[Dialtone]

Esurance customer associate: Hello, how may I help you?

Vince Young: “Everyone imposes his own system as far as his army can reach.”

Esurance customer associate: …excuse me? Hello? Sir?

VY: “God gave Noah the rainbow sign. No more water, the fire next time.”

ECA: I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to tell me, sir.

VY: Goddammit! Your ad says quote, buy, print. How many more quotes I have to give you?

ECA: Oh. [laughs] You misunderstood. It means you can log onto our web site, provide your pertinent personal information, get a price quote, buy a policy and print it out at home.

VY: I knew I shoulda gotten Jeff Fisher to do this. But his dialing hand is all worn out from the fist pumping.

ECA: Maybe you can explain to me what you’re trying to do and I can refer you to the correct department.

VY: Okay. EA Sports just told me they’re gonna put me on the cover of the next Madden game. Now, I love the Madden game. If books were like the Madden game, I would have read every book since NFL Proust Reading ’92, with the fuzzy graphic words that get tackled as soon as they run into an opposing word. But bad shit always happens to people who get put on the cover so I need some Vince Young insurance.

ECA: Well, sir, we’re an auto insurance company. We don’t put policies out on athletes.

VY: Yeah, auto, as in automatic. Gimme some of that automatic insurance.

ECA: That’s auto as in automobile insurance.

VY: Fuck. I just talked to Mike Vick and he explained all the bad experiences he had being on the cover. Now he even insures his weed. Against fire damage, no less. I don’t know how he found a company willing to do that. He was watching TV when we were on the phone and your commercial came on and he wanted me to call to ask if the girl from your commercials could save him from his evil robot coffee maker. And while I was at it, I should get some insurance.

ECA: I haven’t the slightest idea how help you.

VY: Hmmm. Can I just talk to the cute pink haired girl?

ECA: You mean Erin Esurance? She’s a fictional mascot the company uses for advertising campaigns.

VY: Yeah, she’s probably out on a classified mission or something. You tell her I liked that touchdown she scored against the blizzard robot. I’m gonna try that shit against Jacksonville.

ECA: I…uh…

VY: She’s also had baseball and basketball commercials. That’s one sporty chick. I bet she puts some baseball eye black around her snatch. I’d like to give her some of my patented sidearm delivery. KnawhaI’msayin’?

ECA:…

VY: You’re right. My mechanics are kinda bad. That’s why I did so bad on the Wonderlic. I tried to write all my answers on the side of the paper. Man, side of the paper is less than a millimeter thick. I must only got, like, five answers on there.

ECA: …

VY: Anyway, you need to tell her to leave that mumbly caesar haircut-having white dude she’s with. Then again, he’s probably one of those smart-ass Herbs that girls hang around to cheat off on tests. Girls are clever like that.

ECA:…

VY: All right, well, fuck this shit. I’ll be fine. But I gotta run though. Albert Haynesworth wants to practice his stomping action on my throwing arm. Y’know, toughen that shit up.

I don’t watch “American Idol,” but I don’t have anything against it. Anything that gives the world Carrie Underwood and Katherine McPhee in new outfits every week certainly has my support. But it annoys the piss out of me that all the contestants are coached to sing DIRECTLY INTO THE CAMERA. I like to see performers who lose themselves in the song and have the potential to spontaneously A) Break shit, B) Light something on fire, or C) Jump off of something. And it’s hard to express yourself with naked passion when you’re constantly searching for the best boy.

Oh, and a majority of the contestants suck. That tends to hurt its appeal. Unless, of course, you’re a 12-year-old girl. Ah, those eternal barometers of shitty musical taste. Who else but 12-year-old girls could give the world such musical abortions as David Cassidy, Jordan Knight, Vanilla Ice, Ashlee Simpson, and Bono? Well, those little harlots have really outdone themselves this time. Their new favorite eardrum rapist? Guhhhhhhh…

Sanjaya Malakar. If you ever thought to yourself, “Damn, I wish Jermaine Stewart had been a bigger star,” well you’re in luck. I’m not even sure Sanjaya is human. It’s like he was manufactured by Mattel after years of extensive focus grouping. Why, he even sings out of tune, just like you! Sanjaya is a triumph of style and manufactured hype over actual usefulness.

