. Favre will play. Theismann will ejaculate praise juice all over him. And the Packers will lose. That Favre is so daggum tough! He's a fighter! He's the Chevy Silverado of QB's! He doesn't know when to quit! Seriously, he doesn't.

Deshaun Foster
Status: Hyperextended Arm, Probable For Next Week

Foster stayed healthy enough this year to make you think hey, maybe he won't get injured this time! And then, of course, he got injured. Foster's injury isn't considered serious, but backup DeAngelo Williams played a sterling game in his absence. Which means Foster could lose his job anyway. Fred Taylor says you're a pussy, Deshaun.

And let's not forget Shaun Alexander, who caused more pain to fantasy owners by playing than by not playing. With LaDainian Tomlinson shattering records and Larry Johnson scoring consistently, you'll excuse Alexander owners if they crack each other's heads open and feast on the goo inside.

Not a fun week. From our family to yours, the deepest condolences.

SHIT, I forgot about Reuben Droughns, who was a late scratch with a toe injury. Christ, even when it's bad news, the Brownsa get ignored.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Hope Is a Dish Best Served Not at All

That's three hours I'm never getting back.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Where Cheerleaders Don't Dare to Dwell

This is usually the spot for our cheerleader fapfest at KSK, but we feel that we've provided enough of that content for this week. Instead, we turn our attention to those sinister seven fuckwit teams that choose to keep their sidelines unadorned by between-play eye candy: the Bears, Packers, Lions, Jets, Giants, Steelers and Browns.

The later two renew their increasingly tepid rivalry this weekend. The Browns players were making some noise this week about avenging their 41-0 defeat to the Steelers in Cleveland last December, and yaaaawwwwnnnn. The battle for the cellar of the AFC North isn't really the stakes on which this may finally be settled, no?

Most Steelers fans will tell you that cheerleaders are too "Hollywood" and that the team is too gritty for that shit. On this point I must strenuously disagree with the rest of the armed militia of the Steeler Rogue Nation. Gritty or not, we all know it's just because the Rooneys are too damn cheap to hold auditions and buy uniforms. And if we got any, they'd only be pitiful castoffs from other teams. Such is The Way.

I will say, if you're decidedly against cheerleaders, quit ogling them on the road, like this unfortunate Chargers cheerleader, who is trying to awkwardly simper her way out of an enclosing pack of Steelers fans. Sorry, lady, they both smell and are attracted to fear.

As for the Browns, well, I'm not sure I'd be interested in seeing any unit of scantily clad Cleveland women they could cobble together. However, if any brood should issue forth from the unholy alliance pictured below, the Dawg Pound could strap its many chins into a stolen wheelchair and have it crash into things for the crowd's approval.

You've intercepted his heart.