Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Indianapolis Has A Momentary Lapse In
Properly Assessing Its Self-Worth

It's time for some disclosure here. I grew up in southwestern Ohio. Furthermore, generally speaking, I look at that region of the state (and country) with a fondness that some of you may find misplaced. But I don't think of that area as particulary better or worse than any other municipality in the United States, with a few exceptions.

Indianapolis is one of them.

I've visited Indy a couple of times, and I fucking hate that place. Do you know why it's in the middle of the state? So that when people run from the stink of the eminating shit, they can't leave the state on a single tank of gas. This acutally happened once. Many years ago, when the city's septic system overflowed into the streets, people fled to their cars to evacuate the town. Only problem was, people in Indianapolis are so fucking stupid they didn't know where to go and just wound up driving in circles the whole day. This is how the Indy 500 got started.

It's like Shitheads Anonymous decided to base their world headquarters there. Their economy's tits are dragging in the proverbial sand, their taxes are too high and their women are comely at best. And their name is so fucking un-PC. Shouldn't it be Nativeamericanapolis? I mean, that's obvious to us, right? Not those fucks. They suck uncircumsized elderly cock.

So imagine my surprise when I saw that Indy was planning a bid to host the 2011 Super Bowl. A Super Bowl? That's like Finch from American Pie asking Shannon Elizabeth out on a date. What the fuck are you going to do with a Super Bowl, Indianapolis? Have the Super Bowl sit on your couch all night and look at your stamp collection?

Get real, Indianapolis. You are not a real city. You suck, everything about you sucks, and your entire surrounding collection of dirt that you call a state sucks, too. Terre Haute and Dayton laugh at you when you sleep, Indianapolis. You can't do shit. YOU ARE SHIT. Hit the bricks, Indianapolis, and beat it, because you'll get a Super Bowl when a snowball shaped like a flying monkey pops out of my ass and soars through Hell.

And in case it wasn't clear, Indianapolis, get fucked.

A Dialogue Between Rex Grossman And A Cirque De Soleil Pregame Performer He Has Just Seduced

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Things to do in Miami when Pro Football
Talk thinks you're dead

Last week, Pro Football Talk momentarily posted a blurb about Terry Bradshaw's supposed tragic demise that they later had to hastily retract. We at KSK were not sucked into PFT's speculation, unlike last time. In that spirit, we are seeking to dispel a few of the rumors flying around the NFL in the days before Super Bowl XLI.

Terry sez: "I'm not dead yet."

Rumor: League security is working closely with federal and state officials investigating an organized crime summit being held in Miami at the same time as the Super Bowl.
Fact: The Cincinnati Bengals did not schedule a team trip to the Super Bowl.
: Players and coaches on media day were surprisingly familiar with the sports bloggers' medium and collective body of work.
Fact: Ricky Manning Jr. will slap the shit out of your nerd ass.

Rumor: Tony Dungy has agreed to appear before a bigoted, hateful crowd in Indiana.
Fact: Tony Dungy has not agreed to act as honorary starter for the Brickyard 400.

Rumor: Demand for high-grade coke is running far ahead of supply on South Beach this week.
Fact: The Cincinnati Bengals did not schedule a team trip to the Super Bowl.

"Didya ever notice how funny your hand looks when you're high?"

Rumor: Bill Simmons says Kissing Suzy Kolber takes embarrassing pictures of celebrities and posts them in order to bump their hits.
Fact: We also provide uncredited material for NFL Sunday Countdown, just ask Sal Paolantonio.

Rumor: Lovie Smith will coach the Dallas Cowboys next season.
Fact: You are a horrible person and reek of urine.

Rumor: If Captain Caveman gets shut out on Super Bowl tickets, he's going to tape a picture of the Spain Train to the back of the With Leather intern's head.
Fact: Actually, this one is true. Sorry dude.

Sadlly, not a rumor: the 'Mars Blackmon look' claimed many fashion victims.

To make up for the video above I (UM) give you this masterpiece...

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Rex Grossman Jokes, Now In Convenient Spoken Word Form

I did an interview with Jamie Mottram over at Sports Bloggers Live today: You can listen to all the hot, sweet action here. If you need to visualize me as I speak, feel free to consult this picture of Tackleberry from the Police Academy movies. Everyone says I look like him. Which pains me greatly.

This interview went over much better than the last one I did, mainly because I was on a landline and could actually hear the questions. Hey Verizon Wireless, I can't hear shit now. Eat a dick. Some fun points about this soon-to-be-legendary-in-no-one's-mind interview:

-I have replaced my love of adverbs with my love of the word "like". I am a 15-year-old girl.
-I hope you also like the word "apparently". Because apparently, I do.
-My voice is still just jaw-droppingly sexy. I've got the timbre. Does Bill Simmons have the timbre? Fuck and no.

I also highly recommend you click on the link to Mottram's blog over on the right side of the page. He's got pictures of a fat, sweaty Chris Berman. As if there were any other kind. Enjoy.

Prop Bets: The Last Refuge of the Stupid and Drunk

Welcome to a special mid-week edition of Always Be Covering. For some people the Super Bowl is more than a game between two teams they don't care about. For them it's more than an unofficial holiday, for them it's an opportunity to gamble away their great-grandmother's collection of 19th century anal beads. We are those people--our grandma rules.

Today we're taking a special interest in the great tradition that of Super Bowl prop wagers. Whereas traditional bets are a legitimate source of income prop bets are nothing but entertainment--terrifying yet potentially orgasmic entertainment. Every week of the NFL season you can bet on such props as Peyton's interception total (take the over!) what makes this week special is the opportunity to bet on the stupidest shit possible.

Let's take a look at a couple of the more unique Super Bowl props along with some I'd like to see (you can always play along at home, all you need is something to bet on and two willing participants--or one willing participant and an unconscious guy with cash sticking out of his pocket).

Yeah, this should go well.

Duration of the National Anthem as performed by Billy Joel: 1:44

This is the one prop bet that's caught everyone's attention, much to the delight Face it, the only way to tolerate Billy Joel is to stare at a clock screaming "Shoe money tonight!" When it comes to wagering there are three possible outcomes:

1. The old bastard puts his own touch on the anthem but keeps it to a reasonable 90 seconds.

2. He's so fucking hammered by the time his cue arrives (sometime around 10:30 pm) that he starts singing mumbling Movin' Out halfway through. He finishes up a few minutes later.

