We’re coming up on our first anniversary here at KSK and I gotta tell you, it’s been a great ride, what with all the antagonizing sportswriters, antagonizing readers, antagonizing commenters, spurning loved ones, race-baiting, hippie bashing, NASCAR debasing (why, patron saint, why?), soft porn purveying, gay unicorn planet watching, and, lately, the posting of lots and lots of improbable fictionalized dialogues between NFL figures.

It’s enough to wear a guy (or six) out. It doesn’t help that there’s not a whole lot going on in the world of the NFL until training camps open, so we’re taking a week to recharge our batteries and buy new bath towels.

It’ll be as hard on us as it is on you, believe you me. As we were discussing this, Unsilent said he had a few timely posts to put up, Punter wanted to do another installment of his adventures of Fitty, I wanted to speculate on just how little game Plaxico Burress has to strike out in a bar full of Jersey girls, then Drew cried, then Caveman cried, then I cried and then flubby sneezed. Oh God bless him, he’s such a little soldier.

So, until sun-up Monday, May 28, you’re on your own for slipshodly written, warmed-over satire of things loosely related to the NFL. Oh wait, that’s Memorial Day. Make it Tuesday, fucktasters.

The career of an NFL cheerleader is as exciting as it is fleeting. After leaving the life of pom-poms in their wake retired cheerleaders usually go on to live relatively mundane lives. Every now and then somebody special comes along, you just might not know it at the time. Take for example former Dallas Cowgirl Aahoo Jahansouzshahi (although for some reason she adopted the stage name of “Sarah Shahi”)…

Not bad at all, but whether or not she’d have been worthy of enshrinement in the Friday Cheerleader Post is debatable. The olive-skinned nineteen year-old with the DNA of a Shah and the tits of a goddess was always hot but in the years since her “retirement” she’s moved on to full-fledged sexpot.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

As you can see Sarah has become a favorite of the magazine world. In addition to gracing the covers of fitness magazines she’s twice been named to the Maxim Hot 100 list. Not bad for somebody you’ve never heard of.

Holy fucknut, Batman!

More recently she’s transitioned from stationary spooge target to a rather legitimate actress, and now I really want to fuck her. Unfortunately I’m not the only one…

Warning: May Contain Tony Soprano “O” Face

All that sexiness and the crucial drug connects? I may have to turn in my talis.

Believe it or not that was the very same Sarah Shahi from last week’s breakthrough episode of The Sopranos. Although she’s done quite a bit of acting in her past fucking Tony Soprano can immediately triple your Q rating. If you already knew Sarah before it was probably from her role in Showtime’s The L Word, a delightfully sexy show about a bunch of ladies who just haven’t managed to meet the right man. If you aren’t familiar with the show I’d recommend checking OnDemand to see if the second season is available for your viewing pleasure. Granted, I’ve never “seen” the show but from what I can tell from the stills it’s a winner all the way around…

There’s more then one way to get stoned in Iran
If you’re interested in seeing more of this Persian princess you might be in luck (and if you aren’t interested you should probably get tested for The Gay ASAP). She’s got a new pilot hitting the small screen this fall, unfortunately it’s on NBC (your favorite fourth place network) so it’s destined to fail. Throw in the show’s description (a wrongfully convicted detective leaves prison to re-join the force) and its star (Adam Arkin = Douche) and the show probably won’t last more than a month. But fear not good readers, I’m always looking out for you. So enjoy this fantastic bonus picture of this week’s muse (side effects may include tightening of the pants and general euphoria)…

Have a good weekend, and if you get a chance check out Andre Berto on the undercard of tomorrow’s fight (it shouldn’t last more than half a round and it will be well worth your time).

Big thanks to The Big Lead and Datehole Dateholer for dropping the knowledge

Gary Gnu, meet Crocky. Crocky, eat Gary Gnu.

Stick around for a very special cheerleader post later today from UM.

I’ve been wanting to do a fight draft for ages. And at last, here it is. The rules here are a bit complex, so let’s get right to them. This must be a famous person everyone knows, currently living and as they are right now. Picking them means you fight them, hand-to-hand. One on one. No weapons. No hired goons. No holds barred. And you aren’t guaranteed of beating them. This is real life fighting. If you maim or kill them, you will not be charged with a crime. If you get maimed or killed, your medical care is paid for. No picking Deadspin commenters or that one asshole in your class. No one cares. Pick only one celebrity. After that, you must wait 10 selections before you pick another.

