Welcome, UFL. May We Suggest Some Franchise Names?

As you've no doubt heard by now, Mark Cuban has come up with the historically successful idea of a pro football league to compete with the NFL. Although we here at KSK are die-hard NFL fans and junior brownshirts in Der Kommissar Goodell's Third Reich, we also have other interests -- namely, frottage, zoological snuff films, and questionable business ideas.

Earlier today, the six of us brainstormed names for some North American franchises we think would attract fans in tomorrow's UFL. Mr. Cuban, feel free to use any of these, totally free of charge. All we really want is a link on BlogMaverick!


Miami Rafters... Orlando Drifters... San Francisco Treats... Utah Whites... Birmingham Church Fire... Portland Dinghys... Quad City DJs... Tacoma Aroma... Fort Lauderdale Foam Party... Memphis Homeless... Lincoln Logjammin'

New York Overheard Comments... Baltimore Barksdales... Omaha Loblaws... South Memphis Leprechauns... Grand Rapids Rapids... St. Louis White Flight... Brooklyn Negroes... Daytona Beaches... Tijuana Donkeys... Detroit Lions

Alabama FatKid HawgDroppers... Ogdenville Monorail... Mexico City Pollution... Milwaukee White Punks on Dope... San Jose Joses... Kansas City Flyovers... Cleveland Steamers... Louisiana Hurricanes... Michigan Breakdowns

Hawaii Lepers... Virginia Gameness... Mattoon Bangs... Dallas Dallassians... Houston Houstonians... San Antonio Antonians... Toronto Informers... Vancouver Salmon... Winnipeg Pegboys... Los Angeles Fucksticks... Camden Dystopia

Fort Worth Folly... Shreveport Flood... Alaska Xanax... New Jersey Asbestos Dumpers... Scranton Schrutes... Des Moines Huffers... Las Vegas Vig... Fort Wayne Flight Risks... Key West Rough Riders... Fire Island Ferries... Columbus Claretts

Boise Ennui... Durham Spandex... Lubbock Homophobes... Albany Men's Free Clinic... Hoboken Handjobs... Malibu Treehorns... Orlando Stokkes... Boston Relapse... Baton Rouge Uninsurables... Atlantic City Stinkpalm

There you go. Only three Katrina jokes: I think we showed considerable restraint. Your submissions in the comments, please.

KSK At The Movies: We Couldn't Find the Tom Brady or Matt Leinart Screen Test

As much as I am a lover of warm weather, summer is the season of stale cultural retreads. No worthwhile TV. Scads of bland popcorn flicks and remakes. Sure, a few football players helpfully implode their careers in the service of futilely attempting to slake our insatiable lust for football news, but truthfully, fresh Mike Vick dogfighting jokes probably won't last us through June, the discovery of a doggie Dachau or no. And because I'm enough of a low-level functionary at work, I can't get much time to enjoy the summery splendor - I worked two out of three days over Memorial Day weekend, don't have enough money to take any exotic vacations, bitchbitchbitch, etc.

Anyway, there are always at least one or two media-related gems that keep me going. Hopefully, The Simpsons Movie will be one. Another such movie is this week's Knocked Up, Judd Apatow's follow-up to The 40-Year-Old Virgin. In a bit of viral marketing, the filmmakers released this outtake with Michael Cera, best known as Arrested Development's George Michael, fabulously and petulently botching a key scene. It's no Lily Tomlin having it out with David O. Russell, but it's all done in a winkingly good humor and fine watching nonethless.

Free Crackers For Fitty, Act III

You may want to read Act I and Act II if you haven't already...


Scene i: The Tub. Fitty is in the hottub at his house, reading the latest treatment of the new Lassie movie he is executive-producing for Miramax, when he starts to get hungry.

Larry Fitzgerald: Lupé!

Lupé Môřãléŝ: [runs in from the other room] ¿Si?

Fitty: Baby, did you order me that Buffalo Chicken pizza for me like I told you?

Lupé: ¡Si, shood bee heer soon, weet da pang crost! [runs out of the room]

Fitty: Baby, I told you! No. Pan. Crust on that shit! Pan crusts are forever at odds with my tender palette, never mind the bombardment of that square shape upon my psyche. You must call them back and tell them that the contents of my order have been compromised.

Lupé: [runs back in] ¡ Boot dee pang crost peetza eez olreedy caw-meeng !

Fitty: Just get me a damn towel, my shit’s starting to wrinkle up in this mug. [she leaves as he shakes his head in disappointment]

Fitty: [continuing, to himself] Why the fuck am I payin’ that bitch a whole dollar-twenty-five an hour? [reaches back for his cell phone and hits “7” on his speed dial; it rings three times]

High School Kid Who Has Just About Had it With Life: [answers phone in monotone] Thank you for calling Papa John’s Pizza can you hold please…

Fitty: No, good sir, there’s no time! I’m afraid that a delivery approaching my domicile at this very instant may be tainted!

High School Kid Who Has Just About Had it With Life: [pauses] …Fitty?

Fitty: …Todd?

Todd: Yeah. You calling about…that one medium Buffalo Chicken pan pizza with the five orders of breadsticks?

Fitty: Yes! You must understand! The pan crust and I—

Todd: Yeah, we just assumed that part was a mistake, so we changed it to regular crust. It should be there any minute.

Fitty: Oh, thank goodness. [hears the call waiting beep] Thank you, o pimply one. Farewell [clicks over] Mr. Fitzgerald’s office?

Anquan Boldin: Fitty! It’s Quan!

Fitty: Aw, shit.

Quan: Don’t you ‘Aw, shit’ The Quan, man. Mr. Leinart told me about your expedition without me!

Fitty: Man, why you keep callin’ his ass Mr. Leinart?

Quan: He said you makin’ a new dogfightin’ movie! How you gonna make a dogfightin’ movie without The Quan?

Fitty: It’s just a dog, yo. Ain’t no dog-fightin’ in this shit. This dog ain’t doin’ nothing but chillin’ on this shit-ass farm and savin’ a bunch of crazy-assed rednecks when they doin’ stupid shit.

Quan: Check it out, The Quan is enjoying this latest issue of Sky Mall catalogue! And they got some shit!

Fitty: What mall catalogue?

Quan: Check this shit out! The Quan can purchase a statue of a sumo wrestler lookin’ like he’s takin a shit for just 95 bucks!

Fitty: [feigning disinterest] Man, I got like, five of those.

Quan: You should see this little bitch, man! He’s a big fat yellow motherfuckah and he got titty for days!

Fitty: Sounds like Lupé.

Quan: Yeah, but check this shit out: For $225, I can get dude squattin’ in a four-point stance with a glass table stacked up on his shit. But if I get this motherfucka, which way do I point dude’s ass?

Fitty: Well if you still have that couch with the love seat you’ve gotta—

Quan: [to somebody else] Look here, baby! The Quan will use six pillows if it pleases him!

Fitty: Quan, where are you?

Quan: [to somebody else] Hey, Fitty, check this shit out! The Quan is comin’ to ya tonight! I called to getcha to pick me up from the airport?

Fitty: [confused] Quan, man, did you call me from your cell phone…while you’re on the plane?

Quan: And guess who on da plane wit me! Jimmy Seinfeld!

Fitty: Quan, you can’t use a cell phone on a passenger jet. You’re gonna fuck up the guidance systems and crash that shit.

Quan: They ain’t gonna crash this motherfucka wit this rich white boy on here!

Fitty: Quan, I can’t pick you up. I got pizza comin’

Quan: Are you shittin’ The Quan, man? You gonna deprive the needs of The Quan…for a pizza? It’s not like you eatin’ crackers, man!

