Dear Scottrade Helicopter Guy: F--k You

Dear Rodger Riney, aka the dude in the Scottrade helicopter ads that I’ve been forced to watch during every televised sporting event over the past eight months:

Fuck you.

I get it. You’re the CEO of the company and you like seeing yourself in your ads. Why, I bet you even own that helicopter! Awesome! You sure are powerful and influential! The stock photo above makes you look so in charge and proactive! Message taken. Now fucking crash and burn, you rich fuck. You look like Artie Pie in those ads and nothing you do will change that. So move over and let some new ad air repeatedly until I have been whipped into a manic froth. Your time is over.

If I see that fucking helicopter of yours in the sky over my house, I’m getting my potato gun and firing it at the rotating blades. Then I will squeal with pleasure as you spin round and round and plummet back to Earth, dead and toasted. Then, I’m gonna walk up to you and hit you with a brick. That’s how we do things in Montgomery County.

Oh, and your trade fee blows. I hate you to death. Fuck you in the pants.

we r in yer innernets, killin yer memes pt. too

Welcome back to the latest installment of macroimpressionism. If you're already confused feel free to scroll down to yesterday's installment (and if you're still confused just go here).












That's it for me, I'm off to Vegas this afternoon so I ask all of you for your prayers (well just the gentiles, I bet Jesus hates roulette and skanks). You should probably expect a drunken check-in at some point.

If you should come across a boogeyman, or boogeymen, remain calm while barricading yourself behind the couch with a 12 gauge. Enjoy Robert Goulet and remember to tip your waitresses.

we r in yer innernets killin yer memes

We may be a bit late to the party but we here at KSK really enjoy our lolcats. Since our pal Orson took on the meme over at EDSBS we figured it was about damn time that we dove in head first...George Michael style. Here it is, our own lolnfl.







Plenty more to come tomorrow.

I Can Has Cheezburger

Oh F--k, We’re Not Gonna Have Any Players Left

Let’s see. Pacman Jones. Chris Henry. Tank Johnson. Odell Thurman. Michael Vick…

Oh, man. Fuck me.

We’re not gonna have any players left.

I really should have thought this through. If I’m consistent in suspending all these retards equally, we’re gonna be fresh out of players by October. I’m gonna have to suspend all of them. Fuck!

Jesus, one bachelor party could wipe out an entire team. It’s okay. It’s okay, Rog. The whole point of this thing was to send a message out to all the players. It’s a deterrent. Yeah, that’s it. If I suspend them for being idiots, then they’ll top being idiots, right?

Right?

Secretary: Mr. Commissioner, it’s Ben Roethlisberger on Line 1. He said he set fire to a middle school by accident and that he’s really sorry.

Oh, fuck.

Secretary: Mr. Commissioner, it’s Terrence Kiel on Line 2. He said he beat his wife to death with a tire iron and wanted to know what to do with the body.

Tell him to hold!

Secretary: I also got a message from Ray Lewis. All he said was, “It happened again. But Jesus still loves me.”

Oh God, this is not happening.

Okay, okay. It’s time to plan. Just make a plan, Rog. I’m sure we can get some highly qualified replacements for those guys. If you put XFL players in an NFL uniform, that makes them legitimate! It could work! It has to work.

Secretary: Sir, Shawne Merriman is on Line 3. He said he’s been injecting cougar semen directly into his urethra and wanted to know if that was bad.

Tell him it’s bad. Everything is bad.

I really, really should have given this more careful consideration. Maybe I’ll quit and become commissioner of the Junior League. Those bitches seem well behaved.

She's Cognizant Of Us. She's Really, Really Cognizant Of Us

As has been mentioned in this space recently, we six of KSK have been toiling away at this for round about a year now, with little reward or recompense beyond basking in our own pissed excellence. Sure, there have been awards, drugs and a measure of blogosphere fame, but what does it all mean without a connection to the progenitors of our efforts? Those two noble, buoyant souls who formed a totemic dyad - sideline reporter and debauched former quarterback - that inspired unspeakable things in all of this.

Caveman caught up with our blogfather back in February and snapped a photo with him before Namath could say he was going out for a pack of smokes and be out of our lives for good. But Suzy? She has been defined by her silence, her absence, her nose. Long have we waited for some motherly validation from our Patron Saint.

Well, shucks, here it is.

The incident made Kolber something of a cult figure. She's now the namesake of a sports blog called "Kissing Suzy Kolber." She said she's seen it, but "I rarely, even beyond rarely, read anything about myself."

Now, flattering as it is that the Patron Saint is vaguely, even beyond vaguely, aware of the occasional football satire and commenter drafts being carried out in her name, one gets the idea that her take on it is that this blog is some sort of chronicle of the goings-on in her life. I'd like to think that that's what she wants it to be and is miffed that it isn't. Certainly there have been times that we've wondered about ol' Suze but, on the whole, she doesn't make up much of our content. Clearly, she's frustrated about not reading more about herself and is hellbent about doing something about it.

What then, dear commenters, will Suzy be doing to garner our attention?