One last rule: If you are a man, you cannot pick a female. We’d all like to pick Paris Hilton, hold her down, and beat the fucking tar out of her. But I’m against violence on the ladies, so you gotta pick a guy. My pick? The obvious:

Chief Poopy Pants himself.

Bin Laden has the reach on me, no doubt. But he’s old, and his kidneys are failing. I could take him. I’d pull that fucking beard for all it was worth. He’s also got a big nose. I bet he’s a bleeder. Bring it, Osama. I’ll hit you so hard I’ll kill your whole family. All 57 brothers and sisters of yours. Bitch.

NOTE: I did a post for the Name of the Year blog today on the great Destiny Frankenstein. Check it out.

To atone for their various misdeeds and to burnish their image with the league, Chris Henry, Pacman Jones, Tank Johnson and Michael Vick met with Mrs. Plimsoll’s 4th grade class at Roosterhaven Elementary School in suburban Philadelphia to discuss proper conduct and comportment.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Okay, class. We have four special guests today. These men are professional football players that have gotten into some trouble and are here to explain to you what they did and why you shouldn’t do the same. We’ll begin with what each player did.

Tank Johnson: I got strapped. Then I strapped my house. Strapped my dog. Bought a second house so I could strap that. Shot somebody so I could worry about someone getting revenge on me, thus giving me an excuse to buy more guns. Worry that the guns I have would plot against me, so I bought more guns. You kids got guns? We’re not in Virginia, so I guess not.

Michael Vick: Oh my god. Am I back in elementary school again? This is great. I get to do finger painting and discover weed all over again. I don’t think that was until 5th grade, though. Maybe a little revisionist history is in order.

Pacman Jones: I tossed paper currency on an exotic dancer in a manner suggestive of meteorological precipitation. Then I had sex with her without saying “thank you.”

Chris Henry: Pick up the packet under your desk. Read items one through eight on my rap sheet. Don’t do them, ‘cept six, that’s still going through appeal in the courts, so we’ll wait on that.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Class, you may ask questions of Mr. Vick, Johnson, Henry and Jones.

Frankie Tompkins: Is your real name Tank?

Tank Johnson: Nah. It’s tracked armored combat vehicle. But that’s too long to stick on a gun permit, so I shortened my name and I also stopped filling out gun permits.

Mrs. Plimsoll: Students, doesn’t Mr. Jones’ name remind you of something?

Steven Showalter: Yeah, they had that game at the bar Chris Henry took me to last night.

Chris Henry: Which one of you kids asked me to pick up that pack of Spaten. Must’ve been that German kid in the back.

Mike Hunt: Mistah Jones, what causes the rain?

Pacman Jones: The rain is caused by one of three ways: these are known as condensation, coalescence and the Bergeron Process. But more often, it happens when my dick get hard and some freaky bitch twist her ass out.

Wendy Cappercan: Mr. Vick, why do you have doggies fight each other?

Michael Vick: I’m really glad you asked that. See, when at first I brought these dogs together, it was to get at the root of the pan-canine hostilities. We had doggie drumming circle, doggie art therapy classes, doggies team building exercises. Then we all sat down together, got really high and watched The Crying Game. Then Mr. Googily Eyes, Forest Whitaker gave that tale about the frog and scorpion, with the scorpion attacking the frog despite their need for one another and the frog saying, “Why did you sting me, Mr. Scorpion? For now we both will drown!” Then the Scorpion replies, “I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.” That really opened my eyes. Also, the dogs were kinda pissed about the transvestite stuff and wanted to work it out through combat.

Mrs. Plimsoll: That’s enough for the question period. To wrap up, each of the players will say what lesson they learned from their experience.

Tank Johnson: Obtaining guns is only the result of a more pressing problem, which is not owning enough guns.

Pacman Jones: Don’t make catchy names for your deviant acts. It only makes the punishment more severe.

Chris Henry: Don’t commit a whole bunch of crimes unless you’re ready to suffer the consequences. Like, being suspended for four games. So, try to keep at least a paycheck saved up in your bank account for times like that.

Michael Vick: Then the dogs come to me after the fight and tell me how freeing and natural the act of combat is to them. It really caused me to reevaluate a lot of things. Like, I’m trying to spend all this time reading these defenses when I could be talking to them, finding their true nature. I think at the end of it, the defenses realize that my place is in the endzone and they’ll leave me at peace there. Then we can get some defense drum circling going.