3. He has a handshake agreement to finish in exactly 1:44 making every wager placed a loser. I'm already pissed at that asshole because I know it's going to happen.

Props I'd rather see...
a. Number of times I refer to Peyton as the "Uptown Girl": 1.5
b. Number of times I refer to Peyton as "That Bitch": 673.5

Who will have more: Dixie Chicks Grammy Awards vs. Peyton Manning Total Rushing Attempts

Peyton Manning hates those overrated bitches, you don't even know. One time they were backstage with Kenny Chesney and they told him he had fat thighs and a pitchy voice. When Kenny came home crying to Peyton it was apparent that their romantic weekend was ruined. It was then that Peyton swore revenge on triad the of rugmunchers. There will be no mercy.

Props I'd rather see...
a. Who will have more: Peyton Manning's audibles vs. Drew' bowel movements
b. Who will have more: CBS' sideline reports vs. Ape's beers

Prince will slip and fall off the stage: +1000

All things considered, those odds suck balls. Still, I might lay down the $5 minimum just in case. Imagine somebody retelling the story of Prince's epic fall at the Super Bowl, now imagine chiming in with "yeah, I made five large off of that." Admit it, that would be the highlight of your sad little life.

Props I'd rather see...
a. Prince's dick will slip and fall out of his pants: +2500
b. The Sex Cannon will impregnate Prince: +10000

Let's hear your prop bets in the comment section.

KSK Celebrity Super Bowl Pick Bukkake: George W. Bush!

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Miami! Next up, President George Bush!

Thanks, Mr. President! (And thanks, NBX.) Not quite the exact score we were looking for, but I guess he's staying true to the team from a Red state. We'll have more celebrity picks as we approach the big game!

SITE NEWS: Big Daddy Drew will be on Sports Bloggers Live today 12:20 p.m. Eastern time. You can listen to him do Ten Yards of Awkwardness with Jamie Mottram here.


Before the conference title games, KSK solicited submissions for secrets from NFL figures conveyed in artful MS Paint postcard form, a la fellow Bloggie nominee PostSecret.

Well, as there was no fucking football last weekend, and therefore everyone in the league had a Rextasy-condomful of idle time on their hands, the postcards kept flooding in. Here are the best ones not sent in by Omar Epps swearing that he's not Mike Tomlin or the ones sent in by Mike Tomlin swearing he's really Omar Epps with his phone number printed on it.

Monday, January 29, 2007

KSK's Official Super Bowl Correspondent Is...

All right, kids. Circle up. Daddy's got good news and bad news.

The bad news is that the KSK Gay Mafia's annual convention (AKA Hot Buttered Love Fest '07), which had been scheduled to go down this weekend at an undisclosed temple of Unsilent Majority's choosing, has been postponed indefinitely.

The good news is that KSK has named its official Super Bowl XXXXI correspondent, and that person is none other than ME, Captain Caveman. That's right: I'm going to Miami.

It is SO. Fucking. On.

I know what you're thinking: He's just trying to get a ride on the Spain Train. That is completely untrue. Also, that nickname is disrespectful and inappropriate. Her name is "Sarah." She's a human being, too, you know.

No, I'm not going specifically for Miss Spain, though my application to be her date has been submitted, and I have to say I'm feeling pretty confident about it (two words: cock shot). The excuse I have for going to Miami -- at least until I score a ticket to the big game -- is that I managed to swing a media pass (with a +1, thank you very much) to Saturday night's Penthouse party. Yes, the same Penthouse party that you, too, can go to if you buy a $1000 ticket. If you had a thousand dollars to spend on one frivolous night of drinking and ogling nude models. But you don't. You fucking plebes.

Ah, but who shall I take? Decisions, decisions. Perhaps I'll hold an Internet contest where interested females must send me emails (with pictures, natch) in order to be my date to the exclusive open-bar party. Hmmmm... Tempting, but no. I'm not opposed to the concept, but it's not quite original any more. So I guess the ticket goes to either Miss Sarah Spain or whomever offers me a bed... or both -- wink, wink. (note to Sarah: totally kidding! Pick me!)

However, I suppose I'm willing to entertain offers. Ladies, the hotline is open. Send me an email containing a typo-free essay with flawless grammar and at least one picture, and maybe we'll talk. Especially if that picture has titties.

Stay tuned here and at With Leather for all my reports from Miami, starting Thursday night. Probably. It depends on how much I drink. I may very well die this weekend.

Anthropomorphic bear physically demonstrates pleasure over Super Bowl team at expense of baffled citizenry

Super Bowl week is here. A multimedia mind-fuck where anything can happen. Legends will be made overnight-- fortunes won and lost in a heartbeat. Moments that will be remembered for generations will rapidly flash before our eyes. A pastiche of memorable sport accomplishment rapidly adding to the glorious lore of the game.

Alas, this will not be one such moment. This video appears to be a guy in an Eisenhower-era bear suit giving gonzo hugs to surprised Chicagoans over a soundtrack of dreary emo. If Falco were still alive, he would no doubt accuse this guy of taking frotteuristic liberties in the name of the Bears recent success. But then, Falco was such a cynic. I prefer to think that we all celebrate the big game in our way, some more eccentric than others.

Who am I to judge? That is our (mostly) brilliant commenters' job.

I'm 99% sure that bear was on the sidelines during the semi-state game in "Hoosiers"

People Of Miami, The Sex Cannon Is Here To F--k

Well, the Bears landed yesterday. And if you don't think The Sex Cannon That Is Rex Grossman will be using the next seven days to film his own personal gonzo porn miniseries, you are wrong. It'll be like Angels in America, except not queer.

Reader Justin sent me this photo, but even better was the link he sent me to the footage of Rex Grossman shooting a Got Milk ad. Nothing can really prepare you for this. Suffice it to say, Sexy Rexy is quite amused to find that, for once, he's the one getting the facial.

Back When The Air Was Clean
And The Athletes Were Returnable

Don't you remember the good ol' days? I sure do.

I remember the days before NFL coverage was touchdown-commercial-kickoff-commercial. I remember when the games didn't seem so long. I remember Keith Jackson and Don Meredith in the booth. I remember when Chris Berman actually had hair on all sides of his head. And I remember when all of the players used to be animated beer bottles.

Man, those were the days.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Ten Yards Of Awkwardness With: Jeff Saturday

As part of our Super Bowl coverage, I'll be sitting down and "chatting" with the occasional player or two. For the Colts, it's starting center Jeff Saturday.

