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.

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.

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’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.

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).

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

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!

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

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.

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.

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.