Fitty: I interpret the pizza as one larger, delicious, saucy, cracker.

Quan: Damn, man! you know how much a cab in DC is?

Fitty: DC? You’re flying to DC?

Quan: Yeah, man. Wanted to see my boy Fitty, man!

Fitty: Quan…I’m in Phoenix.

Quan: [long pause]

Fitty: …I can’t pick you up if you’re landing in DC.

Quan: [long pause]

Fitty: …because I’m in another city…about 2,500 miles away.

Quan: [muffled screaming of women’s voices, then the call drops out]

Fitty: [puts the phone down behind him] That might not have been good. Maybe I should—

Lupé: [running in the room] ¡ Peetza Heer ! [runs around the hottub and then back out]

Fitty: That’s what I’m talkin’ about…[Gets out of the hottub and starts drying off, then suddenly stops]

Fitty: Lupé! What the fuck is all over this towel?

I Called This Press Conference To Let You Know That I Dislike Press Conferences

I’m glad you’re all here today. Sorry I’m a bit late. I know y’all have a job to do, so my apologies about that. Anyway, I wanted to call this press conference to let all of you know that I dislike press conferences. Hate ‘em. Can’t stand ‘em. Wouldn’t be caught dead at one.

You see, I’m just a simple country guy. If I had my druthers, I’d be back in Kiln, sittin’ on top of my lawn tractor, mowin’ the grass. But I felt obligated to be here today, to let you know that I really resent havin’ to be here. I don’t want all this attention. It’s not me. This really ain’t my thing.

Man, look at all your fancy cameras! Back in Kiln, we don’t even have cameras! Don’t need ‘em. We’ve got Tookie the mud painter to preserve our memories. And that’s all we need. I’m not a real technophile. Sure, I own a flat screen TV, iPod, laptop, and Harmon Kardon surround system. But I don’t use any of it. I just like to bring friends around and point at it and mock it for being so materialistic. We don’t need any of it. I play a washboard for my friends and they like it just fine.

I’m a down home feller, guys. I just want to be with my family. In fact, they’re callin’ my Blackberry right now. But I can’t answer it, because I have to be here with you.

I just want to go out there and play football. I’m not in this for the money, or the attention, even though I signed endorsement deals with Motorola, Nike, and Ted’s Auto Body. That’s not what Brett Favre is all about. I’m just a hard-workin’ boy who hopes to retire one day to a life of farmin’, fishin’, huntin’, and hostin’ NFL Live 6 days a week. That’s all I ever wanted. Don’t you see that you people are robbin’ me of precious time with me and my family? Jesus.

Peter, you understand better than anyone. I’m not some spoiled diva, am I?

Buttboy: Hell no.

Of course not. Even when I bitched to the team to bring on Randy Moss, hell I wasn’t doin’ that out of selfishness. I did it because I think it would be some darn good fun to have Randy Moss on our team. The sullenness. The lackadaisical attitude. I wanted him to be around here because we could play some old-fashioned ball together. I certainly didn’t want him here to help bring more media attention to my falling team as I try desperately to remain in the limelight as my skills quickly rot away into nothingness. That wasn’t my intention. And I resent having to mention that idea to you and then refute it. It ain’t right.

I’m not some total media whore who puts up a Bobby Bowden-like country bumpkin front for reporters in exchange for favorable coverage. I’m not some selfish prick who pretends to be a team player but really just can’t stand to live one second without the attention. I don’t wish I was Peyton Manning and secretly hope to catch him, skin him, and then wear his skin as a disguise while I try and play five more years. I’m not a whiny, hypocritical douchebag who thinks he’s better than everyone because he fancies himself so fucking down-to-earth. I’m not a fucking asshole - a big, gaping, flaming red asshole who deserves to get brained by a roided-up, tire-iron wielding Shawne Merriman and then thrown into a wheat thrasher and brutally murdered for being such a tiresome sack of shit. I’m not like that at all. Which is why we should meet regularly every week from now on, so I can reinforce that point.

I’ll be honest here, I’m not sure how much longer I can take this. Maybe I should retire. Maybe. Probably not. But possibly. I'd say there's a 30% chance, but a 50% chance I could increase that first percentage. But maybe a 15% chance I could lower it. I'm not sure. Maybe. Possibly. I'd have to talk to my family about it. Then I'd have to think about it. Then I'd have to have a conference call to hash out my feelings. Maybe a conference call. Possibly a town hall forum. Not sure.

Let’s hold a press conference next week and I’ll inform you of my decision. I won’t like it, but you Northern fuckers have forced my hand. Guess I’m missing Breleigh’s birthday.

KSK Off Topic: I wish I was a little bit taller, I wish I was a baller

Ladies and gentlemen I've got a big announcement for you. Today is my birthday (please hold your applause until a time at which I can hear you).

I'd eat the candle wax out of her ass
Normally I'm quite low-key on this holiest of days. To me there's really nothing worse than a birthday party, unless it's a surprise. What kind of sick vindictive bitch could invent such a treacherous form of birthday sabotage? Hey everything's going your way, now we'll just throw you in a room with a group of people that you never really liked that much to begin with. Fuck that. Instead I choose to focus on the spiritual nature of the birthday--the wishes.

The wishing.

Every year the true believers are rewarded with a special birthday wish to use as they see fit. It's your day and you can wish for anything you want (says so in the Bible) be it the death of Cosmo Kramer or the company of a buxom model.

This year I thought I'd share the experience with you, the glorious reader. Help me choose the ultimate birthday wish. I've included my finalists for your perusal.


I wish Sarah Shahi would share that cake with a Jewy sports blogger

I wish Roger Goodell and Gene Upshaw would just fuck and get it over with

I wish Chris Berman had aphonia

I wish Al Davis was alive

I wish Roger Clemens wasn't

I wish Allison Stokke was looking at me on the internet

I wish Schrutebag's ex-wife was more like Jean Strahan

I wish John Clayton would tear out Sean Salisbury's heart with his bare hands

I wish Mike Vick was haunted by dead pit bulls


I wish Abe Pollin would bake me a cake with a naked Susan O'Malley inside

I wish Brenda Haywood had man-hands to go with the rest of her mannish physique

I wish Caron Butler would come to my house for my birthday

I wish I could procreate with Gilbert Arenas

I wish I had a kryptonite cross, because then you could keep both Dracula and Superman away

I wish Dan Snyder wore a top hat

I wish Keyshawn took Tony's job (then Tony could get back to his real job and Key could tell us if whether or not a given player is in fact an Uncle Tom)

I wish Big Daddy Drew answered my fan mail

I wish I had a stalker

I wish Clinton Portis would come to his first press conference covered with fake blood and dog fur

I wish I could see through my eyelids

I wish the season would just fuckin' start already


So let me know what you think in the comment section and feel free to offer up further suggestions.

A Hearty Welcome To Our New York Times Readers

A month or so ago, a New York Times reporter interviewed us for an article in the Sunday Styles section about the rising power of blog commenters. I shit you not. They took Ufford's picture and everything. I'm sure they retouched it to add color and make Ufford appear more human, but I digress. Long story short, they killed the article. But I wrote a welcome post for the day the article would have run, and I figured why waste it. So here it is.

Oh, hello there! And welcome to Kissing Suzy Kolber. Many of you may be visiting our esteemed site for the very first time, as you no doubt saw this article about us in today’s New York Times (NOTE: article never ran). We were just enjoying a fresh pipeful of imported apple tobacco in our den while catching up on a conversation regarding the philosophical ramifications of the ongoing Darfur crisis. Later, we plan on passing around a copy of Club International and jerking ourselves raw. Hope you’ll be there for that.