Big Daddy Drew: Jeff, thanks for sitting down with us.
Jeff Saturday: My pleasure.

Drew: I understand Peyton Manning has a thumb injury. Do you think he feels more comfortable going into the Super Bowl with a built-in excuse?
Saturday: No.

Drew: You bend over regularly in front of Manning. Does he ever make you wear a jersey with "Chesney" stitched on the back?
Saturday: No.

Drew: Are you happy Manning got to the Super Bowl? It took a lot of work for you guys, but you finally got him in the position to hog all the credit.
Saturday: I'm very happy for Peyton.

Drew: Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith will be coaching against one another on Sunday. How much are they like Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls?
Saturday: They're nothing like Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls.

Drew: Won't it be bittersweet for Tony to win the Super Bowl because he didn't beat a white coach? I mean, it's almost like it doesn't count.
Saturday: It counts the same.

Drew: Reggie Wayne went to Miami. How much has he taught you about the improper handling of firearms?
Saturday: Reggie doesn't own a gun.

Drew: Marvin Harrison: Born without a tongue?
Saturday: No.

Drew: Because that happens, like to that one kid in Christmas Vacation.
Saturday: Marvin can talk.

Drew: Joseph Addai went to LSU. When the United Way forces you to go read to illiterate kids, does he join the class?
Saturday: Joe can read.

Drew: You scored a touchdown last week. Any bonus pussy for that?
Saturday: No.

Drew: Rob Morris is a Mormon. Does he ever stare into his helmet for five minutes and then tell you he was talking to the Lord?
Saturday: No.

Drew: Then smile like a really fucking creepy smile at you?
Saturday: No.

Drew: Do you use only plastic silverware around Nick Harper?
Saturday: No.

Drew: I'm tired of asking you football questions. Mind if I just ask you about random shit?
Saturday: Yes.

Drew: Who likes Trident? I do! I do!
Saturday: It's okay.

Drew: Is there a biological term for the male dickhole? Because mine is very large.
Saturday: I don't know.

Drew: Seriously, my buddy in high school said I had a pussy on a stick.
Saturday: I don't know.

Drew: What is the fucking point of cauliflower?
Saturday: I don't know.

Drew: Don't you think they should invent some kind of hybrid dildo/pogo stick? I bet it would sell a shitload.
Saturday: No.

Drew: I even trademarked a name for it. Are you ready? Pogo Dick.
Saturday: That's dumb.

Drew: Ever picture Billy Crystal fucking someone? It's really disturbing.
Saturday: No.

Drew: Don't all Skittles taste stale to you? Because they do to me.
Saturday: I don't eat candy.

Drew: Do you think Helen Mirren will take home the Oscar? I heard she's a lock.
Saturday: I don't know.

Drew: Any truth to the rumor you once murdered twelve people in a liquor store robbery?
Saturday: I've never heard that. It's untrue.

Drew: Seriously? Because I read it on Pro Football Talk and they're never wrong.
Saturday: It is untrue.

Drew: If I started singing, "Open the door, get on the floor! Everybody walk the dinosaur!" would that annoy you?
Saturday: Yes.

Drew: Ever make popovers? Fucking yummy.
Saturday: No.

Drew: Will you kiss me?
Saturday: No.

Drew: I brought Cinnamon Binaca.
Saturday: No.

Drew: I like a girl with extensions in her hair. Bamboo earrings: at least two pair. A Fendi bag and a bad attitude. That's all I need to get me in a good mood. Jeffrey Saturday, will you be my around-the-way girl?
Saturday: No.

Drew: Jeff, thanks again for talking to us, and good luck on Sunday.
Saturday: Thanks.

It's Finally Here! The Wait Is Over!

Well, we've been waiting ALL WEEK for this Super Bowl, and today it's finally arrived. I'm so excited. It's like Christmas, only without the bittersweet rememberance of dead family members. Finally, the fucking Super Bowl is here!

What? It's not today? You mean I gotta wait a whole other fucking week for this fucking game? Jesus. Way to take a cue from college football, NFL. It may as well be the offseason already. I don't even LIKE these teams. The only fan who needed two weeks to figure out how to get to the Super Bowl was the girl with tits for brains in the post below. Oh, thank God she made it.

What am I supposed to do now? Watch college basketball? With no money involved?

Fuck me, bro.

Spain Train To Arrive For SB XLI
In Miami (with Tickets) On Schedule

Yeah, so this whole Sarah Spain (above, left) story really has been a contemporary reprisal of the classic "Girl Whores Herself Out On eBay To Score Super Bowl Tickets And Maybe Some National Media Face Time That Might Tip The Scales Toward Getting A Callback Or Two When She Starts Reading For Roles In Jerry Bruckheimer Movies This Summer" Tale. Fortunately, the one loose end on this sumbitch seems to have been tied up.

Since our last post on the subject, The Spain Train tried eBay again and the page was yanked in a matter of hours. But then somebody on the corporate end came through and she scored four(!) tickets for the big game. Ah, if only I could be young and top-heavy again.

So she's taking two friends and is now ACCEPTING solicitations for the 4th ticket. The qualifications are here, and I know for fact that at least one KSK contributor has plans to throw his hat in the ring (Hint: it's not Drew). The email address for submitting your picture and your pitch is

If you're trying to put together that perfect pitch and having trouble, we suggest you try out a rough draft of that pitch in the comments.

Submissions are due by January 31st.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

KSK Celebrity Super Bowl Pick Bukkake: Hutton Gibson

Mel gets his looks from my better half, Eva Braun.

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Miami! Next up, religious zealot and father of Mel, Hutton Gibson!

The Super Bowl--the biggest threat to moral Catholics since the Jews confabulated the "Holocaust". Not surprisingly this scourge was perpetuated by heretics and heathens. Every year millions of Americans waste away worshiping false idols instead of spending the day in God's House praying for Judgement Day's arrival. I'll smile when they are all burning in eternal hellfire--especially that Peyton Manning. I think you know how I feel about the sodomites.

I don't care for Lovie Smith. I don't have anything in particular against the blacks but this one thinks he's a bit too clever. Well I have something to tell you Mr. Smith, I once won $150,000,000 on Jeopardy in 1908 and I wasn't born until 1918...Gloria in Excelsis Deo!