[In case you haven't read it, here's Act I]

Scene i: The Meeting
Setting: Miramax regional office building.

Fitty: [Walking through the lobby with Matt to the reception desk] Damn, this place is tight.

Matt: Yeah, it’s alright.

Fitty: Why do people need a water fountain inside an office building? And look, there’s not even any change in there.

Matt: [to receptionist] Hey there baby. I’m Matt. What’s your—[realizes the receptionist is not female, but actually a gay male bearing a striking resemblance to Doug from Trading Spaces] uh, we have a meeting with—

Receptionist: [somewhat annoyed that it's Matt Leinart in front of him and not Brady Quinn] My name is Geoffrey.

Matt: Oh.

Fitty: [yelling] Can I throw change in this fountain?

Geoffrey: They’re expecting you. Room F, down [points limply, as if making a swan-like gesture with his arm, hand, and finger] that hall.

Matt: Thanks. [Heads down the hall] C’mon, Fitty.

Fitty: Damn, man I think he liked you. Maybe he could—

Matt: Shut up. Now, remember, don’t say shit. We’re just gonna listen, and then we’ll leave.

Fitty: And my free crackers are waiting for me on the other side of that conference room door?

Matt: For fuck’s sake, you’ll get your damn crackers. Just be cool, okay?

Fitty: Alright. So who the fuck is Lassie, anyway?

Matt: [stunned] Lassie? You don’t know Lassie?

Fitty: [stares blankly]

Matt: Lassie the dog? Lassie Come Home, all that shit?

Fitty: Like one of Mike Vick’s dogs? That one that Quan was betting on that last time we were over there?

Matt: No, man. He’s…she’s like a real dog. A collie. Climbs down wells and shit.

Fitty: A dog that can climb down a well? That’s some bullshit right there.

Matt: Look, never mind, just don’t ruin this for me [They walk in the room] Hey Harvey, sorry we’re late.

Miramax Guy: Thanks for coming, guys. We started without you, hope you don’t mind.

Matt: Nah, that’s cool.

Miramax Guy: Have a seat. We’re just brainstorming for concepts. Okay, people, let’s get some more ideas flowing.

[Fitty slowly looks around the room as he sits down]

Guy with Goatee: What if Lassie was coked up on heroin?

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: How about Lassie in high school, and the other girls are just bitches to her. But then maybe she has a friend that she meets, like that girl from Terribithia or some shit.

46-Year-Old Guy With Earring: And then Queen Latifah drives them around in a cab!

Fitty: [whispering to Matt] There are no crackers in this room.

Matt: [whispering back] There’s some vegetables on that tray in the corner over there.

Fitty: I see the tray of vegetables, Matt. I also see some oatmeal raisin cookies that I’m sure are delicious.

Matt: I’m sure they are.

Fitty: And I will enjoy them momentarily, because I know that those items will kickstart my bowels in preparation for your punishment of welshing on one promise of free crackers to Mr. Fitzgerald.

Washed-Up Comedian: Maybe the dog finds out that it’s gay and starts humping other dogs in the neighborhood and, um, you know, making them gay or something. Then they all learn how to ride motorcycles and, I don’t know, start their own little doggie faggot biker gang or something.

Miramax Guy: [staring at the floor, shaking his head] Louie, we do not use that word in this room.

Washed-Up Comedian: Sorry.

Miramax Guy: They’re a club, not a gang.

Emo Guy: I don’t see how that sends a good message about the environment.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: Or the homeless!

Washed-Up Comedian: Your mom’s homeless!

[room erupts into shouting]

Joe Mantegna: Fellas, fellas. [Room quiets down] I am hearing some great ideas here! But also, I am hearing some ideas that couldn’t outlast a piece of dog shit on a popsicle stick on a sunny day. This is not a Hilary Swank vehicle. This is Lassie. Lassie is a female collie, a dog. Okay? It’s a dog. It’s not Queer Eye for the Terminator. Are we clear on this, everyone?

Fitty: [whispering angrily to Matt] When we get outta here, I am gonna open the sunroof of your vehicle and let the warm air from the interior dissipate into the atmosphere. I will then climb onto the roof of your ride and drop the trousers of justice and unleash a methane-laced helping of truth onto your seats, emergency brake, and cup holders. Such is the penance for–

Matt: [whispering back] You are not shitting through the sunroof of my Hummer!