We at KSK are huge fans of the Old Grey Lady. That Helen Mirren’s got some luscious tits. But we also enjoy the Times as well. On Sunday mornings we catch up on what we really love. Captain Caveman goes straight for Arts & Leisure. I check out the Magazine! Unsilent Majority enjoys the Opinion section, where his gay Jewish overlords brief him on his talking points for the coming day. Monday Morning Punter is a big fan of Maureen Dowd’s work. Like the rest of us, he too dreams of one day nailing her in the back of a Subaru and leaving her for dead on the side of the road. Flubby, our resident lawyer, enjoys browsing the Metro section for potential police assault victim plaintiffs (bonus points if the victim has any internal tearing!). And Christmas Ape likes to cut out the names of any Ivy League reporter at the Times and add them to his very special “Pipe Bomb” list. As you can see, we’re huge fans of this paper!

If you’re an avid Times reader, I think you’ll find that our little site syncs right up with your interests. If you like the big in-depth personal profiles the Times does on occasion, there’s no doubt you’ll enjoy this guided tour through the drug-addled brain of Falcons QB Michael Vick. If you miss Safire’s old “On Language” column, well why not catch up on the origins of the phrase ”pussy basket”? Want to feel guilty about the current state of race relations in our country, as many affluent, suburban white Times readers with nothing better to do enjoy? I think you’ll like this piece. Like tits? Try the Friday Cheerleader posts. Learn about nature with our animal snuff porn video spotlight. Or perhaps you lament the fact that the Times, unlike other papers, has no Funnies section. Well, consider this a long overdue correction!

Of course, you’ll also find some of the most complete an in-depth NFL coverage in the universe here. This is stark contrast to the Times’ sports sections, which eats a fat hairy cock. I think you’ll find it an improvement over William Rhoden’s poorly constructed racial arguments, or Dave Anderson’s column, which meanders from topic to topic with no real cohesion or insight. Or George Vecsey, that old Amish-bearded dipshit who only likes soccer. At least, I hope you do! You’ll also notice that our site will take note of sports scores that go final after 3PM! Huzzah!

And now that we have a more upscale readership thanks to you, the Times reader, we’re going to do our damnedest to model this site closely after the Paper of Record. So look out for movie reviews that don’t clearly recommend a film one way or another, conservative op-ed columns that aren’t actually conservative, Nicholas Kristof-style reports from Pakistan that make you feel like shit for a good five minutes, catty TV reviews, Frank Rich-style pieces that marry the latest hot button political issue to the latest pop culture trend in one very clever double entendre (Like, “How Iraq Became A Grind House”! That’s gold!), a printable science section you’ll roll up and use for kindling, the wedding details of wealthy white asshole couples you’d like to beat to death with a shovel, food recipes for things like homemade crème brulee that the author insists “couldn’t be easier to make” but in reality take five goddamn hours just to get in the oven, Al Sharpton quotes, reviews of ballets and operas no one under the age of 72 attends, letters to the editor from righteous dipshits, and a bitching obit section. All that and more!

Of course, most of that will be safely ensconced behind our new “KSKSelect” subscriber section. This section will only cost you $44 a month. We’ll also throw in a Rex Grossman Sex Cannon thong for free! I hope you folks at the Times enjoyed our tour of Kissing Suzy Kolber. Be sure to tune in later this week, when we’ll be profiling a 11-year old cello prodigy, sharing a latte with Barbra Cook, and talking about what a fucking asshole Chris Berman is. Be there, or be uninformed!

Presenting The Pistol Shrimp. Any Resemblance To Dave Meggett Is Strictly Coincidental

That's no ordinary shrimp! That's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered crustacean you ever set eyes on!

He's So Far From Charles BarkleyThat He Might As Well Be White

There's a really crucial point that you fucking media people need to pick up on, and that point is this: Dipshittery does not an analyst make. HEY LOOK I AM RAISING MY VOICE AND WAVING MY HANDS AROUND TO PUNCH THIS GREAT...eh, you get the idea.

You probably already know that ESPN, who is determined to make you hate sports before you die, has hired Keyshawn Johnson as an analyst for its once-heralded NFL pregame show. What might surprise you is that Key is ALREADY being heralded as pro football's answer to Charles Barkley. Quoting the SI piece.

I'm not saying that Johnson will be as good as Barkley -- who is? But like Barkley, Johnson will be the same kind of magnetic personality that can give genuine life to those roundtables where the energy and hilarity often feel forced.

I'd like to comment on Keyshawn's analyst debut at the Draft, but I was too busy not drinking (don't ask) and making ill-advised wagers on where Brady Quinn would finally come off the board. But it's tough to hire someone for that panel that's less likable than noted white people/gym-teachers-in-waiting. Merrill Hoge and Mark Schlereth, both dipshits.

Vince Young may have been a proficient college quarterback, but this is the NFL, and to succeed here, you've gotta HEY G0DAMMIT DON'T KICK THE VOLLEYBALL!

But what is this magnetic personality of which you speak? Magnetic...as in getting deactivated while perfectly healthy because he was such a little bitch? Magnetic...as in changing into a Steelers jersey after his Bucaneers won the NFC title?

He'll probably step in and do well, and good for him. He'll have plenty of insight, seeing as he's played for half the teams in the league at one point or another.

But Keyshawn won't measure up to Barkley...at all. Chuck is so good, so LIKEABLE, that one becomes upset after realizing that one must tune into the NBA to enjoy his insight. Keyshawn will never have that problem, as his role will simply be to open his mouth and fill minutes of a show that's already too long, to say just enough, and then pass the ball back to the Combover in time for a circle-the-wagons comment, or some other shit.

And, frankly, the comparison pisses me off. Barkley is a genuine guy that says what's on his mind. Keyshawn is a whore. And while the hire originally had many of us nodding our heads in agreement, Keyshawn will turn out to be little more than Michael Irvin with a more caucasian wardrobe, which is probably all they wanted anyway.

KSK Commenter BONUS Draft: Beer

It's Memorial Day weekend, so let us choose our favorite brews. I have stated many times that I am a beer whore and NOT a beer snob, so any beer suits my fancy. But if you're more particular, this may be for you. If you missed last evening's draft, here's a quick chance to make up for it.

The rules: Pick any beer. If it's obscure, leave a link. PICK ONE BEER ONLY, COMMENTER LARRY BURNS. Once 10 other people have picked, you may pick another.

My pick? Chimay.


Delicious and TWICE the alcohol!

Enjoy the weekend. Missing your cheerleader? Try a Google search. I'm sure something will turn up.

UPDATE: Different varieties by the same brewer or label are fine.

This Week's KSK Mock Draft: Bands You Would Like To Have Been The Frontman For

Oh c'mon, you didn't expect us to take a week off without holding a little draft fun, now, did you? Lord knows you folks have earned it. Frankly, I'm stunned and delighted you folks cared that much. After all, reading KSK and NOT reading at all are fairly similar endeavors. To wormfather, otto man, grimey, and the rest of you fabulous KSK commenters out there, thanks for sticking around during a week where we were determined to not do anything at all.

This week's draft: Bands You Would Like To Have Been The Frontman For. Yes, I just dangled a preposition. Suck my balls. The rules: You can pick any band from any spot in time. This may not be your favorite band, just the band that would promise the awesomest life experience should you be the lucky asshole who fronted it. You sung. And possibly played the lead guitar. You did all the coke. And you accidentally nailed all the tranny groupies. If your frontman died young, so did you. Hip hop bands welcome. No solo artists. Once you pick a band, you must wait 10 picks to select another.

