(untitled)

INT SET 0F P0RN0 M0VIE DAY

ON SET with Adult film star Admiral Pavel Becker, the Naval Pecker, with additional cast and crew, for the filming of the last scene in his Christmas special, Chestnuts Roasting On Your Open Mouth, Part 6.

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Fred: Thank God, we're finally gonna shoot the last scene of this movie and then we can wrap this bitch.

Andy: You know, Fred, I was thinking. "Pavel" and "Naval" don't even rhyme. That sort of kills the whole thing for me.

Fred: Fuck you, smart guy. It looks great on the box, especially with the anchors and that Donald Duck uniform. That's all we give a shit about in this business; it's all about presentation. You can take your lacy frills and Mother Goose bullshit down the block.

Andy: Hey, Freddy, don't mind me. I'm just impressed you got Gina Gershon in this movie.

Jeanie: (walks in) Uh, sweetie, it's Jeanie Gershonn. With two Ns (puffs on a cigarette and blows the smoke in Andy's face)

Director: Bitch, who said you could smoke on my set? (walks up behind Jeannie) Is Dick Van Dyke gonna chimney sweep the fucking tar out of my lungs? Get your ass on that sleigh, you rusty old cunt. (to the crew) Alright everybody! Chop chop, you little fucksticks! Okay, Jeanie. It's time to save Christmas. And by "Save Christmas," I mean "videotape you getting fucked raw." (puts on headphones)

Jeanie: (licks palm of her hand and extinguishes the cigarette in it) Sure thing, sweetie. (gets on the sleigh with Becker, who is wearing nothing but a fake white beard and boots)

Director: Now, Becker, just go through your lines like we did in rehearsal, okay?

Becker: Ready!

Director: Okay, places, everyone! Quiet on the set motherfuckers! I am more important than all of you! Lights are good!...Camera rolling!...Cue the snow!...Aaaand cue the reindeer!...And ACTION!

Jeanie: So, can you tell me, are you...are you really Santa Claus?

Becker: Yes, Virginia...I am...Santa Claus.

Jeanine: Well, then...maybe I could meet...Santa's Little Helper?

Becker: Cut!

(bell rings)

Director: (takes off headphones) Goddamn it Bruno, I'M the one that says cut! I'm the goddamn director!

Becker: Sorry, boss, but...it's....it's....

Director: Just spit it out, princess--

Becker: We don't have my, uh, full attention.

Director: Jesus Fucking Christ, Becker, you and your rubber torpedo are gonna be the death of me.

Becker: That's RUGGED Torpedo!

Director: Whatever, lady. (turns around) Fred, can you get Michelle out here? Time to fluff up another flat pecker.

Fred: Sorry, boss. Michelle's taking an early lunch at Panera, but the agency can send someone over right away.

Director: Agency? Since when did we hire a fucking agency?

(from the back) Not a fucking agency, sir! A fluffing agency!

Director: (looking around) Who the fuck was that?

Maurice: (enthusiastically) It's me! (hands resume to director)

Director: Wha--what the fuck is this? Most fluffers don't hand in resumes...(looks at resume)...uh, Morris?

Maurice: That's Maurice! Not Morris.

Director: Well, okay, Maurice not Morris (hands resume to Fred), get over there and get your hands dirty.

Maurice: Hands?! Well, what if I just take this and give a good (baritoned gagging sound)

Becker: Holy--wha...woowwwwww.

Andy: Wait, did he just--

Fred: Excuse me, is this a valid address? 800 Occidental Ave South, Seattle? Box 20?

Director: You're a goddamn professional, Becks, just go with it. Carl, are you getting this?

Carl: (operating camera) Oh, I'm getting it. This is like taping Rodney King, but reversed. And gay.

Director: Yeah, that boom cam's looking like a pretty good investment now, isn't it?

Fred: (watches while slowly shaking his head) Wow, he's really getting after it.