And, in that sense, he’s just like Notre Dame QB Brady Quinn.

I’ve watched the NFL Draft every year for God knows how long, and it’s clear to me, more than ever, that NFL teams and prognosticators feel the need to arbitrarily assign one or two quarterbacks to the top five of the draft for no good reason. It’s like they all collectively get together and say, “Wait a second, the top of this draft needs QB’s! Let’s draw two names out of this top hat!” I once heard that, when Alex Smith and David Carr were drafted in the top slot, the words “Fuck it” were also written on the draft card.

Now, this wasn’t the case last year. Vince Young and Matt Leinart were exceptions to the rule. Yet Leinart dropped to 10th, almost as if to be punished for actually being a good prospect. I don’t feel like Brady Quinn and JaMarcus Russell are in the league of those two, yet both are almost certain to be drafted in the Top 5, if not the Top 3. Why? Fuck if I know. It wasn’t until after the season that people even spoke of Russell as a prospect for the top pick. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you.

Quinn’s presence at the top of the draft is particularly vexing. Like Sanjaya, he seems more a product of people WANTING him to succeed rather than having to skills to succeed on his own. He’s also queer. Perhaps a comparison is in order. Or, perhaps, it’s time to resurrect our long dormant “Quien Es Mas Macho?” series to determine just who is the lesser of two fakes. And so, we break out the pros and cons lists to find out…

Quien Es Mas Macho?! Sanjaya O Quinn?

Sanjaya

Pros:
-Beautiful veneers
-Exotic background gets him points for diversity, even though in spirit he’s whiter than a glacier
-Flawlessly groomed eyebrows
-Smile, while creepy and insincere to adults, is black tar heroin to prepubescent idiots
-Versatile hair! Take that Simon, with your inexplicable 1950′s Coast Guard flattop
-His sister? You’d hit it.
-High-pitched voice attracts nearby dolphins
-Will make a smashing Grand Marshall in the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade

Cons:
-No muy macha
-Fucking awful
-Is only 17, cannot buy his fans the Parliaments they so desperately want
-Completely lacking in cynicism and seems to be genuinely enjoying the competition. Americans hate that shit.
-There may be duplicates of him
-Potential of him winning threatens the *snicker* integrity of “American Idol”.
-Gays are trying to break out of that whole “flaming queen” stereotype. You aren’t helping progress, Fruit Loop

Brady Quinn

Pros:
-Mildly strong arm!
-White!
-Non-threatening!
-Went to Catholic school!
-Loved by uptight New Jerseyians!
-Beat Navy!
-People know who he is!
-Played for Charlie Weis, just like Rohan Davey!
-Un poco macho, if you don’t look at the above picture
-Can plow an entire acre of sorghum with front teeth
-Looks great doing draft telecast lead-ins! Can spin a football on his finger!
-Adorable moptop hair conveys a playful spirit
-Not afraid to break the NFL’s “lover of cock” barrier

Cons:
-Sucks
-Sucks balls
-Will cost you a $25 million signing bonus to suck balls for your team
-Has the potential to increase suicide rates in Cleveland even further
-His sister? You’d hitch it.
-Needs to work on throwing motion while in fetal position while playing Michigan or other decent opponent
-Stands out as a QB in absolutely no way

A tough matchup. But in the end, we have to choose the machoest man, and that man is…

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.

Today is another special day here at KSK and I’m pleased be introducing you to the newest offerings in our line of haute-couteur. Earlier in the offseason we debuted the collection with the uber-exclusive Sex Cannon logo. Well after a long discussion with Rextacy himself I learned that multiple designs–like orgasms–are vastly supperior to the singular alternative. So brace yourselves ladies and gentlemen (mostly ladies) because we’re unloading the goodness all over your chest.

’99 Draft Class

The single greatest crop of quarterbacks to ever hit the NFL Draft was supposed to make us forget all about Marino, Elway, and all the other old fuckers that we didn’t like that much to begin with. At KSK we honor this mishapen menagerie of signal callers, even if a few of them are selling robot insurance at Leisureworld.

Truthfully I just made this shirt because I really wanted it for myself. I liked the way it came out so I decided to make it available to the general public. So here they are, three different styles of the ubiquitous Starting 5 shirt.