My first pick, of course, is Led Zeppelin. They aren't my favorite band. But who passes up the chance to violate women with a mud shark like Robert Plant did? No one, that's who.

And if you can name the band above, you get to bypass the 10-choice rule to make your next pick. But beware: I'll be picking them very soon. Because they fucking rule.

And if you pick REM, you are a fucking pussy.

KSK PSA: Piss Your Own Excellence for a Week, Why Don'cha?

We're coming up on our first anniversary here at KSK and I gotta tell you, it's been a great ride, what with all the antagonizing sportswriters, antagonizing readers, antagonizing commenters, spurning loved ones, race-baiting, hippie bashing, NASCAR debasing (why, patron saint, why?), soft porn purveying, gay unicorn planet watching, and, lately, the posting of lots and lots of improbable fictionalized dialogues between NFL figures.

It's enough to wear a guy (or six) out. It doesn't help that there's not a whole lot going on in the world of the NFL until training camps open, so we're taking a week to recharge our batteries and buy new bath towels.

It'll be as hard on us as it is on you, believe you me. As we were discussing this, Unsilent said he had a few timely posts to put up, Punter wanted to do another installment of his adventures of Fitty, I wanted to speculate on just how little game Plaxico Burress has to strike out in a bar full of Jersey girls, then Drew cried, then Caveman cried, then I cried and then flubby sneezed. Oh God bless him, he's such a little soldier.

So, until sun-up Monday, May 28, you're on your own for slipshodly written, warmed-over satire of things loosely related to the NFL. Oh wait, that's Memorial Day. Make it Tuesday, fucktasters.

I'm just mad about Saffron. Saffron's mad about me.

The career of an NFL cheerleader is as exciting as it is fleeting. After leaving the life of pom-poms in their wake retired cheerleaders usually go on to live relatively mundane lives. Every now and then somebody special comes along, you just might not know it at the time. Take for example former Dallas Cowgirl Aahoo Jahansouzshahi (although for some reason she adopted the stage name of "Sarah Shahi")...


Not bad at all, but whether or not she'd have been worthy of enshrinement in the Friday Cheerleader Post is debatable. The olive-skinned nineteen year-old with the DNA of a Shah and the tits of a goddess was always hot but in the years since her "retirement" she's moved on to full-fledged sexpot.


Now we're getting somewhere.

As you can see Sarah has become a favorite of the magazine world. In addition to gracing the covers of fitness magazines she's twice been named to the Maxim Hot 100 list. Not bad for somebody you've never heard of.





Holy fucknut, Batman!

More recently she's transitioned from stationary spooge target to a rather legitimate actress, and now I really want to fuck her. Unfortunately I'm not the only one...

Warning: May Contain Tony Soprano "O" Face


All that sexiness and the crucial drug connects? I may have to turn in my talis.

Believe it or not that was the very same Sarah Shahi from last week's breakthrough episode of The Sopranos. Although she's done quite a bit of acting in her past fucking Tony Soprano can immediately triple your Q rating. If you already knew Sarah before it was probably from her role in Showtime's The L Word, a delightfully sexy show about a bunch of ladies who just haven't managed to meet the right man. If you aren't familiar with the show I'd recommend checking OnDemand to see if the second season is available for your viewing pleasure. Granted, I've never "seen" the show but from what I can tell from the stills it's a winner all the way around...


There's more then one way to get stoned in Iran
If you're interested in seeing more of this Persian princess you might be in luck (and if you aren't interested you should probably get tested for The Gay ASAP). She's got a new pilot hitting the small screen this fall, unfortunately it's on NBC (your favorite fourth place network) so it's destined to fail. Throw in the show's description (a wrongfully convicted detective leaves prison to re-join the force) and its star (Adam Arkin = Douche) and the show probably won't last more than a month. But fear not good readers, I'm always looking out for you. So enjoy this fantastic bonus picture of this week's muse (side effects may include tightening of the pants and general euphoria)...

Have a good weekend, and if you get a chance check out Andre Berto on the undercard of tomorrow's fight (it shouldn't last more than half a round and it will be well worth your time).

Big thanks to The Big Lead and Datehole Dateholer for dropping the knowledge

No Gnews Is Good Gnews When A Gnoddamn Crocodile Is Gnawing On Your Gnuts

Gary Gnu, meet Crocky. Crocky, eat Gary Gnu.



Stick around for a very special cheerleader post later today from UM.

This Week’s KSK Commenter Draft – Celebrities You Would Like To Fight

I’ve been wanting to do a fight draft for ages. And at last, here it is. The rules here are a bit complex, so let’s get right to them. This must be a famous person everyone knows, currently living and as they are right now. Picking them means you fight them, hand-to-hand. One on one. No weapons. No hired goons. No holds barred. And you aren’t guaranteed of beating them. This is real life fighting. If you maim or kill them, you will not be charged with a crime. If you get maimed or killed, your medical care is paid for. No picking Deadspin commenters or that one asshole in your class. No one cares. Pick only one celebrity. After that, you must wait 10 selections before you pick another.

One last rule: If you are a man, you cannot pick a female. We’d all like to pick Paris Hilton, hold her down, and beat the fucking tar out of her. But I’m against violence on the ladies, so you gotta pick a guy. My pick? The obvious:


Chief Poopy Pants himself.

Bin Laden has the reach on me, no doubt. But he’s old, and his kidneys are failing. I could take him. I’d pull that fucking beard for all it was worth. He’s also got a big nose. I bet he’s a bleeder. Bring it, Osama. I’ll hit you so hard I’ll kill your whole family. All 57 brothers and sisters of yours. Bitch.

NOTE: I did a post for the Name of the Year blog today on the great Destiny Frankenstein. Check it out.

Will Somebody Puhleese Think of Corrupting the Children?

To atone for their various misdeeds and to burnish their image with the league, Chris Henry, Pacman Jones, Tank Johnson and Michael Vick met with Mrs. Plimsoll's 4th grade class at Roosterhaven Elementary School in suburban Philadelphia to discuss proper conduct and comportment.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Okay, class. We have four special guests today. These men are professional football players that have gotten into some trouble and are here to explain to you what they did and why you shouldn't do the same. We'll begin with what each player did.

Tank Johnson: I got strapped. Then I strapped my house. Strapped my dog. Bought a second house so I could strap that. Shot somebody so I could worry about someone getting revenge on me, thus giving me an excuse to buy more guns. Worry that the guns I have would plot against me, so I bought more guns. You kids got guns? We're not in Virginia, so I guess not.

Michael Vick: Oh my god. Am I back in elementary school again? This is great. I get to do finger painting and discover weed all over again. I don't think that was until 5th grade, though. Maybe a little revisionist history is in order.

Pacman Jones: I tossed paper currency on an exotic dancer in a manner suggestive of meteorological precipitation. Then I had sex with her without saying "thank you."

Chris Henry: Pick up the packet under your desk. Read items one through eight on my rap sheet. Don't do them, 'cept six, that's still going through appeal in the courts, so we'll wait on that.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Class, you may ask questions of Mr. Vick, Johnson, Henry and Jones.

Frankie Tompkins: Is your real name Tank?

Tank Johnson: Nah. It's tracked armored combat vehicle. But that's too long to stick on a gun permit, so I shortened my name and I also stopped filling out gun permits.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Students, doesn't Mr. Jones' name remind you of something?

Steven Showalter: Yeah, they had that game at the bar Chris Henry took me to last night.

Chris Henry: Which one of you kids asked me to pick up that pack of Spaten. Must've been that German kid in the back.

Mike Hunt: Mistah Jones, what causes the rain?