Director: I always enjoy watching someone so masterful at his craft. Just amazing.

Sean Astin: He's telling his own story; you can truly feel the pathos.

Carl: Somebody needs to feed that guy. He's like a starving orphan over there.

Andy: Where have I heard that expression before?

Director: Hang on, I think he's finally coming up for air...

Maurice: (out of breath) Let's...try something else...I call this (drops to his knees)...the "Trey Wingo."

Director: Why's he standing behind him?

Carl: And why's he holding up those three fingers and coating them with Astroglide?

Fred: You know, I think he's gonna jam them right up his--

EVERYONE: AWWWWWWWWWWW!!!

Fred: Jesus Shit! I think he got some elbow on that!

Andy: That's an uppercut for the ages.

Director: I hope Maurice not Morris remembered to take off his watch.

Carl: Don't you need a guardian present to jump into the deep end like that?

Maurice: (pumping feverishly) This will give that grumpy little prostate something to think about!

Fred: Uppercut! Uppercut!

Director: Now, does he call it the "Trey Wingo" because he's using three fingers? Like Trey as in Three?

Carl: Or because when you set your hand like that, it looks like a W? You know, W for Wingo.

Andy: Or is it because this whole ordeal is associated with sports somehow?

Maurice: (retrieving his arm)...There. I just went two yards right up the middle. That ought to do it.

Becker: (looks down with delight) All right! All hands, attention on deck!

Director: God bless you, Maurice.

Fred: And God bless these fifty United States.

Director: Alright, places everyone! Let's get set here! (puts on headphones) Cue the snow!...aaaand Go for reindeer! Aaaand ACTION!

Jeanie: So, can you tell me, are you...are you really Santa Claus?

Becker: Yes, Virginia...I am...sorry, sorry, guys. I just...

Director: CUT! (Bell rings) Goddamn it, now what?

Becker: Just remind me...what's my motivation?

Director: (throws headphones to the ground) Fuck this shit, I quit.

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.

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.

Inside the War Room! Seattle Seahawks

Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Seattle Seahawks.

Tim Ruskell, General Manager: Thanks for coming, gents. You all are the backbone of this team, the respective hearts of the offense and defense. In order to help figure out where we need to add youth, can you all state how old you'll be at the start of this season?

Julian Peterson, OLB: 29.

Patrick Kerney, DE: 30.

Ruskell: Wait. Aren't you a speed rusher?

Kerney: Yup.

Ruskell: And you're 30?

Kerney: Yessir.

Ruskell: All year? No chance of getting younger?

Kerney: I feel young at heart.

Ruskell: What was the deal we gave you this offseason?

Kerney: Six years, $39.5 million.

Ruskell: Good Christ! What was I thinking?!?

Peterson: Sir, we needed someone to replace Grant Wistrom, who was a year older. And much slower. Also, I believe you were on quaaludes that day.

Ruskell: Ah yes. That takes me back. Say, whatever happened to Wistrom? Class act. I loved his Halloween party.

Yes, that's Grant Wistrom.
Peterson: Retired, sir.

Ruskell: Good. Fucker was dead weight on this sinking ship. [pause] Anyway. Carry on, the rest of you. Ages.

Matt Hassebeck, QB: Uh, 32.

Shaun Alexander, RB: 30.

Deion Branch, WR: 28.

Darrell Jackson, WR: 28.

Walter Jones, OT: 33.

Mack Strong, FB: 36.

Ruskell: Fuck. My. Ass. Nobody's younger?

Hasselbeck: Sir, many of the players on defense and our offensive line are younger.

Ruskell: Name one known outside the state of Washington. Besides Lofa Tatupu.

Hasselbeck: Ummm... Kelly Jennings?

Ruskell: Fuck you. You're in the Asshole Box. No talking, five minutes. Got it?

Hasselbeck: [nods, hangs head]

Ruskell: Okay, so who should we take for our first round pick?