Fitty: It will be a cacophony of dank chocolate pyrotechnics, all beyond your control. And then after my bowels are empty, I will then close the sunroof and let nature do its thing.

Matt: That’s it. Gimme my keys back.

Emo Guy: Maybe Lassie could be the first female president?

Washed-Up Comedian: Yeah, the Taco Bell dog could be her running mate.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: How about Lassie in high school, and the other girls are just bitches to her. But then maybe she has a friend that she meets, like that girl from Teribithia or some shit.

Guy With Goatee: And then Queen Latifah drives them around in a cab!

Joe Mantegna: So what if Lassie winds up in China and she has to break into the restaurants there and save the other dogs. And they learn Kung-Fu. David Carridine might be interested.

Emo Guy: Instead of just getting spayed, could we have the dog get a sex change operation and then she has to rediscover himself through a series of personal trials?

Fitty: [stands up] Hang on, what about this? Suppose Lassie could be living in the northern United States, where she held a small but prestigious position as ballboy for the Minnesota Vikings, after which she makes the cover of a popular video game and then heads out on a summer-long quest for crispy, grain-based treats.

Guy With Goatee: …and then what?

Fitty: Uh…and then she flies into wells to collect change…and then, uh…into outer space! And there she merges with four other dogs of different colors to create a colossal superdog that fights paramilitary mutants, witches, and non-biodegradable litter in order to restore peace and harmony to the universe and shit.

[stunned silence for, like, 30 seconds]

Guy With Goatee: Wow.

Joe Mantegna: Wow.

Washed-Up Comedian: Wow.

Token Quasi-Lesbian Writer Who Is Neither Attractive Nor Asian: Fine, as long as the superdog doesn’t vote Republican.

Miramax Guy: This is the best concept we’ve had in three weeks.

46-Year-Old Guy With Earring: We could have Dudley Moore narrate–

Washed-Up Comedian: And Kenny Loggins could write the soundtrack!

Miramax Guy: He can’t narrate the film; he’s dead.

Washed-Up Comedian: Kenny Loggins is dead?

Miramax Guy: Larry, who would you pick to direct this sure-to-be epic picture?

Fitty: I dunno.

Miramax Guy: Well, let’s get some more of your thoughts now then. Let’s get some snacks, everyone. [Speaking into the intercom] Geoffrey, can we get some crackers in Room F, please?

Fitty: That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

Scene i: The Drive.
Setting: Matt Leinart’s Hummer

Matt Leinart: Yeah, so thanks for coming out with me, Fitty. Are you enjoying the interior of my new Hummer?

Larry Fitzgerald: S’all good, Matt. Thanks for inviting me along for the free crackers. Holy shit, I love crackers. ‘Specially free crackers.

Matt: Heh, yeah.

Fitty: …There are gonna be some free crackers where we goin, right?

Matt: Yeah, man. Free crackers, it’s a done deal.

Fitty: The uneasiness in your voice disturbs me. And where are we going?

Matt: I told you where we were going.

Fitty: No, you didn’t. You just drove up my driveway with the words FREE CRACKERS painted on the side of your new Hummer, knowing full well that I would jump into your well-upholstered vehicle to accompany you without hesitation, which I did.

Matt: Right.

Fitty: But I should have you know, good sir, I consider any insinuation of free crackers to be sincere, and therefore binding. Should you fail to deliver on your promise in a timely fashion, you shall draw the wrath of Mr. Fitzgerald.

Matt: Lemme just call my agent on the hands-free and, uh, make sure the crackers are there. [dials, phone rings]

Fitty: There where? Where the fuck are we going?

Tom: [on the phone] This is Tom.

Matt: Tom, it’s Matt, I’m on my way to that meeting with the Miramax people, but…

Tom: Spit it out, Matt. I got a couple-a Venezualan broads armwrestling over here to see who’s gonna blow me first, and they are not a patient people. Out with it.

Matt: I gotta be honest man, this fucking movie bullshit, I’m not really feeling it.

Tom [Matt's agent]: Then I’m glad you called. I know you’re concerned, it’s a significant potential investment, but you don’t need to sweat it, Miramax and I have talked it over, this new movie is gonna reignite the whole shitlovin’ franchise. Wait, listen, you hear that? That’s the sound of 20-dollar bills being printed for you to wipe your ass with. It’s a win-win, Matty. Guaranteed.