Pacman Jones: The rain is caused by one of three ways: these are known as condensation, coalescence and the Bergeron Process. But more often, it happens when my dick get hard and some freaky bitch twist her ass out.

Wendy Cappercan: Mr. Vick, why do you have doggies fight each other?

Michael Vick: I'm really glad you asked that. See, when at first I brought these dogs together, it was to get at the root of the pan-canine hostilities. We had doggie drumming circle, doggie art therapy classes, doggies team building exercises. Then we all sat down together, got really high and watched The Crying Game. Then Mr. Googily Eyes, Forest Whitaker gave that tale about the frog and scorpion, with the scorpion attacking the frog despite their need for one another and the frog saying, "Why did you sting me, Mr. Scorpion? For now we both will drown!" Then the Scorpion replies, "I can't help it. It's in my nature." That really opened my eyes. Also, the dogs were kinda pissed about the transvestite stuff and wanted to work it out through combat.

Mrs. Plimsoll: That's enough for the question period. To wrap up, each of the players will say what lesson they learned from their experience.

Tank Johnson: Obtaining guns is only the result of a more pressing problem, which is not owning enough guns.

Pacman Jones: Don't make catchy names for your deviant acts. It only makes the punishment more severe.

Chris Henry: Don't commit a whole bunch of crimes unless you're ready to suffer the consequences. Like, being suspended for four games. So, try to keep at least a paycheck saved up in your bank account for times like that.

Michael Vick: Then the dogs come to me after the fight and tell me how freeing and natural the act of combat is to them. It really caused me to reevaluate a lot of things. Like, I'm trying to spend all this time reading these defenses when I could be talking to them, finding their true nature. I think at the end of it, the defenses realize that my place is in the endzone and they'll leave me at peace there. Then we can get some defense drum circling going.

Free Crackers For Fitty, Act II

[In case you haven't read it, here's Act I]



Scene i: The Meeting
Setting: Miramax regional office building.

Fitty: [Walking through the lobby with Matt to the reception desk] Damn, this place is tight.

Matt: Yeah, it's alright.

Fitty: Why do people need a water fountain inside an office building? And look, there's not even any change in there.

Matt: [to receptionist] Hey there baby. I’m Matt. What’s your—[realizes the receptionist is not female, but actually a gay male bearing a striking resemblance to Doug from Trading Spaces] uh, we have a meeting with—

Receptionist: [somewhat annoyed that it’s Matt Leinart in front of him and not Brady Quinn] My name is Geoffrey.

Matt: Oh.

Fitty: [yelling] Can I throw change in this fountain?

Geoffrey: They’re expecting you. Room F, down [points limply, as if making a swan-like gesture with his arm, hand, and finger] that hall.

Matt: Thanks. [Heads down the hall] C'mon, Fitty.

Fitty: Damn, man I think he liked you. Maybe he could—

Matt: Shut up. Now, remember, don’t say shit. We’re just gonna listen, and then we’ll leave.

Fitty: And my free crackers are waiting for me on the other side of that conference room door?

Matt: For fuck’s sake, you’ll get your damn crackers. Just be cool, okay?

Fitty: Alright. So who the fuck is Lassie, anyway?

Matt: [stunned] Lassie? You don’t know Lassie?

Fitty: [stares blankly]

Matt: Lassie the dog? Lassie Come Home, all that shit?

Fitty: Like one of Mike Vick’s dogs? That one that Quan was betting on that last time we were over there?

Matt: No, man. He’s...she’s like a real dog. A collie. Climbs down wells and shit.

Fitty: A dog that can climb down a well? That’s some bullshit right there.

Matt: Look, never mind, just don’t ruin this for me [They walk in the room] Hey Harvey, sorry we’re late.

Miramax Guy: Thanks for coming, guys. We started without you, hope you don’t mind.

Matt: Nah, that’s cool.

Miramax Guy: Have a seat. We’re just brainstorming for concepts. Okay, people, let’s get some more ideas flowing.

[Fitty slowly looks around the room as he sits down]

Guy with Goatee: What if Lassie was coked up on heroin?

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: How about Lassie in high school, and the other girls are just bitches to her. But then maybe she has a friend that she meets, like that girl from Terribithia or some shit.

46-Year-Old Guy With Earring: And then Queen Latifah drives them around in a cab!

Fitty: [whispering to Matt] There are no crackers in this room.

Matt: [whispering back] There's some vegetables on that tray in the corner over there.

Fitty: I see the tray of vegetables, Matt. I also see some oatmeal raisin cookies that I'm sure are delicious.

Matt: I'm sure they are.

Fitty: And I will enjoy them momentarily, because I know that those items will kickstart my bowels in preparation for your punishment of welshing on one promise of free crackers to Mr. Fitzgerald.

Washed-Up Comedian: Maybe the dog finds out that it’s gay and starts humping other dogs in the neighborhood and, um, you know, making them gay or something. Then they all learn how to ride motorcycles and, I don’t know, start their own little doggie faggot biker gang or something.

Miramax Guy: [staring at the floor, shaking his head] Louie, we do not use that word in this room.

Washed-Up Comedian: Sorry.

Miramax Guy: They’re a club, not a gang.

Emo Guy: I don’t see how that sends a good message about the environment.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: Or the homeless!

Washed-Up Comedian: Your mom’s homeless!

[room erupts into shouting]

Joe Mantegna: Fellas, fellas. [Room quiets down] I am hearing some great ideas here! But also, I am hearing some ideas that couldn’t outlast a piece of dog shit on a popsicle stick on a sunny day. This is not a Hilary Swank vehicle. This is Lassie. Lassie is a female collie, a dog. Okay? It’s a dog. It’s not Queer Eye for the Terminator. Are we clear on this, everyone?

Fitty: [whispering angrily to Matt] When we get outta here, I am gonna open the sunroof of your vehicle and let the warm air from the interior dissipate into the atmosphere. I will then climb onto the roof of your ride and drop the trousers of justice and unleash a methane-laced helping of truth onto your seats, emergency brake, and cup holders. Such is the penance for--

Matt: [whispering back] You are not shitting through the sunroof of my Hummer!

Fitty: It will be a cacophony of dank chocolate pyrotechnics, all beyond your control. And then after my bowels are empty, I will then close the sunroof and let nature do its thing.

Matt: That's it. Gimme my keys back.

Emo Guy: Maybe Lassie could be the first female president?

Washed-Up Comedian: Yeah, the Taco Bell dog could be her running mate.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: How about Lassie in high school, and the other girls are just bitches to her. But then maybe she has a friend that she meets, like that girl from Teribithia or some shit.

Guy With Goatee: And then Queen Latifah drives them around in a cab!

Joe Mantegna: So what if Lassie winds up in China and she has to break into the restaurants there and save the other dogs. And they learn Kung-Fu. David Carridine might be interested.

Emo Guy: Instead of just getting spayed, could we have the dog get a sex change operation and then she has to rediscover himself through a series of personal trials?

Fitty: [stands up] Hang on, what about this? Suppose Lassie could be living in the northern United States, where she held a small but prestigious position as ballboy for the Minnesota Vikings, after which she makes the cover of a popular video game and then heads out on a summer-long quest for crispy, grain-based treats.

Guy With Goatee: …and then what?

Fitty: Uh…and then she flies into wells to collect change…and then, uh…into outer space! And there she merges with four other dogs of different colors to create a colossal superdog that fights paramilitary mutants, witches, and non-biodegradable litter in order to restore peace and harmony to the universe and shit.

[stunned silence for, like, 30 seconds]

Guy With Goatee: Wow.

Joe Mantegna: Wow.

Washed-Up Comedian: Wow.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: Fine, as long as the superdog doesn’t vote Republican.