All I ever hear about the Tony Dungy is what a fine upstanding Christian he is. BLASPHEMER! That heathen doesn't understand the true meaning of the word, he should try doing it my way. Even I don't always understand my own mass, I took communion 333 times last week (I'm also an obsessive compulsive alcoholic). That amateur is no better than the Koran kissers in the Vatican.

What's with this Rex Grossman, they say he isn't a Jew but I can pick up his scent from's like musk mixed with goat's blood and whitefish.

As for the game itself, I'll be praying for a flood that would drown Noah himself--Jew. If you really must make me choose I'll take the Colts 31-21...because I'm a craziest asshole alive. Now I have to go drink this liter of urine while cutting myself to The Passion.

Thanks, Hutton! We'll have more celebrity picks as we approach the big game!

Friday, January 26, 2007

Minority Report: Your Non-White Cheerleaders of the Week

We're a bunch of white dudes writing this blog (Sorry, Unsilent Majority: Jewish is white). And whether we like it or not, we too often feature hot cheerleaders that share our skin tone (although it's hard to find a cheerleader with my unique brand of pale). Granted, most NFL cheeleaders are white, too, but that's no excuse. You deserve some diversity. And today, you get some.

Let's start things off by getting an early jump on Black History Month:

And here's a Hispanic Niners cheerleader. Guaranteed to be 70% more insane than your average white cheerleader!

One of the Dolphins girls. I have no clue what race she is specifically... but she probably does math better than I do.

And finally...

How is she a minority? Well, I heard that she DOESN'T have drunken lesbian sex in public restrooms. Prude.

KSK Celebrity Super Bowl Pick Bukkake: the McLaughlin Group

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition; one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Miami! Next up, the McLaughlin Group!

McLaughlin: ISSUE NUMBAH ONE! Days away from its biggest game, what is the most pressing issue facing the NFL. Pat Buchanan!

Pat: Illegal immigration. The invasion of Mexicans into the NFL shows that the US has been unable to maintain the integrity of our borders. Just when we thought we were free from the specter of undesirables like the pederast Rafael Septien and the vile, lawless Zendejas gang. The game itself is under attack by an insidious foreign element. WAKE UP AMERICA! Today Mexicans are kickers, tomorrow they will be quarterbacks. I blame NAFTA!

McLaughlin: QUESTION! One a scale of zero to ten, zero being an impossibility, ten being a mortal certainty, how much does game-day coaching affect they outcome of the Super Bowl. Tony Blankley!

Tony: Good question, John--

McLaughlin: Tony, please don’t make be regret my decision to include you in this discussion. You know what I mean… your predilection for wearing bright pink shirts, your vaguely-Fuddish voice… I doubt you’ve so much as seen a football game before. Know this, Tony: if Buchanan says the word and you are out on the street praying Fox News will overlook your studied foppery and put your sorry ass on the air.

Tony: Uh, sure John. Coaching is vitally important on game day, John. To illustrate, if Marv Levy had committed to strategic augmentation of 20,000 additional Buffalo Bills into the waning moments of Super Bowl XXVII, then the Cowboys wouldn’t have blown them out 52-17. Don’t get me wrong, Buffalo still would have lost badly, it just would have been politically more palatable, especially since--

McLaughlin (interrupting): ISSUE NUMBAH TWO. The Colts are a seven point favorite. Will they emerge victorious? Eleanor Clift!

Eleanor: John, I could give two shits who wins the Super Bowl! I just wanna go down to Miami and party my ass off! Hillary 2008, bitches! Clintons are gonna be back up in the White Hizzy, mutha-fuckas!

Tony: (clears throat softly)

Eleanor (screeching): EXCUSE ME, TONY, EXCUSE ME! MAY I PLEASE FINISH TALKING?!? As I was saying, I hope to meet that Grossman boy I’ve heard so much about. He can knock the dust of my vag-jay-jay anytime, John!

McLaughlin: Ahhhh, PREDICTIONS!

Pat: Bears win 34-27/ The decline of Western culture continues unabated.

Tony: Colts twent-

McLaughlin (interrupting): And Eleanor?

Eleanor: I predict I wind up somewhere on South Beach snorting lines off of Pac Man Jones’ junk. Y’hear that Pat and Tony, you fat fuck! I love the dick! Just because I wear these hideous pantsuits every week, doesn’t mean that I lez out!

McLaughlin: I predict the Colts win because of Alan “The Horse” Ameche, while I drink a fifth of Irish whiskey and rue my decision to leave the priesthood. Bye-BYE!!!

What is that beast, that crazy beast?

Thanks, Mr. McLaughlin! We'll have more celebrity picks as we approach the big game!

NFC Championship Chat: 2nd Half

And now for the anticlimactic finish to our NFC Championship Chat. If you missed it, you can read Part One here.

Christmas Ape: Jean Grey is meowing at the falling snow. Cats are almost as dumb as Rex Grossman.
Captain Caveman: They're better at feeling a blindside rush.

Also more likely to survive in traffic than Grossman

***flubby has entered the room.***
CC: Where'd ya go flub?
flub: Carrying in baby shower gifts from the car.
CC: Your life sucks.
flub: I can look at them now while it is halftime.
Monday Morning Punter: Chris Meyers + hat =
Ape: The chimney sweep look.
CC: It's a good look for him. "Shine ya shoes, guvnah?"
MMP: Hey, and snow. Now some tits and we're good.
CC: Is Joe Buck wearing a turtleneck?
MMP: Yeah, and he was wearing a tie pre-game.
MMP: What a fag.
[The second half begins with Grossman completing a pass to Berrian for 17 yards, then overthrowing a bomb down the sideline.]
CC: Grossman opening the second half with a monstrous erection.
MMP: That was the "yeah, we're still gonna throw" facade.

***flubby has left the room.***
MMP: Baby gifts beckon.
[3rd and 8: Grossman overthrow. Bears punt. Commercial.]
CC: I fucking hate you, Wendy's.
MMP: I would punch that gentleman in his nose.
CC: And who eats fast food in the library?
MMP: That whole meal is like 3/4 of a bite.
[With the Saints backed up at their 12, Reggie Bush makes a catch, and...]