Sexy Business

Are you sexy? Do you make said sexy work for you? Then you my friend are in the Sexy Business. Another homage to our favorite Sex Cannon this shirt sums up everything that is the cumslinger.

On the left is the sexy red ringer shirt for all the hipsters out there lookin’ for love in all the sexy places. To the right we have the team color edition of said shirt; either way, you’re ready to fuck.

But what about the ladies??? Oh don’t worry about that, it’s about time we spread the sexy downstairs.

Ah…combine the sublime hotness that is the hip hugging undergarment with the overt sexiness of KSK and you’re guarnateed to attract some attention (especially if you’re wearing nothing else).

Now all we need is some models! We tried putting them on Ape’s cat but…uh…that didn’t end well. So all you lady readers out there need to get your shit in gear! Free merchandise for the first piece of ass to send us that picture.

Last night I accidentally saw a few minutes of Baseball Tonight (extended viewing of John Kruk has been known to cause hemorrhoids in test subjects). If you didn’t see it you probably missed the single greatest baseball highlight we’re likely to see all year (unless Manny Ramirez finally just takes a piss on the warning track). On first glance it looked like a routine foul ball, but there was so much more.

While the Baseball Tonight recap was everything I could have expected (“I would have eaten that!” -Kruk) it was the game’s live broadcast on NESN that provided the best analysis. Now watch as this noble football fan shows a pussy baseball fan how they roll in Foxboro.

I’m not sure what Mystic Pizza is about but I’d like to think it involves Julia Roberts on the other end of a sloppy slice like that one.

I can’t decide which reaction is my favorite, there’s a bounty of greatness to choose from. You have to love the Oliver Stone inspired analysis conducted by the Jerry Remy, but my favorite is the reaction of the victim’s friend. In a short period of time he goes through the full gamut of emotions; joy when the foul ball is headed his way, sadness when he spills his beer, anger when he sees what’s been done to his friend, horror when he sees the wasted pizza, and finally happiness when he realizes that his dumb ass is going to be all over television.

We salute you random Patriots fan. You waited for the perfect moment before you stuck it to the northeast liberal elite baseball-istas for the world to see.

Christmas Ape, as you may or may not know, is our resident journalist / NPR-listener, and as such his off-season duties include staying abreast of new Noam Chomsky writings and reading Women’s Wear Daily, which he claims is a great source for journo-industry news. (Sure, buddy. At least I’m transparent about my embrace of women’s fashion.)

However, to Ape’s credit, he uncovered a cabal of New York Times writers trying to infringe on KSK’s turf: they got dubbed the Gay Mafia:

Does a scattershot list of gay Timesmen a mafia make? According to Out magazine’s media-heavy Power 50 list, which ranked several New York Times reporters a collective seventh on the list, it does, even if many of its made men don’t actually know each other. “Yes, there really is a queer cabal in the Eastern elite media, and it works on West 43rd Street in New York City,” reads the accompanying text, citing T magazine editor Stefano Tonchi, assistant managing editor Richard Berke, national correspondent Adam Nagourney, advertising columnist Stuart Elliot, style reporter Eric Wilson, theater critic Ben Brantley and restaurant critic Frank Bruni.

As for the use of the ‘M’ word related to the assorted journalists, Aaron Hicklin, editor of Out, told WWD: “The Times still has an old-fashioned power that I think the Web has tried to replace but been less successful at. It’s still a cultural arbiter….Should we have used the word mafia? Only inasmuch as mafia is shorthand for people whose combined weight is fearsome.” And according to Out, these Timesmen are “one group you don’t want to run into in a dark alley.”

Oh, is that right?

Well, guess what, New York Times Gay Mafia. You ain’t shit. Men preferring you to that shrike Maureen Dowd might make you a big deal in Manhattan, but that’s a tiny little island, and Kissing Suzy Kolber has a monstrous gayness that covers four states and a crappy district. What have you done as a collective gay mafia besides have sex with men? You’ve done dick. You homos haven’t lived anything as gay as Peter King’s lust for Tony Romo. Where’s YOUR exposé of the top 30 gay quarterbacks in the NFL?

So, suck on that, Out Magazine. Suck on my big, throbbing, aching member. That’s right: the KSK Gay Mafia will happily meet the New York Times Gay Mafia in a back alley, and we will collectively fuck them in the ass. Fuck them hard and slow until we’re satisfied and exhausted.