Fitty: Miramax? What the—

Matt: Tom, I don’t want to be a Negative Nancy about this, but, a new Lassie movie? Really?

Tom: Matty, simmer down, my man. Put on your ballroom dancing cap and think about the economics of the thing.

Matt: Uh, okay.

Tom: Family movie. The whole family’s going to see this thing. Kids wanna see Lassie, so mom and dad gotta see Lassie. But those spoiled little shits don’t stop there, they gotta pester the parents at Wal-Mart to buy all these shitty toys that get released along with the movie. But they gotta get the ball rolling, they need money to film the shit. Some of the usual guys haven’t come through, and, uh, they’re gonna share the pie with the new backers, you know, with you guys.

Fitty: This is about money?

Tom: Whadya say, Matty?

Matt: I said…if the movie’s gonna be so tits, how come they’re still looking for money?

Tom: Matty, c’mon baby, who ya talkin’ to? Have I ever given you bad advice?

Matt: Maybe that flight attendant you set me up with at the Madden party last year?

Tom: Hey, she didn’t have chlamydia when I fucked her.

Matt: Oh, that’s great.

Tom: Matty, c’mon baby. Listen, these Miramax guys, they don’t forget the people that come through for them. So maybe down the road when your career goes all Kurt Warner and whatnot, we get Jeff over in media to ghostwrite a couple of your books, we go back to Miramax, they’re looking at a new movie, all about you, and you’re getting all this just for cashing in on this Lassie business. Matty, with these guys, one hand—

Matt: Look, I got Fitty in the car with me, so I gotta go.

Tom: Alright. I’ll be in Cayman tomorrow through next week, so reach me there. Tell Fitty he can reach me there, too.

Matt: Cool, man. [click] What a douche.

Fitty: I did not hear the topic of Mr. Fitzgerald’s crackers addressed during that conversation. Matty.

Matt: Look, dude. Let’s just go to this—

Fitty: Nah nah nah man, FUCK THAT SHIT. What the fuck does he mean “back it,” like giving them money, in lieu of the crackers that were promised to me? Like those crazy bitches are getting Dime One of my shit for some Lassie movie. That’s my stash, man. I repeat: fuck that shit. Matty. I just came for the free crackers. Matty.

Matt: C’mon man, be cool. You heard him, this could be a big deal for me. Let’s just hear them out.

Fitty: Where the fuck are my free crackers? Matty?

Matt: Stop calling me Matty, you cock!

Fitty: Yeah, you just missed the turn right there.

Matt: What? This printout says another point-three miles.

Fitty: The fucking sign was right there! You’ve got that shitass Google Maps, ain’t no fuckin point-three miles you stupid fucking—

Matt: ALRIGHT I’M FUCKING TURNING AROUND! Fucking shit! And stop calling me Matty or I’m gonna tell Anquan that we went someplace without him!

Fitty: …Nah, we straight.

Matt: Okay [Matt parks, gets out of the car] So we just go in and listen, and if we like the ideas they have for the movie, then we can offer to back it, or we can—are you getting out of the car?

Fitty: [muffled through the window] I ain’t givin’ no money, man. I just came for the free crackers.

Matt: Look, we’re just going in to listen, okay? You don’t even have to say anything. I know some of these people, they’re counting on me and–let’s just do this. I am sure they have some crackers in there.

Fitty: [gets out of the car] Gimme your keys [Matt gives him his keys]. If they don’t have crackers in there, I’m gonna pour grape juice on your new upholstery. And then I’m gonna shit on it.

Tomorrow: Act II

Oh, man.

Oh, holy shit.

Oh, I am fucking stoned like Mother Teresa.

This is fucking great. Honestly, there’s nothing like just loungin’ at home and hanging out with your dog… while he fights another dog to the death while I place bets with this Taiwanese bookie I found in an alley.

Bookie: (flashes large wad of cash) Di mei mao!

Slow your roll, my hairy-moled friend. And get that boom mike outta here. I wanna soak in the atmosphere and shit. What I like about this dogfighting ampitheater I had custom built are the sight lines. Everyone’s got a good view of the fight and shit. (takes bong hit) God, this feels great. Can someone get me a mai tai or a similar rum drink. Mr. Bookie man, would you mind doublin’ as like, a waiter?

