Now that the NFL has decided to start playing games abroad in an attempt to extend their global fanbase, we at KSK have taken it upon ourselves to begin a multi-part series schooling our international friends in all things NFL. Next up: Italy.

Saluti, gli italiani! I know you think we Americans are a slovenly, uncouth and boorish sort. We just don’t seem to share your appreciation for the concepts of “La Bella Figura,” “La Dolce Vita” and all that other shit with tons of vowels that just means looking good while being lazy.

As I’ve mentioned previously, I spent a semester in college in Siena, a small Tuscan town known for a horse race and people who pronounce C’s as H’s. As such, Coca Cola becomes Hoha Hola. It’s amusing less than once.

American culture has a stranglehold on the population, but not in a eeriely interesting Japanese way. Italian rap is only to be listened to by the masochistic and the damned. This doesn’t stop anti-Americanism from rearing its ugly, faux-hawked or greasy (depending on which variation of Italian pussybasket you’re dealing with) head. I was accosted and almost jumped by five guys in Naples during the first week of the Iraq War. Praise be that I’m a total bitch and can run very fast. This should be no surprise; Naples is an utter shithole. I was clearly duped and I think it’s because the Naples-as-shithole image has not been properly communicated to the prospective traveler. The only reason to go is to book it to the port to take a quick trip to Capri, whose sun is no more refreshing than any other. Naples is really the Baltimore of Europe, which means fewer ugly squat women with beehive haircuts but just as much crime.

Though American culture is rife in Italy, football doesn’t seem like a natural fit for its countrymen, who typically prefer non-contact sports like smoking, bocce ball and living with their mothers until they’re 40. Okay, they enjoy some contact.

There was, however, at least one incredibly grating sign that they’re making an effort. My first month there, I had to watch the tape delay of the Steelers/Titans ’02 divisional round playoff game — y’know, the one where Dewayne Washington supposedly ran into Joe Nedney on the OT FG and forced me to kill again — on the smallest bar TV in some Australian themed pub while a bunch of skeezy Sienese townies picked up the spoiled, slutty girls in my program (that’s what I get for going with UMass-Amherst). Anyway, one fine ragazzo felt the need to inform me every few minutes throughout this nerve-wracking game that, “I like-ah dees game, dees football, but I no understand. Oooh, what was-ah that happensing?”

So, following that one guy’s example, here’s how the NFL will excite your pene. Remember: pene means penis and penne means pasta. Be sure to accentuate that second “N” for your waiter. You’ll be glad that you did.

What You’ll Think Is Bello About The NFL:
-Roger Goodell may be evil, but he makes the trains run on time.
-Eric Mangini. Italian name, American waistline.
-League pleasantly devoid of Albanians or gypsys.
-Because of familiarity with vapid Italian television, Italians will actually find play-by-play announcers witty and urbane.
-NFL, like the Vatican, makes you feel guilty for everything you enjoy.
-Many small towns, including the one I stayed at, take siestas in the middle of the day. Residents of these towns will enjoy players like Plaxico Burress, who take large chunks of the season off.
-Kool-Aid Maroney’s favorite drink a passable substitute for Chianti.
-Italian women are crazy for cheap sentiment, which is the NFL’s stock in trade. Actually, Italian women are just crazy.

What You’ll Think Is Brutto About The NFL:
-Not enough communism.
-Far too little corruption for Italian standards.
-Stadiums don’t play Paolo Conte.
-No team in Los Angeles, therefore Aria Giovanni doesn’t attend games.
-Lots of moulies.
-Ravens style of play will remind Italians at first of catenaccio, but then they’ll just realize it’s only because their offense is dreadful.
-Women permitted to attend games, thus not at home cooking and rearing children.
-Italians refer to doggy-style as “alla pecorina” or, translated literally, sheep-style. This has nothing really to do with football, but only further serves to illustrate that Italians are ineffably odd.

Now that the NFL has decided to start playing games abroad in an attempt to extend their global fanbase, we at KSK have taken it upon ourselves to begin a multi-part series schooling our international friends in all things NFL. Next up: Germany.

Guten tag, herrs and hausfraus! If there is one nation on the European continent eager to embrace American football, it is you, fair Germans. With your love of sausage, your dormant-but-still-present hankering for fascism, and your unnecessarily intricate language, the NFL is custom-tailored to you, the German viewer! It’s why 135% of all NFL Europa teams play in the Fatherland.