Ape: Goodnight.
MMP: No.
MMP: Fucking.
MMP: Way.
CC: Holy shit.
MMP: Don't dance, ass.
CC: Me want watch again.
MMP: He had to do a stupid dance.
MMP: And the taunt and the flip?
CC: Yeah, I hate the taunt.
MMP: Dude made an AWESOME run, why does he have to do that shit?
CC: That's a disgusting act and I want Joe Buck to pass judgment on it.
MMP: Joe liked the flip.
MMP: I'm not super pissed about it.
MMP: I just don't get it.
MMP: I'm gonna shut up.
CC: Good idea.

[After the ensuing kickoff, Thomas Jones gets tackled by Will Smith for a 2-yard loss.]
CC: That thing we're feeling? It's the momentum changing.
Ape: Will Smith doesn't get a "Going to Miami" song montage? Fox is terrible.
CC: That tackle was FRESH.

CC: Nice backfield Pursuit of Happyness.
MMP: My dad HATES Will Smith.
MMP: Parents just don't understand.

[Saints ball. They begin driving with the secret weapon of fullback Mike Karney]
CC: Small hands, smells like cabbage.
MMP: Karney PWNS the Bears' D right now.
Flub: WTF is wrong with the Bears' D?
MMP: They're going underneath.
CC: Bears D is OK, it's the Saints O that had adjusted.
MMP: Yep.
[Just as quickly, the drive stalls on the edge of FG territory.]
CC: Grossmanesque overthrow there.
CC: Nice throw "Rex."
MMP: Cundiff will attempt the 47-yarder...
CC: miss
flub: no way
MMP: miss
[Cundiff misses short and right.]
CC: That was like the Oceans 11 scene: "Ten bucks says he shorts it."
MMP: That hurts.
CC: Saints have still got momentum... but momentum and the lead would be nicer.

MMP: Bears need a big drive here.
[FOX shows Grossman's stats so far...]
MMP: Rexy 4/17.
CC: Niiiice.
[Not surprisingly, the Bears punt. Sean Maynard drops a 51-yarder out of bounds at the 5.]
MMP: Maynard!
Ape: MVP for Bears? Maynard or Gould?
CC: Somebody who kicks the ball.
MMP: Maynard punts more accurately than Grossman throws it.

CC: That commercial was HOTT.
flub: Playing hoops in an airplane hanger, I don't get it.
CC: Neither do I, but it made me want to read some NBA blogs.

[Brees intentional grounding in the end zone: safety, 18-14, Bears]
MMP: mentum
MMP: Walk like an Egyptian.
CC: Credit Maynard with one of those two points
CC: And why didn't the Saints even TRY to run there?
Ape: well, my final score prediction for this game was 17-14 Bears, so long as no one scores again, I was close.
MMP: Here comes the snow!!!!!!
[Note: at this time, commenter "R" said, "That's not's frozen load." Nice work.]

[A Maynard 66 yd punt barely goes into end zone]
CC: Maynard out of magic there.
MMP: AAWWWWWWW Maynard!!!!
MMP: More backspin on that one next time. Shoulda hit the lob wedge.
CC: That dude's really good.
MMP: He's a motherfucking SNIPER!
[Bears ball again after a Saints punt. Grossman begins his 4-for-4 touchdown drive...]
MMP: Grossman completion # 5.
CC: What is that, 5 for 20 now?
MMP: I'm still rooting for Sex Cannon vs. Laser Rocket Arm SB.
CC: Orton's wasted.
[end of third quarter]

[More completions from Rextasy...]
MMP: Rex just woke up.
CC: Settle down, we still haven't seen a Grossman INT yet.
Ape: Aikman is trying to jinx Rex into a pick.

flub: Oof.
MMP: Get the fuck out!
CC: B-A-N-A-N-A-S.
MMP: I just spilled my shitty soda all over the floor.
CC: New Orleans Saints, you've been cannonized.
MMP: Payton is displeased.
CC: Fred Thomas looked like Dave Thomas on that coverage.
flub: Wendy's Dave Thomas of SCTV Dave Thomas?
Ape: "The snow isn't the only white stuff in your face."
MMP: He severely underthrew him, but Rex celebrates anyway.

[The Bears DE with the long name sacks and strips Brees. We trade some boring banter. During the review, FOX goes to commercial...]

MMP: Mischa Barton looks terrible these days.
[Back from commercial, and...]
MMP: Somebody tell that robot he's never gonna play.
CC: But he's loose, he's ready to get in the game.
[The ref is adamant in his judgment to back up Chicago on the fumble]
MMP: "Clearly."
Ape: Recovered CLEARLY... Snooty bastard.
flub: Which one of the KSK geniuses predicted Bears 24 Saints 13?
MMP: That was you, flub.
CC: Game ain't over yet Nostradamus.
CC: The Saints still have time to blow the Bears out and make me correct.

[Benson scores from 12 yards out. Bears, 32-14, 11:30 to play.]
MMP: Game over.
CC: Game over.
flub: Whoopass.
[Two plays later, Brees gets intercepted.]
Ape: OK, it's extra over now.
CC: The Saints should just walk off the field and commit seppuku in the locker room.
MMP: Habitat for Humanity took the 1-1/2.
MMP: Suckers.
Ape: It's tequila time so I can get in angry mood for AFC title game.
MMP: I don't see Reggie dancing now.

MMP: Ghost Rider?
CC: Eh.
MMP: Me too.
flub: That has to suck.
CC: Yes Eva Mendes, no Nic Cage.
MMP: Cage doesn't do it for me.
CC: He sucks four out of five movies, then gives you a Leaving Las Vegas or Adaptation.
flub: Raising Arizona.
CC: He's the Plaxico Burress of actors.
Ape: I interviewed Cage, Spike Jonze, and Charlie Kaufman for Adaptation for my college paper. Nic Cage just sat there for 20 minutes. They all signed the press kit though. Should probably sell that on the eBays.

[More sideline shots mean the action on the field is less important.]
Ape: Nice chap stick on Mike Brown.
flub: Mike Brown is killing that lip balm.
flub: He used at least half the tube.
Ape: Got herpes from the Sex Cannon.
flub: "Rex looks randy, better slather on another coat."

[Thomas Jones scores from 15 yards. 39-14, Bears.]
MMP: Thomas Jones reversing field to humiliate the Saints even further.
CC: Announcers giving the N.O. requiem
MMP: Lovie Smith doesn't care about....whatever
flub: Somebody call FEMA.
CC: Nobody could have predicted the white linebackers wouldn't hold up.
MMP: Nobody outside of this chat, that is.
flub: No shit, this ain't the Big 10.