Miramax Guy: This is the best concept we’ve had in three weeks.

46-Year-Old Guy With Earring: We could have Dudley Moore narrate--

Washed-Up Comedian: And Kenny Loggins could write the soundtrack!

Miramax Guy: He can’t narrate the film; he’s dead.

Washed-Up Comedian: Kenny Loggins is dead?

Miramax Guy: Larry, who would you pick to direct this sure-to-be epic picture?

Fitty: I dunno.

Miramax Guy: Well, let’s get some more of your thoughts now then. Let’s get some snacks, everyone. [Speaking into the intercom] Geoffrey, can we get some crackers in Room F, please?

Fitty: That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

Free Crackers For Fitty, Act I

Scene i: The Drive.
Setting: Matt Leinart's Hummer

Matt Leinart: Yeah, so thanks for coming out with me, Fitty. Are you enjoying the interior of my new Hummer?

Larry Fitzgerald: S’all good, Matt. Thanks for inviting me along for the free crackers. Holy shit, I love crackers. ‘Specially free crackers.

Matt: Heh, yeah.

Fitty: …There are gonna be some free crackers where we goin, right?

Matt: Yeah, man. Free crackers, it’s a done deal.

Fitty: The uneasiness in your voice disturbs me. And where are we going?

Matt: I told you where we were going.

Fitty: No, you didn’t. You just drove up my driveway with the words FREE CRACKERS painted on the side of your new Hummer, knowing full well that I would jump into your well-upholstered vehicle to accompany you without hesitation, which I did.

Matt: Right.

Fitty: But I should have you know, good sir, I consider any insinuation of free crackers to be sincere, and therefore binding. Should you fail to deliver on your promise in a timely fashion, you shall draw the wrath of Mr. Fitzgerald.

Matt: Lemme just call my agent on the hands-free and, uh, make sure the crackers are there. [dials, phone rings]

Fitty: There where? Where the fuck are we going?

Tom: [on the phone] This is Tom.

Matt: Tom, it’s Matt, I’m on my way to that meeting with the Miramax people, but…

Tom: Spit it out, Matt. I got a couple-a Venezualan broads armwrestling over here to see who’s gonna blow me first, and they are not a patient people. Out with it.

Matt: I gotta be honest man, this fucking movie bullshit, I’m not really feeling it.

Tom [Matt’s agent]: Then I’m glad you called. I know you’re concerned, it’s a significant potential investment, but you don’t need to sweat it, Miramax and I have talked it over, this new movie is gonna reignite the whole shitlovin’ franchise. Wait, listen, you hear that? That’s the sound of 20-dollar bills being printed for you to wipe your ass with. It’s a win-win, Matty. Guaranteed.

Fitty: Miramax? What the—

Matt: Tom, I don’t want to be a Negative Nancy about this, but, a new Lassie movie? Really?

Tom: Matty, simmer down, my man. Put on your ballroom dancing cap and think about the economics of the thing.

Matt: Uh, okay.

Tom: Family movie. The whole family’s going to see this thing. Kids wanna see Lassie, so mom and dad gotta see Lassie. But those spoiled little shits don’t stop there, they gotta pester the parents at Wal-Mart to buy all these shitty toys that get released along with the movie. But they gotta get the ball rolling, they need money to film the shit. Some of the usual guys haven’t come through, and, uh, they’re gonna share the pie with the new backers, you know, with you guys.

Fitty: This is about money?

Tom: Whadya say, Matty?

Matt: I said…if the movie’s gonna be so tits, how come they’re still looking for money?

Tom: Matty, c’mon baby, who ya talkin’ to? Have I ever given you bad advice?

Matt: Maybe that flight attendant you set me up with at the Madden party last year?

Tom: Hey, she didn’t have chlamydia when I fucked her.

Matt: Oh, that’s great.

Tom: Matty, c’mon baby. Listen, these Miramax guys, they don’t forget the people that come through for them. So maybe down the road when your career goes all Kurt Warner and whatnot, we get Jeff over in media to ghostwrite a couple of your books, we go back to Miramax, they’re looking at a new movie, all about you, and you’re getting all this just for cashing in on this Lassie business. Matty, with these guys, one hand—

Matt: Look, I got Fitty in the car with me, so I gotta go.

Tom: Alright. I’ll be in Cayman tomorrow through next week, so reach me there. Tell Fitty he can reach me there, too.

Matt: Cool, man. [click] What a douche.

Fitty: I did not hear the topic of Mr. Fitzgerald’s crackers addressed during that conversation. Matty.

Matt: Look, dude. Let’s just go to this—

Fitty: Nah nah nah man, FUCK THAT SHIT. What the fuck does he mean “back it,” like giving them money, in lieu of the crackers that were promised to me? Like those crazy bitches are getting Dime One of my shit for some Lassie movie. That’s my stash, man. I repeat: fuck that shit. Matty. I just came for the free crackers. Matty.

Matt: C’mon man, be cool. You heard him, this could be a big deal for me. Let’s just hear them out.

Fitty: Where the fuck are my free crackers? Matty?

Matt: Stop calling me Matty, you cock!

Fitty: Yeah, you just missed the turn right there.

Matt: What? This printout says another point-three miles.

Fitty: The fucking sign was right there! You’ve got that shitass Google Maps, ain’t no fuckin point-three miles you stupid fucking—

Matt: ALRIGHT I’M FUCKING TURNING AROUND! Fucking shit! And stop calling me Matty or I’m gonna tell Anquan that we went someplace without him!

Fitty: ...Nah, we straight.

Matt: Okay [Matt parks, gets out of the car] So we just go in and listen, and if we like the ideas they have for the movie, then we can offer to back it, or we can—are you getting out of the car?

Fitty: [muffled through the window] I ain’t givin’ no money, man. I just came for the free crackers.

Matt: Look, we’re just going in to listen, okay? You don’t even have to say anything. I know some of these people, they’re counting on me and--let’s just do this. I am sure they have some crackers in there.

Fitty: [gets out of the car] Gimme your keys [Matt gives him his keys]. If they don’t have crackers in there, I’m gonna pour grape juice on your new upholstery. And then I’m gonna shit on it.

Tomorrow: Act II

The Offseason Adventures of Michael Vick! Episode 5: Dogfight!

Oh, man.

Oh, holy shit.

Oh, I am fucking stoned like Mother Teresa.

This is fucking great. Honestly, there’s nothing like just loungin’ at home and hanging out with your dog… while he fights another dog to the death while I place bets with this Taiwanese bookie I found in an alley.


Bookie: (flashes large wad of cash) Di mei mao!

Slow your roll, my hairy-moled friend. And get that boom mike outta here. I wanna soak in the atmosphere and shit. What I like about this dogfighting ampitheater I had custom built are the sight lines. Everyone’s got a good view of the fight and shit. (takes bong hit) God, this feels great. Can someone get me a mai tai or a similar rum drink. Mr. Bookie man, would you mind doublin’ as like, a waiter?

Bookie: (pulls revolver) Di mei mao!

All right! All right! Shit. I’ll have Marcus get it. He ain’t doin’ shit. Okay, let’s get these bitches goin’. Who wants to tango with my Priscilla? She the baddest motherfuckin’ rottweiller/pit bull/doberman/German Shepard mix that ever was. She’s Jaws with paws, bitches. That was the tagline to that movie “Man’s Best Friend,” but that shit is mine now.

(A succession of fresh-faced college students bring their dogs around)

Hoo hoo! Look at these tomato cans. Motherfucker, you should just name that bitch Science Diet, cause that’s what Priscilla’s gonna turn her into. God, I fucking love my life. Can’t nobody do what I do: run a huge mid-Atlantic dog-fighting ring while nicely toasted and have no one be wise to it.