I’ve been to Germany twice. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve been to Bavaria twice. Bavarians, of course, consider themselves their own nation. It’s just like South Carolina, only it has a more successful history in ethnic cleansing. Touring Munich, I was wowed by its natural beauty and hideous population. There are so many dorks in your country, o Germans, I thought I had wandered into a Magic: The Gathering convention. Have none of you heard of contact lenses? I also visited a Munich cabaret. Americans might think a cabaret is the same as a strip club. It is not. You pay 10 euros to watch a semi-attractive German possible she-male dance around for 20 minutes before finally taking her top off, then scurrying off immediately thereafter. On the strokability scale, it ranks a solid negative 2! One of the dancers we saw there had nipples the size of saucers. Huzzah!

I also went to Dachau. Unfortunately, I went during lunch hour and had had no breakfast that morning. Ever try and eat a turkey sandwich and chips in the middle of a concentration camp? You will not have a more awkward ethical argument with yourself.

In my travels, and from watching “Top Secret!”, I learned many things about how to sell the NFL to you Deutsch folk. Read on, and you’ll discover why the NFL will make your schnitzengruben nice and firm.

What You’ll Think Is Gut About The NFL:
-Tom Coughlin
-Ugly Minnesota Vikings offense inspired by German architecture
-No Jews
-Philadelphia Eagles defensive coordinator Jim Johnson, who loves blitzes nearly as much as Rommel did
-Armchair quarterbacking perfect for Germans, who believe they do everything better then everyone else in the world
-Fat, loud asshole Chris Berman could pass self off as German
-Patriots coach Bill Belichick, like Ralph Fiennes in “Schindler’s List”, also enjoys standing on a tower and picking off women and children one by one
-“You Got Jack’d” segment mimics techniques of numerous Tom Twyker films
-League totally lacking in anything resembling humor
-Elaborate, overthought game plans inspired by German car engineers who can design a 600 hp BMW but can’t design a way to turn the LCD display off
-All coaches poorly dressed
-Frequent, attacking nature of game allows catharsis for the raving Imperialist lurking inside every German
-Cheerleaders made according to German purity laws
-Uniform pants not quite as much like lederhosen as NHL pants, but still darn close
-NFL team owner tradition of viewing games from box purposely echoes Hitler’s Olympic viewing technique
-Large number of black players perfect fit for the land of chocolate
-NFL Films head Steve Sabol is a second cousin of Leni Riefenstahl

What You’ll Think Is Scheisse About The NFL:
-Beer vendors unfamiliar with radler drink will refuse to pour Sprite into your beer. You homo
-Polka not played during halftime show
-Possible future NFL regular season game in Munich increases likelihood of obnoxious American tourist throwing up on your sister’s durndel at the Hofbrauhaus
-No Hasselhoff
-Games played during crucial “coffee and cake” portion of day
-Players only come in helles or dunkels varieties
-Time-consuming nature of games robs Germans of favorite pastimes such as: laughing at own jokes, wearing colorful sweaters, and driving 150mph down a two-lane highway
-No sprockets. No dancing.

Tailgate Options:
I suggest an all-wurst tailgate for you, including bratwurst, weisswurst, cheddarwurst, wurstsalad, wurstsoda, wurstsauce, wurstdogs, and wurstcakes. Tailgate entertainment can be provided by Lily von Schtupp, the Teutonic Titwillow.

I hope you found this lesson both fun and utterly pedantic. Heil Germany and the NFL!

We’ve been going through the thousands of submissions you’ve sent us for the FF contest, and, in a interesting reversal, it has been US enjoying YOUR work over the last couple of weeks. Your pics and stories have been most entertaining, and we would be remiss if we did not share the ones that didn’t suck the love. We will continue to accept entries through the weekend.

This submission comes from Muffmaster C, and rather than prattle on, I’ll simply give him the floor:

I know that I have exceeded the mandated 250 word count, but I think it will be worth your while:

Being from the Chicagoland area, I venture up north to Wisconsin a couple times a year to get fall-down drunk and harass the degenerate cocksuckers that are Packer fans. Last summer a couple buddies and I made the trek to Manitowish Waters (imagine “The Great Outdoors” sans the lonely, but fuckable local girl) and hit up one of the many dive bars that plague this bastard child of a state.

Sporting orange and blue we waltz in like we own the joint and get more dirty looks than Isaiah Washington at a Gay Pride Parade. As the booze starts flowing, so do our overtly loud comments regarding Brett Favre’s drug dependencies and Charles Martin’s demise (isn’t karma a bitch). From the back of the bar someone yells, “At least our coach isn’t a limp dick, boner pill hustler.”