You know, metaphorically.

Punter: Fuck. Me. That movie was horrible.

Ernest Borgnine: What do you mean? It was like the show.

Punter: That’s the show? There was like no gaddamn format at all. It was like Calvinball without all the pesky legislation. You knew this and still paid money to see this shit? Did you really think that was worth even matinee rates?

Ernest Borgnine: It’s…it’s just like the show.

Punter: I should’ve taken the hint when they spelled out the colon. I mean, spelling out the colon is not all that clever. Why didn’t they spell out–

Ernest Borgnine: Oh my goodness, look by the snack bar! You see who that is?

Punter: The midget in the wheelchair? He works here. I like that guy.

Ernest Borgnine: No, not him. Him!

Punter: Wow, that looks like Drew Bledsoe.

Ernest Borgnine: Goodness Gracious, That is Drew Bledsoe!

Punter: In a movie theatre in South Carolina?

Ernest Borgnine: I’m gonna smell his hair (walks over)

Punter: (following) I’m gonna laugh when he tries to hit you in the face with Ju Ju Bees and overthrows you.

Ernest Borgnine: Excuse me, I don’t mean to intrude, but are you–

Drew Bledsoe: Yeah, I am. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Borgnine. I’m a huge fan of Airwolf.

Punter: I know; I wish they’d release the fucking DVDs already.

Ernest Borgnine: So what brings you this way, sir?

Drew Bledsoe: I’m here in Anderson for the weekend visiting family.

Punter: In a movie theater? Sounds like my family.

Drew Bledsoe: We’re going to watch the Aqua Teen Hunger something show. I didn’t really like the show, but my nephew said the movie will be different.

Punter: Oh, yeah. It’s totally different from the show and very coherent. You’ll love it.

Ernest Borgnine: Drew, it made me so sad to hear that you retired, and I just wanted to say that I loved watching you play all these years.

Drew Bledsoe: Thank you. I really appreciate that.

Punter: Fourteen years is good for anybody. You have any regrets?

Drew Bledsoe: Regrets?

Ernest Borgnine: Yeah.

Drew Bledsoe: (looks at the floor) Maybe one. (motions to his family) You guys go ahead. Save me a seat on the aisle. And don’t sit directly behind someone unless the theatre is full. That’s good movie etiquette.

Ernest Borgnine: That is good movie etiquette!

Drew Bledsoe: There was this one instance, before Super Bowl 36, that I had to make a difficult decision. It involved an intersection of my interests, both as a player, and as a person. And I knew, deep down, that no matter what, the decision would haunt me forever. It happened in the hotel room before the big game. I can remember it like it was yesterday…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drew: You wanted to see me, Coach?

Coach: Yeah, Drew, come on in. Have a seat over here on the bed.

Drew: Um, okay.

Coach: Look, Drew, I know this has been a traumatic season for you. And you know I’m announcing who will be our starter for the Super Bowl tomorrow. And, well, I think it would be only fair if I gave you a chance to earn the starting job back.

Drew: Aw, thanks coach, I really appreciate this. So, I’ll be getting more reps in the walkthroughs this week?

Coach: Well, not exactly.

Drew: Oh. Well…will he and I be doing competitive drills in walkthroughs this week?

Coach: No, not exactly.

Drew: (confused) Um, then how will I be able to win my job back?

Coach: You see that red sweatshirt on the bed, Drew? That’s my Little Red Riding sweatshirt. You see, Drew, I’ve been waiting for this moment since you were at Wazzou. I’m gonna put on that red sweatshirt and curl up on this bed with you. And then you and I are gonna fuck like wild seals in the Arctic night. Like a couple hamsters trying to eat each other. And if you can take the pounding that you know I can provide, right here, right now, you’ll be our starter.

Drew: Oh no.

Coach: Think about it, Drew. I’m gonna make you howl like the three-legged coyote in heat that you are. And then I’m gonna snap my offensive genius off in your ass. You’re gonna wish you were in prison, but it’s a small price to pay for worldwide glory.

Drew: Pl-please stop it, Coach.

Coach: Oh, Coach, what big eyes you have! Say it, you pissant!

Drew: This isn’t right–

Coach: CALL ME GRANDMA YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!