I'm Sorry, Paris Hilton

I am sorry that you went to jail, mainly because now someone else will have a chance to rape you, although that may be a misnomer since you really don't know the meaning of the word "no." I bet the food in jail is bad, Paris Hilton, but I hear their gym is pretty sweet.

I was thinking the other day about all the fun times we used to have; I was taking a shit and then realized that I didn't have any toilet paper. So I just sat on the bowl for, I think it was like an hour, and then my ass started to get numb, so I just lathered up my hand with two squirts of Dial and then scrubbed out my crack. But I had no way to rinse out my wares, so I just wiped out the suds with one of my towels. When I finally hopped off and flushed, I saw there was a brand new roll resting on the top of the toilet behind me. I'm never eating ziti after 8 o'clock again.

But anyway, Paris Hilton, I remember when we used to hit the town. You had these stupid little pointy shoes and you asked me what I thought of them. I told you I would rather drive the tips of those shoes through my eye sockets than be forced to bear witness to them for even another second. Then you got really pouty and quiet. And then when I asked what was wrong, you said, "Nothing." But I think if nothing was really wrong, you would have let me use the anal beads that night.

Remember, Paris Hilton, when we went out with the team to the Chicago Playboy Mansion and Tank wanted to lay money on how many handguns he could cram up your pussy? I really thought he was going to be more systematic with his insertion methods there. Plus I thought that he would have made sure that none of those guns were loaded, or at least had the safeties on. And I have no idea why I took the under, either. That whole thing was really my bad.

I bet jail is a lot like having a sleepover, Paris Hilton, except none of your friends show up and the guards search your asshole for contraband. I will try really hard to make the trip east to California and visit, so we can talk on those special phones, and you can mash your little titties up against the glass, like in that one movie, while I make moaning sounds and jerk off after I throw on a turbin and walk some laps around a pillar.

So, um, I guess I'll see you later. Tell Martha Stewart I said hey.

You've got your big cheese, I've got my hash marks pipe

Via one of the savvy eBay entrepreneurs.

To be honest, trying to fill space during this interminable off-season can be vexing a real pain in the ass. That's why KSK loves the godsend that is NFL's new bossman, Roger Goodell. Rog has made it perfectly clear the axe swings on his schedule and at his pleasure-- “due process” be damned. For all we know, at anytime Goodell may drop the bomb on Mike Vick with the gusto of Peter King demolishing a plate of canapés at the hospitality tent.

However, an unintended consequence of Roger Goodell's new suspend-now-sort-out-the-legalities-later personnel conduct policy is that fans, sports radio and wiseacre sports bloggers can't even consider waiting until the legal system runs its course before weighing in on the troubles of ne'er-do-wells like Pacman Jones and Mike Vick. . Under Rog's stewardship, Vick may actually serve his suspension before the courts sort out this whole unseemly affair. Irrational speculation rules!!!

As the dogfight case continues to get worse and worse for Vick, the comedy keeps getting richer and richer in the comments of the FanHaus. ("YOU DON'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT BOXING, UFC AND ALL THAT OTHER CRAP AND HALF THESE CLOWNS TRYING TO GET VICK KNOW THEY WATCH THAT CRAZY SHIT TO, SO STOP FOOLING YOURSELF AND LEAVE THE MAN ALONE. MIDDLE") The pro-Vick faction of this braintrust rally to preserve his sterling reputation, vociferously demanding restraint and patience before judging Vick. ("What happen to the days of being innocent until proven guilty???") Let due process run its course, others insist. ("You guy's are calling him all kinds of derogatory names and he hasn't even been convicted in a court of law. Put your Klan appareal away for now, sheesh.")

Not that the anti-Vick partisans are any more eloquent. ("Glad to hear it! Vick is in ass.") There seems to be widespread belief in lex talionis among that bunch. ("lock his A#$ in a ring with the dogs he abused, starved and tortured or allowed them to be. Let those dogs tear him apart limb from limb like they so enjoy watching them do to each other.")

If this mess marks the ends of Vick’s era as a productive NFL QB, then he can always fall back on canine pugilism. Some people would pay good money to see Johnnie Morton fight one of Ron Mexico’s dogs on pay-per-view. Certain advertisers would love it…

Eric Mangini’s IMDB profile

Jets coach Eric Mangini cameoed on the penultimate episode of “The Sopranos” last night, even earning the moniker “Mangenius” from Tony, which qualifies as clever wordplay in New Jersey.

What you may not know is that this was NOT Mangini’s first TV or film role. In fact, the man boasts an acting resume that would make JT Walsh stand up in his grave. The man has an almost Serkisian ability to inhibit the skin of the characters he plays. The man is blessed with natural acting ability. But he also extensively studies tape of his subjects and other actors from the past. He gets their tendencies down pat, then adjusts his bra size accordingly. Here now, for the first time ever, and with research provided by all six KSK staff members, is Mangini’s impressive imdb resume.