The moderately-sized crowd parts like the Red Sea and there stands a Rastafarian looking d-bag sporting flip-flops and socks. Not recognizing this guy, Dan (part of our crew) fired back with “I loved your work in ‘Cool Runnings’.” At this point, Ziggy Marley realizes that we are a bunch of drunk assholes, mutters “Eat a dick” just loud enough for us to hear and gets back to his game of pool.

We polish off a few more rounds and we hear people saying something about Al Harris. Simultaneously we all realized that Douchey McRaggae was none other than the aforementioned Packers cornerback. Relatively shitfaced, we wrap at the bar and take one last parting shot as we walk out the door, “Harris, you get beat more than a red-headed step child.”

And as we walk by the floor-to-ceiling window in front of the bar we hear a knocking sound and see Al Harris drop his pants, slap his dong on the glass and flip us off while nodding like a bobble-head. Bewildered and thinking we’re about to get our asses kick by a professional athlete we all ran like girls made a clean get away without a confrontation.

I wish I could have told you that Al was molesting farm animals with some teammates, but the Packers hadn’t drafted A.J. Hawk yet.

Thanks, Muff!

Travel season is here, and that means shelling out lots of cash for you and your significant other to spend a week someplace insignificant (really, you can sleep ’til noon anywhere), spending your day doing mundane crap that might look like fun, I guess, if you’re some 40-year-dipshit that lives within the glossy confines of some pamphlet photograph. And after a week of all that, you’ll be lucky to get one night of sex out of the ordeal. Who calls that a vacation?

Suppose you just want to blow town for a weekend, possibly because you’re not getting blown yourself? Why go through the trouble of bringing someone along when, at the end of the day, you’re just waiting for them to go to sleep so you can jerk off in peace? Where’s the time for ménage à moi? Shouldn’t that be the focus of your hard-earned hiatus?

Well, now it can be. Pack your bags, book your ticket, and tell that ungrateful little tramp that you’re flying with Han Solo this summer. Once again, we’ve got you covered, as your compadres in hand present to you The 10 Best US Cities To Masturbate.

1. Fort Lonesome, Florida

History is rich in Fort Lonesome, where the villiagers’ ancestors did battle with the Spanish, led by the famed commander Wild Tyler Johnson. As you wander these ancient grounds, prepare yourself for some hand-to-gland combat when you visit the Seminole War re-enactment past the old mill near Booger Man’s corner. Stop by the locals’ favorite seaside diner, Sailor Ned’s, for a heaping bowl of homemade chowder. Work at your own speed as you enjoy the long rows of shops and get a taste of the town’s favorite dessert, Fingers and Cream. Before the day is out, cap your night with a pale ale at Willie’s Pub. If you’re up for a quick visit, engage in a dishonorable discharge in the handicapped stall of the men’s room, and then work up a foamy lather in their newly remodeled sinks!

2. Dry Prong, Louisiana

Explore the wilderness in the Deep South in this old town that was held in the palm of Union hands through much of the Civil War. Butter your corn as you dine in a private booth at Diamond’s Grill in the renovated Schnack’s Warehouse, where the chicken is choked twice each day (they even churn their own butter!). Stroll through the town square to the back of City Hall and meet Mr. Stickeykeys, the only mayor of Dry Prong since 1988. Spend your twilight enjoying the Longleaf Pine forests and drive past the nearby hardwoods entering Alexandria. She loves an audience.

3. Come by Chance, Newfoundland

Located on the Avalon Peninsula, Come by Chance exports more fish from its shores than half the eastern seaboard. Which half? We don’t know. Watch as local villagers drill for oil near the North Atlantic Refining Company, which can handle 115,000 barrels in a single day, and doesn’t employ women under 50. Due to the rich fishing economy, seafood has been banned from the Avalon Peninsula since the 1950s, but find yourself still within reach of maritime necessities, such as dolphin wax and two-toned trout sauce, at the local Purple General Store. All this and more makes Come by Chance one of the 10 best US cities to masturbate!

4. Left Hand, West Virginia

Shooting north of the Bible Belt, this West Virginia village boasts one of the most devoutly religious populations of the Midwest. At nearby Ohio Valley University, students are required to wrestle a stiff load that includes one Bible class each semester. Bishop Thomas, the faculty president, challenges the incoming students each year to his annual armwrestling copmetition, held discretely in the confines of his office, to see if the young ones have what it takes to “beat the Bishop.” The spring semester is concluded when the student body performes its traditional performance of “Much Goo About Nothing.”