Drew: (jumps off the bed) Whoa, whoa, uh, sorry…I’m sorry, coach. I – I can’t do this.

Coach: (stands up) You do it, Andrew. You fucking do it or you’re gonna get kicked around this league like a frozen dog turd on an Alaskan oilfield.

Drew: I’m sorry. (walks out)

Coach: Very well. (yells) Tommy! You’re starting on Sunday!

Tom Brady: (from under the bed) Thanks, Mister! That’s just swell!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drew Bledsoe: I was really conflicted about it for a while. You know, sacrificing my playing career to salvage my heterosexuality and to keep my anus free of internal lacerations. But after distancing myself from the game after all these minutes and discussing it with such well-adjusted people, I feel like I make the better of two tough choices.

Ernest Borgnine: Wow, Drew. What a horrible situation that must have been for you.

Punter: Shoulda fucked him, dude. That coulda been you wearing all those rings up in Foxboro.

Drew: You know, I was blessed to have played in the league for so long. I’ve really been fortunate, and I really have no regrets. It was nice meeting you both.

Ernest Borgnine: Take care of yourself.

Punter: See ya. (Drew walks away). No regrets, my ass. He’s probably gonna beat off to that story tonight.

Ernest Borgnine: I thought he was a nice man. I mean, he put up with your foolishness.

Punter: My foolishness smells like roses.

Ernest Borgnine: So, d’you hear about that Imus fellow?

Punter: Totally overblown. Yeah, he’s old and irrelevant, kinda like you, but he didn’t say anything that would have been out of place in a rap video or a Dave Chappelle skit.

Ernest Borgnine: Well, I’m glad they let him go. I think it serves him right.

Punter: Just goes to show that white people will always be taken more seriously than black people.

Ernest Borgnine: That’s not true.

Punter: Hey, can we stop back at your place before we go bowling? I’ve really gotta take a shit.

Ernest Borgnine: Sure, you just have to pay the cover charge. Ten bucks.

Punter: Great. Can you break a fifty?

Update: Actually, all four seasons of Airwolf are available on DVD now. Jan Michael Vincent will drink to that, I’m sure. -MMP

We’ve got a special guest host and participant for this week’s draft: None other than Orson Swindle of Every Day Should Be Saturday, the best college football site on the Internet. He even offered to use the royal we. Take it away, Swindle…

During our blogger summit at a gay bar in midtown Atlanta, Ufford and we decided that EDSBS had to make an appearance in the mock draft category. Actually, we decided this, and threatened Ufford with leaving his pearl-buttoned shirt-wearing ass on the sidewalk at Piedmont and 10th for the Rusty Cocklords to have him as they liked if he refused us a spot in the mock draft.

Threat of forced rough trade revoked, here we are. The topic: movie deaths. This includes scenes you find admirable, noble, badass, enviable, and suitable as a model for your own inevitable demise.

Two rounds. Serpentine Draft. The order: Swindle, UM, CC, Ape, Drew, Flub, Punter.

Round 1, Pick 1 – Swindle – King Kong, “King Kong”

I die standing on top of the world, swatting planes out of the sky with my huge hairy arms, and watching the world gawk at my collossal cock and balls swinging like the inner workings of a universal sex clock over the city. Bullets rip into my flesh, but they only anger me in principle, since they barely scratch the epidermis of my stop-motion animated hide.

I’m like an evil black sun rising over the city. Like Charles Oakley hitting the town on any given Saturday night in the 1990s, actually, but slightly less tough, and without an unregistered firearm.

It’s even better than you think, though. You know why I’m dying? It’s the same in every version. I’m beating millions of dollars out of the sky with each swat of my hands for beauty. Practically raging my ass off for beauty’s sake buck naked on top of the Empire State Building. This isn’t just an angry gorilla beating off onto Manhattan from 100 stories up. This is fucking art.

The actual line: “Oh no, it wasn’t the airplanes. It was beauty killed the beast.”

That’s what they’ll say when they gun shirtless me down outside a Miami convenience store, machete in hand and bomb strapped to my face: It was beauty killed the beast. (And a well-placed hollow point to the heart, of course.)

Round 1, Pick 2 – UM – Christ, “The Passion Of The Christ”

Mel Gibson’s uproarious comedy* culminates with the most important death in human history (apologies to Franz Ferdinand and Cus D’Amato). Now for the millionth time, WE’RE SORRY!