CC: Who predicted a 38-13 score?
CC: Oh yeah, I've still got it.
[FOX cuts to Bears owner Virginia McCaskey.]
flub: Is she wearing a bear?
CC: I'd hit it.
MMP: With a shovel, perhaps.

[And finally, the the people of New Orleans's suffering comes to a close...]
flub: The Fridge is waiting by the phone -- he'll be cashing in on the nostalgia.
CC: "We have to give credit to Rex Grossman" -- Troy Aikman
MMP: I respectfully disagree.
MMP: It will be an adjustment for me as a viewer, going back to a domed stadium.
MMP: And taking off the 5/8 cleats.


Coming this weekend: the long-anticipated AFC Chat. Stick around. We know you don't have football to watch.

It's Not Whoring If You Enjoy It

Taking a page from the ESPN/HBO/MTV insufferable self-whoring playbook, I should probably tell you we've been nominated for Best Sports Blog at the 2007 Bloggies. You can vote here:

Apparently, this is the most prestigious award in blogging, which is like winning an award for Smallest Penis Among Railroad Timetable Collectors. And, speaking of penises and superlatives, here's a pic of Keeley Hazell to win your vote.

Also, I did an interview with the Chicago Sports Review. You can read it here. (Note the cover of the issue! Rextasy goes mainstream!) Not enough dick jokes for my taste in that interview. I have quite the taste for dick. Wait, that came out wrong...

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Steve Irwin Memorial Meast of the Week - AFC Championship

If you have 20 minutes to carve out somewhere, watch this clip of Kevin Smith talking about working on "Superman" as a screenwriter. In 20 minutes, Smith manages to be more entertaining than pretty much all of his films combined. And then doubled. And then doubled once more. And then doubled one more time. The guy's not a filmmaker. He's a fucking standup. Someone missed their true calling.

Your meast of the AFC title game, one of the best games I have ever seen or will ever see, is Pey... PSYCH! It's Bob Sanders of the Colts!

Oh, Peyton. You got your due already. You're a dork again. Bob Sanders makes the Colts' D good, as opposed to shitty. And he did some measty hitting all game long. Nice job, Bob. IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME.

The Spain Train Returns, Derails
All Over The eBays On Way To Miami

(Thanks to With Leather for the original tip-off.)

You probably remember KSK poet laureate Sarah Spain. Well, she really wants to go to the Super Bowl. So she went ahead and did what any of us would do if we needed a date, she put herself on eBay to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Wait, what?

Sarah, who holds a Bachelor's Degree in English from Cornell, advertised to be in Miami next Sunday, where her Bears will play in Super Bowl XLI. She auctioned (?) off the privilege to take her to the game. "I LOVE football, LOVE the Bears, can drink with the best of them, and let's be honest, I'm darn cute," her ad reads. "This need not be said, but just in case...I am NOT an escort. This is a good ol' fashioned date. I will however buck tradition and, as the lady, spring for the beer and food. Only SERIOUS inquiries."

Um, actually, I'm almost certain that it needed to be said. But the free nachos and beer would have been, um, nice.

And the bids for a seat on the Spain Train rolled in; 116 bids have already maxed out the eBays, literally, at $ 99,999,999. "Bidder 43" is the lucky (and so to be broke, maybe) man. The bidders appeared reputable by the little colored stars by there names, but after the bids made steep jumps to 5k, 40k, and 100k, it kinda looked like bullshit. We're watching the page to see what happens.

We don't know if Sarah is going to the Super Bowl or not. Do we care? I typed up the following as bids were rolling in; it was just fucking surreal, so I feel obligated to leave it in:

You hear people talk about punitive damages and slave reparations and you think to yourself, "How can you put a price on a person's life like that?" In a way, I am asking myself that very question right now. Sarah, from what little I've seen, is one of Those Girls that, if she came up to and smiled and started talking to you, you'd swear someone was playing a joke on you, fucking with you. But in that time it takes you to doubt, that time when you actually think that she thought you were interesting, worth talking to, you feel like King Of The Fucking World. How much would somebody pay to have that feeling? The answer is unfolding before our very eyes, as guys are outbidding each other for just a taste.

"This is as exciting as watching the first round of the NCAA Tournament," I yelled over the cubicle wall as I told my colleages about the auction.

"Hell, no!" Tex replied. "This is way better!"

So it was pretty exciting for a while. But, things being what they are now, it looks like a glorified, eight-figure cocktease. We may get answers from Sarah herself sometime today if she answers our email, provided she's not too busy counting her newfound fortune, or "busy making out with [her] friends and admiring [her] own rack."

If something super-awesome comes out of this, we'll pass it along. But, until then, we're pretty much done.

UPDATE: eBay finally took down the page.

KSK Celebrity Super Bowl Pick Bukkake: Ann Coulter!

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Miami! Next up, conservative pundit, Ann Coulter!

It really pains me to say it, but I told you so, America. Decades of entitlements and set-asides for minorities in this country have resulted in this: the Super Bowl, one of, if not the, preeminent American cultural institution, will feature two black head coaches. That's right, African-Americans, who comprise only 12 percent of the overall population, now occupy 100 percent of Super Bowl head coaching positions. It's reverse racism at its most vile and we, the right-thinking America, must put a stop to it.

Now I'm sure you're in favor of this if you happen to be one of those wimpy, guilty conscience plagued liberals who read those Marxist mouthpieces, The New York Times or The Washington Post. Hell, you'd probably be even happier if it were Osama bin Laden and Hugo Chavez facing off for the Lombardi Trophy with illegal immigrants playing every position and gay marriages being performed at halftime.

And, honestly, who else is sick of hearing about Tony Dungy? Your son committed suicide last year. Boo-freaking-hoo. You know who else commits suicide? Terrorists. Tony Dungy is just like all those camera-mugging 9/11 widow harpies begging for attention and sympathy. Well, I'm sorry Tony, I'm too busy thinking about how this country is going to win the war on terror.

But don't let that make you think I'm rooting for Chicago, that liberal outpost of the Midwest. I'm sure Mayor Daley will have his shock troops ready to fix the game upon cocaine addict Barack Hussein Obama's command.

My prediction: Tom Tancredo carries all 53 states in 2008, including the three we annex from the Middle East and convert to Christianity, while Hillary gets bupkis. Then all the godless Massachusetts and San Francisco liberals sarcifice her to their pagan deity of science.