Bookie: (pulls revolver) Di mei mao!

All right! All right! Shit. I’ll have Marcus get it. He ain’t doin’ shit. Okay, let’s get these bitches goin’. Who wants to tango with my Priscilla? She the baddest motherfuckin’ rottweiller/pit bull/doberman/German Shepard mix that ever was. She’s Jaws with paws, bitches. That was the tagline to that movie “Man’s Best Friend,” but that shit is mine now.

(A succession of fresh-faced college students bring their dogs around)

Hoo hoo! Look at these tomato cans. Motherfucker, you should just name that bitch Science Diet, cause that’s what Priscilla’s gonna turn her into. God, I fucking love my life. Can’t nobody do what I do: run a huge mid-Atlantic dog-fighting ring while nicely toasted and have no one be wise to it.

Bookie: Di mei mao!

That’s it, folks! The time for placin’ bets is fuckin’ over. Now it’s time for some high-end canine Kumite shit. What’s the name of Priscilla’s victim this evening? Lucille? Oh, that’s fucking rich. Two bitches goin’ at it hard. I wonder: can two dogs have a catfight?

Hang on. I just dazzled myself.

Inspector Todd: Vick!

The fuck is that?

Inspector Todd: Where is that motherfuckin’ Vick?!

Oh shit.

Inspector Todd: The fuck are you doin’, Vick?!

Shit, I’m hallucinating again. Who laced my shit?! Inspector Todd from the “Beverly Hills Cop” films is back again!

Inspector Todd: You goddamn right I’m back. What the fuck are you having a fucking dog fight here for, motherfucker?

You’re not here! I’m not listening! You’re really actor Gilbert R. Hill and shit!

Inspector Todd: The fuck I am.

Inspector Todd, I don’t know why you have to use so much profanity.

Inspector Todd: You been holdin’ illegal fucking dogfights in this fucking state for too long, Vick!

It wasn’t my idea! It was Marcus’! You know he’s the violent one!

Inspector Todd: Don’t fuckin’ lie to me!

What’s the problem? We’re havin’ fun and shit! Ain’t nobody getting hurt. Except the dogs.

Inspector Todd: And what the fuck you need to bet on this shit for?!

I dunno. Flash money.

Inspector Todd: Oh, I see. Flash money. Let’s see. $2,000 for a suit. $500 for a tie. A requisition order for a Ferrari. The fuck you need all this shit for?

Oh, please don’t hurt me, Inspector Todd! I was just trying to make things happen like I always do! I’m gonna change! I swear! I ain’t gonna smoke any more laced dope. And I’m gonna stop hanging out with the wrong crowd.

Bookie: Di mei mao!

Except Lo Tan. He and I are tight.

Inspector Todd: This is your last chance, Vick. You’re a talented QB, but I’m tired. I’m tired of watchin’ you fuck up again and again. I’m tired of this shit. You hear me? Fuckin’ tired.

Okay. Okay! I promise I’ll quit! No more! I swear! I just wanna hang, Inspector Todd! Inspector Todd? Inspector Todd, where’d you go? Lo Tan, you see a really angry black man screaming at me in here just now?

Bookie: Di mei mao!

No? So it was all in my head? Phew! Man, that was fucking trippy. Okay, Priscilla. Go tear that bitch’s head off.

Photo courtesy of The Onion.

UPDATE: Did you know there’s a death metal group fronted entirely by pit bull vocalists? That’s right. Say hello to Caninus, Michael Vick’s favorite new band.

I’m not even going to try to pass this off as something obliquely NFL-related by connecting Cadillac the Unicorn to Cadillac Williams, or by saying that the gay 8-year-old boy has a passing resemblance to Eli Manning, or that this looks like something Brady Quinn dreamed up. Some things (like lolcats) are just amazing to behold, and as soon as noted commenter Brooklyn Becky sent this to me, I felt an immediate need to share this with everyone I knew. I sent it to my boss, who posted it on GorillaMask. I showed it to the Gay Mafia, who to a man declared its brilliance. I held my dog’s head to the computer screen and made her watch it.

And now, I share it with you, beloved KSK readers, the finest assemblage of drunks and college dropouts and pothead NFL fans whose lives are quickly going nowhere. God bless all of you, and enjoy.

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.