Branch: Uh, that's me.

Ruskell: Why would I draft you? You're already on the team.

Branch: No sir, last year you traded your first round pick to New England for me.

Ruskell: Oh, shit. Forgot about that. Must be nice to finally be paid, though, huh?

Branch: Yes, sir. And how.

Ruskell: I met [Patriots' personnel director Scott] Pioli last offseason. He actually picked up loose change off the street. He went to the bathroom while we were figuring out the tip for lunch.

Branch: I believe it, sir.

Ruskell: Right. So, second round. Let's see... number 55 overall. What are our biggest needs?

Alexander: Tight end, offensive line, tight end, and we could use a little depth in the secondary.

Strong: I am fucking ancient.

Alexander: Fullback, too.

Ruskell: Does anyone have any good news for me?

Kerney: You'll free up a lot of cap room when you cut me in two years.

Branch: I saved 15% by switching to Geico car insurance.

Ruskell: We're not getting anyone from this draft, are we?

Everyone: No.

Ruskell: Looks like I'm gonna need to make a move. Guess who's getting traded?

Jackson: ...me?

Ruskell: Ding ding ding. Pack your bags, vestigial wideout.

In Defense of Jerramy Stevens

I suppose that headline's a bit of misnomer. I'm actually pretty happy that clown drunk drove himself off the Seahawks and onto a new team where he'll get a nice little suspension and a league-minimum contract.

But I'm not here to call out our spoiled, self-entitled, idiot sports stars. I'm here to call out the hero-worshiping, holier-than-thou, dumbfuck sports fans.

Allow me to elaborate. Last season I posted an open letter to Jerramy Stevens that said, in essence, "I've tried really hard to cheer for you, but you're just too much of a goddam jackass." I wrote it in early November, after Stevens had a killer game against the Raiders in which he got flagged for a critical 15-yard unsportsmanlike penalty, dropped a possible TD pass, and instigated the Tyler Brayton knee-groin incident.

In January, a commenter identifying himself as "C.P." added this gem, directed at me and other commenters who happened to agree that Stevens was an immature boor whose play didn't make up for his attitude (I've taken the liberty of adding sics, because it's a nice easy way to make a person look even dumber):

What a bunch of jackasses...you all need to get out of your house [sic] more and get an actuall [sic] life!! So the guy made a few mistakes when he was younger!! Big F'n deal!! If we were all made to pay for mistakes we made while young and stupid even though we learned from them and no longer act iun [sic] that manner, where would we all be now. [sic] Give the guy a break. Maybe he needs to get his head on straight and start being a little more consistent, but he is big, stron [sic], athletic and when he is on he is one of the top players at his position!! I'm sickl [sic] of listening to asswipes like you beatin a guy down when it's obvious what he needs is HOME FAN support, not more negativity from some hack football fan who want's [sic] to lump his Jerramy's career into a microcosm like the Raider game. Big deal!! He was all we had against the Cowboys and you should be damn fortunate we had him!!

Oh shit. I had no idea it was my lack of faith that made him suck. Let's have a quick look at the mistakes Stevens made when he was young. And I guess 27 counts as young, because that's his age now.

1998: Breaks man's jaw with baseball bat.
2000: Accused of drugging and raping a 19-year-old girl at UW. Cleared of charges.
2001: Crashes car into retirement home, charged with hit-and-run.
2003: Charged with DUI after police find two half-empty champagne bottles in his car.
2006: $15,000 fine for instigating Bratton's knee.
2007: Charged with DUI.

Wow, I wish I could not be blamed for my youthful mistakes that span almost a decade into my late 20s. So... where you at now, C.P.? Is this one my fault, too?

This grand "fuck you" goes not just to C.P., but to ALL sports fans who think their favorite pro athletes' shit doesn't stink. You all can head over to the all-you-can-eat cock buffet. I believe the Ray Lewis fans are already there.