*I didn’t actually see the movie

Round 1, Pick 3 – CC – Tom Sizemore, “Saving Private Ryan”

Spend the day fucking up Germans in a French town while horrifically outnumbered before toughing it out with a bazooka despite getting shot in each shoulder. Then he delivers a badass line and dies.

Of course, my first choice would have been Sgt Stryker in Sands of Iwo Jima, which would save me the indignity of being in the U.S. Army… but he gets killed by a sniper. Fuck that.

And I’m still waiting for the Vietnam film that uses John Bobo’s death. THAT’S the one I really want.

NOTE: We couldn’t find the clip where Sizemore dies. Enjoy this 3-minute version of the D-Day scene.

Round 1, Pick 4 – Ape – Alec Guinness, “Bridge Over The River Kwai”

It seems likely I’ll die with shameful recognition. At best, I’d like to take
some people with me. Homer’s tongue hitting the destruct button in the
plant as he expired is similar, but I feel I’ve hit my Simpsons
reference limit for the week. Genuine class.

Round 1, Pick 5 – BDD – Tony Montana, “Scarface”

It’s not even close. If I’m goin down, I want to do it taking out as
many people as possible with a really, really big fucking gun. Plus,
all the cocaine I’ve ingested will render the bullet wounds relatively
painless (or so I’ve been told). I can’t think of a more
over-the-top, ludicrous way to die. I could even do that stupid Tony
Montana accent that every douchebag wearing a visor does at your local
watering hole. I could do without Tony’s killing his sister after she
offered to satisfy his disgusting incestuous urges. But otherwise,
this is the ultimate death scene for me.

Round 1, Pick 6 – flubby – C. Thomas Howell, “Red Dawn”

If I go out, I’m taking a couple helicopters full of Commies with me. WOLVERINES!!!!

I found some Red Dawn stuff on YouTube, but nothing as funny/creepy/possibly gay as this C Thomas Howell tribute video, complete with Vitamin C soundtrack.

Round 1, Pick 7 – Punter – The real President Mitchell, “Dave”
Death by ejaculation will never get its proper due.

Round 2, Pick 8 – Punter – Flounder, “Beerfest”
If I can’t fuck myself to death, drowning in beer wouldn’t be a bad substitute.

Way to pick deaths with no easy-to-find video, Punter.

Round 2, Pick 9 – Flub – Sam Jackson, “Deep Blue Sea”

The shark jumps out of the pool, grabs SLJ in his jaws and then, even though it is out of the water, the shark somehow manages to find some miracle reverse gear to go back into the pool. This death is an unapologetic affront to the laws of physics and nature. I dig that.

Round 2, Pick 10 – BDD – Maximus, “Gladiator”

The only thing better than dying in front of a crowd that’s cheering
your name is dying in front of a crowd that can only stare at you with
dead silent awe, because you are such a fucking badass. I have
vanquished my hated rival, died a hero’s death, and now get to return
to my kickass Tuscan villa and my hottie Italian wife for the rest of
eternity. Watching this scene stoned is just about the awesomest
thing ever.

Round 2, Pick 11 – Ape – Randy Quaid, “Independence Day”

Drunken, raving lunatic redeemed, but still dead. I suppose there’s some thrill in getting revenge on an anal-probing alien race and simultaneously saving mankind after being jilted and disdained most of your life. But the world is still in ruins because they didn’t heed your warnings, so there’s that.

In other words, I didn’t give this pick any thought.

NOTE: We couldn’t find that video either. Enjoy the air battle scene from that flick.

Round 2, Pick 12 – CC – Michael Douglas, “Falling Down”

Spend a day lashing out at just about every annoyance in society, teaching people some FUCKING MANNERS, and killing neo-Nazis execution style and inducing heart attacks in asshole golfers when necessary (video above). Then, suicide-by-cop to give my daughter the life insurance money. You’re welcome, sweetheart.

Round 2, Pick 13 – UM – Waring Hudsucker, “The Hudsucker Proxy”

When is a sidewalk fully dressed?
When it’s Waring Hudsucker!

Say, buddy, who’s the most liquid businessman on the street?
Waring Hudsucker!