1. “The Sopranos” (2007) …. Himself
2. Transformers (2007) …. Unicron
3. Queens Boulevard (2005) …. Queens Boulevard
4. King Kong (2005) …. Empire State Building
5. Hellboy (2004) …. Hellboy
6. Bad Santa (2003) …. Fat Kid
7. “American Idol” (2003) …. Ruben “The Velvet Teddy Bear” Studdard
8. Fight Club (1999) …. Body Double For Meat Loaf Aday
9. Dirty Work (1998) .... Guy Who Got His Nose Bit Off By Saigon Whore
10. Rushmore (1998) …. Scottish Bully
11. Se7en (1995) …. Sloth Victim
12. Sudden Death (1995) …. Pittsburgh Civic Center (or “The Igloo”)
13. Clueless (1995) …. Black Friend Who Looked Like Stacey Dash But Was Not Stacey Dash
14. A Walk In The Clouds (1995) …. Cloud
15. The Fugitive (1993) …. Romanian Drug Dealer Who Eats Donut
16. “No Rain” (music video) (1992) …. Bee Girl
17. Miller’s Crossing (1990) …. Fat Lady Who Beats The Shit Out Of Gabriel Byrne With Her Purse
18. The Blob (1988) …. The Blob
19. The Naked Gun! (1988) …. Al
20. Stand By Me (1986) …. Lardass
21. Return Of The Jedi (1983) …. Blue Styrofoam Organ Player
22. Monty Python’s Meaning Of Life (1983) …. Wafer Thin Mint Eater
23. The Blob (1958) …. The Blob
24. Around The World In 80 Days (1956) …. Hot Air Balloon
25. 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea (1954) …. Giant Squid
26. The Third Man (1949) …. Orson Welles Playing The Role Of Harry Lime
27. Gone With The Wind (1939) …. Mammy #12

Sopranos Talk, Plus Bonus Shahi For Fondling Your Wok Charred Ahi

Here’s some more pictures of Sarah Shahi. Thanks God HER dad isn’t some prick lawyer.



I’m here to talk about “The Sopranos”. I’ve waded through five plus seasons and one long ass Memorial Day weekend (Hooray, DC humidity!) to get to these final two episodes. Along the way, there have been a few awesome killings and many more “Where the fuck is this going?” moments. But the previous two episodes have been balls-to-the-wall fucking sweet, and it’s been fun talking with people about what’s gonna happen next.

SPOILER ALERT FOR HERE AND THE COMMENTS

My theory: Tony now realizes that his life will always be miserable and shitty and could give two shits whether he lives or dies. That’s why he didn’t give a shit about killing Christopher. David Chase has always said he didn’t want Tony to come across as lovable or sympathetic. I think he views Tony as a common criminal and thug, which means he’ll die an inglorious and shitty death, probably at Phil “I gotta take a shit” Leotardo’s expense.

And that’s fine with me. But, since I’m a big fan of random, inexplicable violence, I suggest killing ALL of them. And here’s how I’d like to see it happen:

Carmela: Materialistic whore. Dies slipping in $80,000 marble bathtub.

Paulie: Selfish, insufferable prick. Gets his head shaved by Leotardo and then shot in the mouth.

AJ: Moron. I will have a son exactly like him. Dies riding a bike into a manhole.

Sylvio: Keep him. I like him.

Janice: Time fucking stops when this shrew is on the screen. I suggest a severe bat beating.

Phil: Asbestos poisoning

Weaselly shit who hangs out with Phil: Doused in kerosene, burned, electrocuted

Meadow: Dies in some sort of hardcore sex scene with Charmaine Bucco

Junior: Dies offscreen, since scenes with him are like being in a room with an actual old person

Coco: Second curb stomping

Chrissy’s Wife: Suicide by poisoning

Vito’s Son: Suicide by gunshot

Artie Bucco: Stabbed by the kid from Doogie Howser

Kid From Doogie Howser: Killed by Neil Patrick Harris in a cameo

Bobby: Heart attack

Melfi: Killed by Harvey Keitel in a ironic cameo

Melfi’s Shrink: Killed by Melfi before Harvey shows up

Furio: Killed by punch to enormous nose

Theories and hopes in the comments. Enjoy the weekend.

Commenter Draft: Drinking Games

Big Daddy Drew is in a meeting this morning -- I know: I, too, thought the Dick Joke Symposium was next week -- so it's gonna be me, Captain Caveman, leading you through the draft this morning. Yeah, yeah. I like it when Drew does all the work, too. Less writing for me.

So, let's get to it: drinking games. As always, select one game at a time and wait ten picks -- not comments, but picks -- until you select again. These must be real games that you have played. Any arcane or obscure games require brief explanations so that others may go forth and get drunk in that matter.

Personally, I'm sad to say that I've moved beyond drinking games. They tend to be too loud, and that gets in the way of me getting mellow. I prefer drinking by myself. So, I'll be passing on the first pick -- I'll trade down for multiple picks next draft or something -- but I want to make ONE THING VERY CLEAR:

That game where you throw the ping-pong ball at the pyramid of cups? It's Beirut. Beer pong is played with paddles. Only shitheads who don't know their drinking games call Beirut beer pong.