Oh, what? You want my prediction for the Super Bowl?

Fine. Colts 30, Bears 6. But Chicago only appears to score because the biased, liberal, equivocating, pseudo-journalistic rags, The New York Times and The Washington Post, change the score after the game.

Thanks, Ann! We'll have more celebrity picks as we approach the big game!

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

KSK Celebrity Super Bowl Pick Bukkake: Janet Jackson!

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Miami! Next up, pop superstar Janet Jackson!

"Oooooh, football! Ooh! (coos gently) Is that the one where all the men go running around in tight pants?... (giggles gently) That sounds so... naughty!... (hugs self gently) All those bodies getting together!... (breathes heavily) I don't know, it kinda makes me want to lose control!... (plays with hair) I like to pretend that sexuality is still something that's like, totally taboo, even though society is two decades past that point! (titty falls out)... That Reggie Wayne is kinda cute (smiles disturbingly wide smile)... Ooh! (coos gently)... Ah! (coos gently again)... Hoo! (coos gently yet again)... Who to decide between those two big, hulking teams?... (grabs crotch despite lack of penis) I'll take the Bears, because Bears are SEXY! (coos)... But Colts are so muscular and strong! And SEXY! (nose falls off)... I can't decide which one I want more! (rib falls out of body)... Jimmy Jam, can you help me?"

Jimmy Jam: Just... just pick the Colts, girl. They're favored.

"Okay! Colts! Tee hee hee!"

Jimmy Jam: Uh... Janet, girl. You have to pick a score, my dear.

"Ooh! Scores are so... sexy! (lets out inexplicable 5-minute sigh) I'll say Colts 10, Bears 1."

Jimmy Jam: You can't score just one point in football, baby. It's not possible.

(suddenly flies into rage) "No, my name AIN'T Baby! It's Janet, motherfucker! Miss Jackson if you're nasty! And you are definitely fucking nasty!"

Jimmy Jam: Just, just calm down, Janet.

(starts throwing shit) "Don't you talk to me like that, you hat-wearing motherfucker!"

Thanks, Janet! More picks from the stars on the way!

KSK Celebrity Super Bowl Pick Bukkake: Randy Jackson!

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in Miami! Next up, American Idol judge Randy Jackson!

Yo, yo, yo! A'ight. Yo. Yo Peyton, dawg. You know you my dawg. You KNOW it. We boys. I first saw you in a commercial two years ago, and I was like, "Yo, where did that charisma COME FROM?!" You looked like some big goofy pasty guy, then you broke out "Cut! That! Meat!"... and I was feelin' it, dawg.

Hol' up, hol' up, lemme finish. I started watchin' you, dawg. And every week you bring it, dawg. And you definitely one a the best in America. Every. Single. Week.

And I know a lotta people been sayin' "Peyton's great, but can he BRING IT when it counts?" And you know what, dawg? Yo. When you went out there in the AFC Championship on Sunday, you proved those haters WRONG, dawg. You did your thing, man. You came out and blew the roof off the joint. I looked at my TV screen and I said, "Yo, THAT'S a star." Dude, you're goin' to MIAMI!!!


Timeout, timeout. Hol' up, hol' up. Yo, yo. Yo. Check it. Rex. Rexy. Dude. The talent is there, dawg. You got some massive pipes. And I love your look. And I know the ladies love your look... Hol' up, hol' up, a'ight... Your look is HOT, dude. For sure. How you get them eyebrows like that? You wax that shit? You get them threaded?

Naw, naw, but seriously. Yo. Rexy, what's happenin', man? Some weeks you come out and just KILL it, dawg. And some weeks you come on the field and I feel like you'd rather be somewhere else, know I'm sayin'? Like you're thinking about something else. Yo, check it: you started the season on FIRE, dawg. Then you got a little pitchy in the middle. A little pitchy. Overall it was only kinda all right for me.

You kinda, like, got this aloof thang goin' on. And that's cool. That's your thang, and you work it, dude. But I don't know, man. Yo. Rexy: it's hard for me to say this, because you my dawg, but I just think Peyton's gonna be better when it counts.

Check it: Colts 27, Bears 16. Yo, don't hate. Don't hate.

Thanks, Randy! More picks from the stars on the way!

The Bland Consistently Effective Receiver You Knew is Dead. Behold the Flyish Funktastity of Mar Har.

Oh, I can state categorically that I do not fain the arrival of this Media Day, where the frothing, sound-byting hordes will descend upon me and my batterymates, microphones in hand, reeking of huge expense accounts and Funyuns. They will strafe Tony Dungy and Peyton Manning with questions and admiration, at least until some canny league official plies them with food. To me, they will be pitiless in their indifference. I fear I shall be not unlike Al Gore at the Oscars: dull and pathetically desirous of attention. Sure, these "reporters" will pay me lip service, a diligent few may go as far as to write a few empty profiles, but they don't really care.

Marvin Harrison present day

Who am I? Surely you ask only to infuriate me further. For I am only the greatest receiver of my time, that is all. Bearer of the single-season reception record, if you are the sort that follows that kind of thing. Yet somehow I escape the fascination afforded other stalwarts of my position. The archetype for prolific workmanlike receiver was already cast by Jerry Rice, now I am the only silent carrier of the legacy. Respected but not revered, because I don't dance like Chad Johnson, own a non-rotary phone like Joe Horn, self-destruct like Terrell Owens or make kimchi for the press like Hines Ward.

Marvin Harrison circa 2017

I do not have time to learn such fancified endzone swervery. I've been otherwise occupied in my non-football pursuits of late in endeavering to help sort out that erstwhile ill-mannered ruffian Ronald Dietz, whom you hard-hearted enthusiasts of the gridiron know so derisively as the Littlest Ronnie. His is a mind full of promise and boundless wit. And a disconcerting number of rhymes for bitch.

I take him to play bingo at the American Legion Hall and when feeling frisky, allow him to listen to some Dion. Like me, he has learned to treasure the Longaberger baskets. If the prize for winning this Super Bowl were somehow a gilded Longaberger basket, I feel I would be more emotionally invested in this contest. As it stands, the chance to take him to Disney World should do. That is a wholesome place.

As an unintended consequence of my teachings of Mr. Dietz, he has showed me much of the street culture which he tirelessly attempts to emulate. This, he says, is key to achieving the marquee status of which I am so in want.