Waring Hudsucker’s demise is one of my all time favorite movie deaths and it’s definitely the funniest. I’m not saying that’s the way I’d like to shuffle loose the mortal coil, but it could certainly be worse than a ridiculously long freefall. Besides, without Hudsucker’s leap we’d be without one of the world’s great inventions.

You know, for kids.

I got video but it’s not in english…maybe even funnier.

Round 2, Pick 14 – Swindle – Hudson, “Aliens”

Go. Down. Shooting. And tossing out profanities left and right. If you’re gonna kill me, world, you’ll do it with a mouthful of lead and my dying words of hate in your ears, asshole. And when you do it, be sure to send soulless killing machines with acid for blood to do it–like, seventeen thousand of them. Because that’s just a start on what you’re going to need to finish the job.

Either that or some bad chicken served medium rare in a Chinese food stall in Kunming. That almost did the trick once, too.

Your favorite deaths in the comments.

Sorry for the late start today, but an all-day bukkake can really wear out a Gay Mafia.

When I heard they were making a feature-length Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie, I chalked it up as another dumb Williams Street hoax (e.g. “ATHF is cancelled”). But this is no goof, and the movie drops today. However, I still have no idea if I will see it before it comes to DVD. ATHF is the balls in 10 minute doses– maybe even a couple episodes back-to-back. But will the whole thing hold up for 90 minutes? Will they be able to equal the mind-numbing hilarity of “Frat Aliens” or “The Foreigner Belt”? Will they allow bong rips and whippits in the theaters?

Alright, enough chit-chat, now some more pictures of women who do NOT want to see your meatwad.

Be sure to check back later today for a special mock-draft featuring a guest poster from the blogoshere. Isn’t KSK good to you? We don’t mean to smack you around when we’ve been drinkin’, it’s just that the boss is riding our ass about the Pinskie account and the clutch is out on our 1991 Honda Prelude… But we promise, we’ll get our shit together– you’ll see.

It probably sucks to be Tank Johnson right now. The big dude is locked up in an Illinois cooler for a while. But cheer up, Tank: every cloud has a silver lining. If he was out and about with us civilized folk, Tank would constantly be on verge of an apoplexy during the brief moment after his phone rings but before someone other than “GOODELL, ROGER” came up on the Caller ID. Can the NFL Network make a special out of this?

“Mr. Web 2.0” Tim O’Reilly is pushing a voluntary blogger code of conduct. If O’Reilly thinks some bullshit internet handshake agreement is going to keep belligerent morons from waving their internet-dicks then he is sadly mistaken. Frankly, the whole things smacks of censorship right down to the little bits of flair they would have your blog wear.

Spineless supplicants would get their very own genuine Little Bill Dagget sheriff’s badge (above left). Those who prefer free speech and the open exchange of ideas, and the occasional unpleasantness that accompanies same, would get an “anything goes” badge (above right). What kind of godless commie thinks a stick of dynamite is representative of free speech? Actually, I kind of like the badge with one tweak– it needs to be modified to reflect the wisdom of Big Daddy Drew Kane:

Speaking of ho’s, this Imus thing has been talked about ad nauseum, and I don’t have the patience or energy to add anything further. Big Sexy makes some salient points about double standards, but misses the fact that Imus was referring to a small, discreet and readily identifiable set of people and not just “womankind” in general. I bring all of this up only to tell you about THE STUPIDEST MAN IN AMERICA:

Morning Zoo DJ’s are second only to sports radio clowns (cough, Schrutebag, cough) when it comes to unabashed idiocy. After the Imus fallout, it would seem that last thing any DJ with a double-digit IQ would do is have your listeners call and scream “Im a Nappy-Headed Ho!!!” in order to win NASCAR (shocker) tickets. Yet that is precisely what “Morning Gary” on WSBG in Allentown, Pennsylvania did Tuesday morning. The good news for Gary is his out of work ass can now call himself “Sleeping Til Noon Gary.”

Finally, KSK was name-checked today by “Mr. Flip” in the Baltimore Sun (but not linked— thanks, dick). What was it, you might wonder. The latest adventures of Sexy Rexy? Unsilent Majority’s sage gambling advice? No, it was Texas Gal’s nail polish pointers from the Ladies… takeover yesterday. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Up yours, Bawlmer.