5. Blue Ball, Pennsylvania.

Just a toss from Left Hand sits another must-see destination along the southern Pennsylvania border. As you stroll through this Amish town, you may find yourself in the back of one of the open furniture warehouses, varnishing the banister. Good deals can be reached on these custom-built crafts if you can find a shop that happens to be liquidating its inventory (you may have to exercise the negotiator to get the best deal, those Amish can be quite stingy). Make a trip during the holiday season and you could be spending your Christmas bonus on a brand new hand-made one-person love seat, just for you.

Rounding out the top ten:

Dripping Springs, Texas; Last Chance, Colorado; Protection, Kansas; Hell, Michigan; and Man I Love Jerking Off, North Carolina.

Reader Kofi Annan has decided to combine two of our favorite pastimes – shitty MS Paint jobs and blatant gay-baiting – into one brilliant image. He writes:

Fuck you all; if you don’t like it you can go suck bradyquinn’s dick.

That former UN ambassador has some moxie, I tell you. It almost makes up for spending years running a completely corrupt and useless organization that exists solely to shamelessly exploit city parking permits. Fucking diplomats.

The truly great Barstool sports was way ahead of us on the Koolaid Maroney phenomenon. They are real, live MySpace friends with Maroney, and from his MySpace page (is this guy great with social networking our what?), they have procured a gallery of pics that shame the last batch. Folks, when Koolaid tells you to wash u ass, by God he means it. He used the whole roll! Click on the link for the full effect, plus some amazing pics of receiver Chad Jackson as well, but here are some of the choicer ones, including… The Koolmobile.

I know what you’re asking. and the answer is yes. That IS a matching Koolaid bracelet. Bad. Ass.

I love this man. I really do. If you don’t love Koolaid Maroney, you molest puppies.

Thing 1 and Thing 1

Of the various horrors parents can visit upon their children in the naming department – we can name a few – the similar rhyming names for twins is among the worst.

As I imagine the case is with most identitical twins, Marisa and Larisa are into essentially the same stuff – shitty AFC South teams, hoping to teach middle school math – but with slight distinctions: Larisa likes stars, Marisa likes starfish; Larisa’s favorite teevee show is “The Price is Right” (there goes her future as a Barker Beauty), Marisa’s is “Wheel of Fortune”; Larisa likes inauthentic Tex-Mex chain Pappasito’s, Larisa takes her cousin Gino to the Olive Garden.

So, you see, these twins are all alik—

WHAAAA

Favorite ice cream flavor: Larisa’s favorite ice cream is dutch chocolate with Hershey’s syrup. Marisa’s favorite ice cream is homemade vanilla.

Marisa is clearly the evil one. Who likes homemade vanilla outside the Flanders flock?

The Texans web site has a video profile of the two – of course they get shoehorned in together while all the other members get one to themselves. Look what you hath wrought, Coors Light commericials.

Yep, that’s right. An actual discussion of football right on this here site. Never thought you’d see the day, did you?

The best part of fantasy football is how it helps get us, the football-bereft citizens, through the horrors of late June to August. You’d be surprised how much time you can eat up convincing yourself Wes Welker will be a great sleeper pick. And so, let us get the ball rolling with a rough draft. No stat sheets in front of you. No refreshing your memory of last season. No checking bye weeks. This one’s all gut. Consider it a fundamentals drill.

The rules: Let us assume this is a nonkeeper league. You start 1 QB, 2 RB, 2 WR, 1 RB/WR, 1 TE, 1 K, and 1 D, with 5 bench spots. 13 players total. No points for receptions.

PICK 1 PLAYER ONLY, THEN WAIT 12 PICKS UNTIL YOU MAKE ANOTHER SELECTION.

Oh, and I’ll be taking LT2 now. Suckers. He’s fun because he makes the Seahawks look dumb!

Have at it.

This comes from reader Sharkey, who just made my weekend. This needs no embellishment.

Life at the University of Minnesota, rooting for the shithole that is the Gopher football program, is tough. We need to latch on to any success we may have. Enter: Laurence Koolaid Maroney.

Koolaid=American Hero. The pictures posted win the day, however. Attached are a few of the better ones; Gopher pride, muthafuckas!

The bar just been raised.