PK Gets Served, And This Time, It Ain't By No Titty-Lickin' Barista

I feel like I have to say this every fucking time we talk about the man, but here goes: We love Peter King. We love his...okay, maybe we don't LOVE him. We certainly do LIKE him, but, you know, there are all these other NFL columnists running around and--No, no, Petey, come on, baby. You're the best. You're numero uno to us, man. That was Spanish, by the way. I'm bi-language-al.

So in PK's Mailbag from yesterday, he ran a message from some dude from North Carolina who has had it up to HERE with King's flaunting of his riches. Let's go to the videotape!

Um, I mean the text. Yeah, let's go to the text:

You are a great writer and I enjoy your columns on a regular basis. But I just have to ask you something. When the average American struggles on a daily basis to get by and faces real challenges daily, how is it one should look upon some of your musings?

I mean, you've spoken of what a wonderful daughter or two you have, and you probably have just as wonderful of a wife. You live the life probably any man would dream of, covering the NFL and getting paid for it all the while.

So when we see you complain about whichever Starbucks is nearby and the price of working out at a hotel gym center, and the cost of parking in Manhattan or hear any of the other rumblings which seem awfully miniscule to the average person trying to get by, what is one to think? Poor, poor pitiful Peter.

How about this Peter? Every day you awake and look in the mirror, tell us how you hit your knees and thank your maker for gracing you with such a rich life.

First of all, whichever is actually a word. No, for real.

Secondly--and some of you might call me out for being a little hypocrite bitch, and that's fine--this guy needs to tape his asshole shut (or whichever hole that diarrhea came) and move on.

I am left beside myself, well, after stopping to think that King received this, read it, saw validity in its premise, and decided to run it in his Mailbag space. "Yeah, this guy thinks I'm a pompous ass. Hey, good call! He makes the cut." I doubt the internal conversation went quite like that. King's a big time writer. One who, I'm sure, sees the value in giving the floor to a dissenting point of view. Still, that can't be done without swallowing something. King did post the message, with this reply:

I'm really glad you wrote that and knocked me down a peg or two. I need to hear stuff like that sometimes. Thanks for the wakeup call.

Come on, Pete. You're the fuckin' man. Numero Uno, remember? So some hilljack outside of the Research Triangle has a problem hearing about the fabulous life of designer parking and airplane rides?

I believe that there are a certain set of reasons that we, as people, exert our money, time, and energy into following sports, especially the NFL. One reason would be that sports, like so few things these days, bring us together. We have our own personal biases (read: favorite teams) that, among fans, mostly, are tolerated, and even embraced. It wasn't two months ago when I went to Busch Stadium (as a Cincinnati Reds fan) and was heckled just a few rows above my team's bullpen, almost mercilessly, for three hours. And we were ahead most of that game.

I believe another reason, a deeper reason, is that sports give us hope. They provide a tangible result, in a world riddled with intangibles, that we can relate to our own personal ambitions. They provide a medium for desire. For the opportunity of becoming greater than ourselves. And for inspiration. And while we may not always prevail in the end, we had our shot. We had our struggle, our chance to gain what was, before, not ours. And whether we dream of a 60-yard Hail Mary as time expires or a double-mocha frappuccino with extra whip and chocolate and cinnamon, it's about that dream. And we need to flaunt that motherfucking dream all we can. You hear me? We need to dangle that dream in front of every crooked nose in Shitfuck, North Carolina and say, "YOU WANT THIS, YOU TOOTHLESS INBRED PRICK? Then you get your ass out of that double-wide...and come and get it." Without that dream, without that hope, we have nothing. And yes, we may wake up some mornings with that awful feeling in our souls, wondering where all the days have gone, whether the struggle was, and is, worthwhile. And when you get that feeling, you better think of that g0ddamn frappuccino with all its caffeinated glory and scream to the top of your lungs, "Fuck, yes it is! Fuck yes!"

This is all just a long way of saying, "Help yourself to a shovelful of cock, Douchebag, North Carolina." And you go, Pete. Don't you be doubting yourself anymore. That's our job.