He has taken to giving me the sobriquet of Mar Har, which doubles as a clever abbreviation of my Christian name and my surname, as well as being an arcane reference to one of the entertainments he enjoys on the television. I have no use for mass media, other than Gasoline Alley, but being the focus of it, I admit, intrigues me. He then tells me of the exploits of the quarterback of the team I am to soon face and I become faint. No such person exists outside of a sanitarium, I believe. But he instructs me that these are things acts I should perform if I wish to be a "star." Heavens.

Mar Har design sketch

I should have become a black head coach.

If Super Bowl XLI Were An Episode Of House

NOTE: If you don't watch House, check the first comment on this post for an explanation of each character.

Open on the pregame festivities at Super Bowl XLI in Miami. Peyton Manning and Brian Urlacher greet at midfield to share a handshake.

Peyton: Good luck out there today.

Urlacher: You too.

Just then, Urlacher starts vomiting uncontrollably. Peyton reaches down to make sure he's all right.

Peyton: Hey man, you okay?

Urlacher: I'm okay. Just some pre-game jitters.

Urlacher stands back up and seems all right. The ref comes in to handle the coin toss. Peyton gets the call.

Peyton: Hea...

Peyton drops to the ground in a full seizure while also choking, which is quite a twist because you totally thought Urlacher was the sick one. Archie Manning immediately has play suspended by the NFL, because his son shouldn't be deprived of the chance to play in the Super Bowl.

Archie: That's my son!

Cut to Princeton Hospital. House walks into Cuddy's office.

House: Hey, nice tits.

Cuddy: You're a real asshole. But you save lives, dammit. And secretly, I believe there's a vulnerable side to you that I'd like to have hot Jewish sex with.

House: Fuck you. Give me Vicodin, lapdog.

Cuddy: (rolls eyes, gives him 50 lb. bag of Vicodin) I have a case for you. Quarterback. Experiencing seizures and choking symptoms.

House: So what? Fuck him. (goes to leave)

Cuddy: But he didn't eat anything.

House turns around and is totally interested now. Cut to House's office.

House: Okay, so he's choking. His other symptoms include: (starts writing shit on a white board) seizures, hives, incontinence, pasty complexion, stuttering, arm spasms, and all the muscles in his neck appear to go slack when things don't go his way. Ideas?

Foreman: Could be lupus.

Cameron: Tests rule that out. Could be sarcodosis. (passes House a note that says, "I want the House Ranch Dressing, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. I want it on my face.")

Chase: Yeah, right! It's clearly pancreatitis!

Foreman: But we still haven't ruled out a brain tumor, virus, multiple sclerosis, axiomicardosis, foreskinosis, or some kind of other -osis.

House: Good point. Go break into his house illegally and look for shit. Because you're black and I find my own racism humorous.

Foreman: (rolls eyes, still does it anyway)

Chase: But all signs point to pancreatitis!

House: Then let's give him drugs for that and if he's fine, release him to his little football game.

The drugs appear to work and Peyton is let out of the hospital and flown in for the first quarter. He throws two picks and the Bears take a 14-0 lead. Suddenly, Peyton's eyes roll back into his head and he starts spitting blood. He's rushed to the hospital again.

House: My God. He's not getting better. He's getting worse.

Cut to commercial. Repeat the previous two scenes over two more times, substituting different incorrect disease treatments.

House: All right, everything we've tried has failed. And now his team is losing 47-0 and he's had the stupid game delayed three times.

Chase: We should run the tests again.

House: You're stupid. Are we sure there's no history of choking in his family?

Cameron: His dad says no way.

House: Yeah, well patients are lying little shits.

(goes to Archie)

House: You want your son to die, fuckhead?

Archie: Why, no one talks to me like that!

House: That's because you're too stupid to know you're being insulted. I patronizingly had my one black doctor (clearly the smartest one) break into your house and steal your game tapes. And guess what? You fucking blew.

Archie: (starts crying) But... the team around me...

House: ...Sucked because of you. We've got a medication that can treat him. Nice job endangering his life, fuckface.

Archie: (still crying) But he's not a choker! He beat the Patriots!

House: Pfft. I didn't watch that game. He's still a choking pussy in my book.

They medicate Peyton and send him back out. He throws five more picks and the Colts lose 67-0. At the end of the game, he has another seizure. Cut to commercial.

House: God dammit! Just when we thought he was cured, there were 15 minutes left in the show! Fuck!

Wilson: Maybe he has cancer.

House: Hey, fuck you. I bet your wife left you because you're a pussy.

Wilson: (sighs) This is what you do, House. You belittle everyone around you because you're too afraid to deal with your own inner demons. And if everyone else is a moron, then maybe you might actually have a speck of self-worth. But one day, it's all gonna come crashing down, and where will the people you love be then? Will you have pushed them all away?

House stares at his cane for a second.

House: Dude, you're a fucking homo. (Just then, something totally clicks in House's brilliant mind.) Homo, homo, homo...

House runs to Peyton's room.

House: Have you ever fucked a guy?

Peyton: What?! Never!

House: Don't lie to me, Golden Boy. Never taken up the ol' Saw Mill Parkway? Never visited the sausage factory? Never gone to the doctor for a meat lollipop?

Peyton: All right! All right! It was one time, with this amazing country singer. And maybe a couple columnists.

House: You moron. Don't you ever watch this show? You could've saved us all an hour!

Peyton: No, I watch nothing but game tape.

House: Dude, you're a fucking dork.

Peyton: I know. I know. (starts crying, will live but is emotionally destroyed forever)

House: Let me explain to you what happens when you get buttfucked by a columnist (the camera zooms into a computer animation of Peyton's colon, with little deformed sperm swimming around): Diseased sperm penetrate the lining of your rectum, giving all sorts of nasty little diseases.

Peyton: Yes, but which one do I have?

Cut to Cuddy's office.

Cuddy: Syphilis?!

House: All the symptoms match. So simple. Sort of amazing no other doctor with basic medical training couldn't diagnose it. Now let me get my hands on those major league yabahoes.

Cuddy: Ugh. Go away.

House: But there are five minutes left in the show. C'mon, man. I'm fucking crippled and shit.

Cuddy: No. We're gonna have a thoughtful, 5-minute montage set to "New Slang" by The Shins and you're gonna like it.

House: Fuck.

Cue montage.


NOTE: Here's another completely gratutitous picture of Jennifer Morrison. Note the clenched fists. You ain't taking her down without a fight!