Bookie: Di mei mao!

That’s it, folks! The time for placin’ bets is fuckin’ over. Now it’s time for some high-end canine Kumite shit. What’s the name of Priscilla’s victim this evening? Lucille? Oh, that’s fucking rich. Two bitches goin’ at it hard. I wonder: can two dogs have a catfight?

Hang on. I just dazzled myself.

Inspector Todd: Vick!

The fuck is that?


Inspector Todd: Where is that motherfuckin’ Vick?!

Oh shit.

Inspector Todd: The fuck are you doin’, Vick?!

Shit, I’m hallucinating again. Who laced my shit?! Inspector Todd from the “Beverly Hills Cop” films is back again!

Inspector Todd: You goddamn right I’m back. What the fuck are you having a fucking dog fight here for, motherfucker?

You’re not here! I’m not listening! You’re really actor Gilbert R. Hill and shit!

Inspector Todd: The fuck I am.

Inspector Todd, I don’t know why you have to use so much profanity.

Inspector Todd: You been holdin’ illegal fucking dogfights in this fucking state for too long, Vick!

It wasn’t my idea! It was Marcus’! You know he’s the violent one!

Inspector Todd: Don’t fuckin’ lie to me!

What’s the problem? We’re havin’ fun and shit! Ain’t nobody getting hurt. Except the dogs.

Inspector Todd: And what the fuck you need to bet on this shit for?!

I dunno. Flash money.

Inspector Todd: Oh, I see. Flash money. Let’s see. $2,000 for a suit. $500 for a tie. A requisition order for a Ferrari. The fuck you need all this shit for?

Oh, please don’t hurt me, Inspector Todd! I was just trying to make things happen like I always do! I’m gonna change! I swear! I ain’t gonna smoke any more laced dope. And I’m gonna stop hanging out with the wrong crowd.

Bookie: Di mei mao!

Except Lo Tan. He and I are tight.

Inspector Todd: This is your last chance, Vick. You’re a talented QB, but I’m tired. I’m tired of watchin’ you fuck up again and again. I’m tired of this shit. You hear me? Fuckin’ tired.

Okay. Okay! I promise I’ll quit! No more! I swear! I just wanna hang, Inspector Todd! Inspector Todd? Inspector Todd, where’d you go? Lo Tan, you see a really angry black man screaming at me in here just now?

Bookie: Di mei mao!

No? So it was all in my head? Phew! Man, that was fucking trippy. Okay, Priscilla. Go tear that bitch’s head off.

Photo courtesy of The Onion.

UPDATE: Did you know there's a death metal group fronted entirely by pit bull vocalists? That's right. Say hello to Caninus, Michael Vick's favorite new band.

KSK Off-Topic: Because You Absolutely Deserve to See This

I'm not even going to try to pass this off as something obliquely NFL-related by connecting Cadillac the Unicorn to Cadillac Williams, or by saying that the gay 8-year-old boy has a passing resemblance to Eli Manning, or that this looks like something Brady Quinn dreamed up. Some things (like lolcats) are just amazing to behold, and as soon as noted commenter Brooklyn Becky sent this to me, I felt an immediate need to share this with everyone I knew. I sent it to my boss, who posted it on GorillaMask. I showed it to the Gay Mafia, who to a man declared its brilliance. I held my dog's head to the computer screen and made her watch it.

And now, I share it with you, beloved KSK readers, the finest assemblage of drunks and college dropouts and pothead NFL fans whose lives are quickly going nowhere. God bless all of you, and enjoy.

Finally, Someone Thought to Combine Alcoholism with NFL Fandom

The most devoted KSK stalkers are well aware that my birthday -- like the start of the NFL season -- is less than 4 months away, and for those of you who feel that maybe I don't spend enough time thinking about football or booze, may I encourage you to send me the special edition Seattle Seahawks bottle of Maker's Mark. And now, for the sic-alicious eBay description:

This bottle is from the maker’s mark NFL collectable series that was out in limited numbers per each team a few years back. Most of these bottles or in Seahawks fan collections & will not resurface in the collector market. Therefore, this is your chance to get one of these great looking Seahawk bottles. The dip is perfect & the runs look great.

In my limited experience, the runs never look great.

Other selling points here are the old-school Seahawk colors of royal blue and gray, rather than the monochromatic blue and neon green that's all the rage with precisely no one.

Also, take note that the bidding for a rare Seahawks edition of Maker's Mark is only $35. That's a pretty good deal, considering that you can fetch several hundred dollars if you use a Sharpie to change a tallboy of Steel Reserve into "Steeler Reserve." Ah, Pittsburgh: the Ohio State of the NFL.

KSK Off-Topic – The Towel Spot

I pride myself on being a very clean person. I shower every day, even on weekends! And I’ve been known to shower upwards of three times a day. Showers are fucking great. No one bothers me. I can sing the entire new BRMC album to myself. And I can lather up my balls real good. At my gym, they offer free shampoo and conditioner dispensers in the shower. And, since it’s free, I take advantage. I like to squirt about a pint of shampoo into my hair, just to see how much lather I can build up. Answer: a lot.

About a month ago I’m taking my usual 8-minute shower. I come out of the shower, dry off, then hang up my towel. My wife comes into the bathroom. She grabs the towel. There’s a little brown spot on it.

“Hey. What’s this?”

I dunno. Probably dirt.

“What dirt? You weren’t outside.”

Are you insinuating what I think you are? Listen, lady: I wash my ass thoroughly every shower. When I’m done lathering up my hair, I take the leftover lather in my hand and jam it right up my yin yang. Then I make a second go-round with the shower poof after that. And I get in there. No surface gliding for me. I dig around and make sure my crack is completely scrubbed clean of all fecal material and potential Nerd-sized dingleberries. So how dare you accuse me of being unclean in that fashion.

“Fine. Fine.”

She does the laundry and the spot’s gone. A week later, I’m showering again and go to dry off. This time, I’m alone. Mrs. Drew is nowhere around. I hang up my towel. There’s another brown spot on the towel. Since the wife wasn’t around, I examined the spot closely. It was brown. I went to sniff.

I pooped on my towel.

God dammit. If there’s anything I hate, it’s when my wife assumes something terrible about me and turns out to be correct. This, of course, happens all the time. It was clear what had happened here: God (the greatest hater of them all) had magically placed some extra poop in my butt even after my thorough cleaning to make me look bad. I didn’t want to be known as a towelshitter for the rest of my marriage. So I went to throw all the towels in the laundry. My wife notices this. My wife notices everything.

“What are you washing the towels for?”

Uhhhhhhhh, because I love you?

“Seriously. What’s up?”

All right! All right! I confess! I fucking wiped doodoo right on the towel. Fuck!

“Ew.”

I don’t even have to tell you that the exact same fucking thing happened again a week later. And this time: the poop didn’t wash out all the way, so we had to throw the towel out. So now we have a new towel that serves as a constant reminder that I was somehow negligent enough to wipe poop on my own towel three separate times. Guhhhhhhhhh…

I’m proud to say that new towel has remained poop-free ever since. You’d be amazed at what steel wool can come up with.

I just want to lie on the beach and eat hot dogs. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Kevin, you dream the dreams of America. But you don't take it quite far enough; there's one thing missing.


Now you're on the trolley!

We all know that cheerleaders make everything better, so why should a trip to the beach be any different? Just imagine you're on the run from the law a well-deserved vacation in the paradise of Punta Cana, DR (Spanish for The Island of Dr. Moreau) when the ultimate gaggle of pussy start traipsing through the virginal sand .

Professional cheerleaders are shooting their team calendar and you are given a front row seat. What do you do? What do you do? Well if that team is the New England Patriots and you're a Masshole I guess this is the answer...

Holy shit! Somebody hold my likah!

Yep, that looks about right. Odds he got laid...5.9736×10²⁴/1.

So this weekend while you're hiding from the rain and/or your mother (oh sweet merciful Yaweh) just think, you could have been chillin' in the DR with some of the hottest women to ever don the spankie. Instead of chatting up your mom you could be oiling up some ass.

So that's where the phrase "I'd lick olive oil off her ass" comes from.

Enjoy your weekend everybody, I'm going to the beach in case some cheerleaders need a dedicated towel boy.

Gotta support the team.


photo's courtesy of Boston.com

MONUMENTAL UPDATE!

Because NBC screwed us out of Jenna Fischer in a two-piece I've decided to add a little something extra to this week's cheerleader fix. Enjoy this spread of Jenna at her best.








Yeah, that's the good shit.

This Week’s KSK Commenter Draft – Desert Island Simpsons Episodes

I don’t watch “The Simpsons” as much as I used to, although last week’s episode was easily one of the best I’ve seen in the past 5 years, if not longer. But it’s no secret that every member of the Gay Mafia is a card-carrying Simpsons geek. Hell, Christmas Ape barely acknowledges anything that comes in three dimensions. Fuck, if you’ve never watched “The Simpsons”, then you have absolutely no business trying to make jokes (though Jimmy Kimmel will certainly hire you for a brief period).

We had a brief rundown yesterday of our favorite episodes, and no two answers were alike. So we thought we’d open today’s draft up to you, considering the show hits its 400th episode on Sunday night. These are the episodes of the show you’d want with you if you were trapped on a desert island (with a functioning DVD player and electrical power generator). The rules, as always: Pick only one episode, and once you pick, you must wait ten choices until you get to pick again. Oh, and be sure to include favorite quotes as well.

My favorite:

“Last Exit To Springfield.”

Honestly it’s fucking flawless. Even with Lisa’s singing. Want some examples?

“Dental plan!”
“Why must you turn my office into a house of lies?”
“I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time.”
“Don Homer, I make a special donut for a you.”

Sheer brilliance. Yours in the comments.

Kill, kill, kill: Mike Vick's turtle

This is probably the least lethal video that will get shown in our kill, kill, kill series. Nonetheless, the very same ferocious instinct driving this turtle to attack these cats, compelled the mighty T.Rex to be a killing machine. If this turtle had some dagger-like teeth or sharp claws, there would be two less cats in this world. As it stands, it can only lash out in impotent fury. Like ESPN's ombudsman.

Terrapin vs. housecat. Christmas Ape's loyalties must be deeply divided on this one.


Speaking of foul-tempered reptiles, even though Al Davis can't win anymore, he is still one vengeful old bastard. Adam Rank at the FanHouse says Davis waited as long as possible to fire personnel executive Mike Lombardi, in order to keep him from hooking up with another team this season. Leaky Lombardi should brush up on his Italian, starting with "omertà."

I shit you not: this Arcade Fire song sounds like Eddie & the Cruisers.

Last item: Oral Sex Increases Throat Cancer Risk Scientists Say Just want to let our valued readers know this story is out there. Personally, I think the doctors behind this report are all vile little cretins who are trying to fill our heads with damnable lies. They should be dragged into the streets and flogged mercilessly.

In the meantime, you might want to rehearse a phony refutation in case someone tries to cite this study at a particularly inopportune time. "Whoa baby, that report was roundly rejected by a blue-ribbon, double-blind, uh twelve-year study at the University of Medicine Tech State. Yeah, it was, uh, even on Oprah."

Shaun Alexander Begins to Doubt the Power of Prayer

[Shaun Alexander, as he does a minimum of 18 hours a day, sits on bended knee to address Yahweh, his second best lead blocker to Mack Strong]

God, I'd been praying and praying for you to heal this foot of mine. And, Lord, you brought succor to my wounds. For that, I am eternally grateful. You've let me continue to live this incredibly privileged life so long as I commit myself to your sacred service.

May I then offer one quibble, God? I came back to play 10 games - yeah - the better part of last season, sure. But 896 yards? Less than four yards a carry? Is mine a benevolent God? We're talking career worst stats here. I'm finding my faith rocked. Doubts are starting to creep in. Big, quitting-at-the-end-of-the-season doubts.

I touted the restorative powers of prayer, did I not? Didn't I donate that really big fucking cross to that baptist church in Alabama. You remember? That one Alabama baptist church? You told me there were those to smote and they have been smoten!

Why hast thou forsaken me in favor of the one who is called Frank Gore? He of the land of the Sodomites. No, not Dallas. The other one, the one with the bay. What is his record of good works? I've carried out your earthly missions, averaging clearly more than four blessings per mission carried out. Clearly, the same should apply to my football carries.

But now, I'm left with no sign that my efforts are appreciated. And thou has provided no linemen to replace Steve Hutchinson. Fuck you, Yahweh, I do it myself!

[Alexander rises to his feet, immediately feels a sharp pang in his left foot]

Ah, haystacks.

Believe half of what you see, and none of what you hear

In a world where reality is a constant state of upheaval and turmoil, we present KSK's latest attempt to separate fact from fiction….

Rumor: OJ Simpson was refused service at a Louisville restaurant on Derby Eve.

Fact: The owner had never actually heard of OJ Simpson, it was just a VERY authentic 1950's style Kentucky diner.

Speaking of the Derby, if my first-hand observations are to be trusted, the Big Ten fans continued their domination of the infield, with Michigan and Ohio State partisans exchanging first verbal jousts and later their own waste. The MAC and SEC also put in strong showings. This year's upstart: a surprisingly large group of pixie-like Wofford coeds who had made the trek up from Spartansburg, SC. Terriers, y'all!!!

Rumor: Osi Umenyiora will jump off the George Washington Bridge if he doesn't have one of the best seasons ever for a defensive end.

Fact: Unless he is being facetious, it sounds like Umenyiora is trying to win support by making an outlandish statement that no one really believes, kind of like when Paris Hilton says she's never, ever, ever going to do it again.



Rumor: Donovan McNabb (aka "Jasper Beardsley") was shocked when the Eagles spent their first round pick on a QB.

Fact: Really? Donovan is surprised that after blowing out his knee and Jeff Garcia flying the nest, that the Eagles would seek some insurance at the most crucial position in the sport? Donovan was reportedly also shocked last week when May unexpectedly followed April.

In McNabb's defense, surprising things have been afoot all over lately. For instance, did you know there is a basketball team called the Golden State"Warriors"? Apparently they play very entertaining basketball games while I am sleeping. (As you can see, I am in the midst of my annual tawdry eight-week fling with the NBA. Right now my favorite player is the Nets' Bostjan Nachbar. Because "Nachbar" looks a lot like "nacho bar". Mmmmmm, nacho bar.)

Rumor: Keyshawn Johnson to the Oakland Raiders?

Fact: Who knows? It would have been great to be in the Carolina war room when the Panther brass watched Keyshawn interview Dwayne Jarrett. Do you think they were merely exchanging knowing looks and smirks or were they justout-and-out holding their side braying with laughter while pounding on the table? I'm hoping the latter.


That's all the enlightenment I have time for right now. But before I go, I saw this over at Mondesi's House. Since KSK's Big Daddy Drew was the one who blew the lid off Brady Groingate, I thought it on only apropos we link it here. This one is for the Steelers fans, particularly Christmas Ape…