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. Up next: the Czech Republic!

Hey Czech people. I was just in your country, or is it just a half-country now? Whatever, but it’s great, man. It’s like a Disneyland for communism! Well, I guess you’re not communist anymore, not since ’68. Or was it ’89? Or…was it…’69. Hehe, 69. G0dammit, that’s some fucking platinum shit right there.

Anyway, there were two things that blew me away about your fine nation, I mean, aside from the fact I wanted to run through the streets shooting people while screaming jibberish in a German accent. First off, you have some damn fine women over there. Holy shit. I could just be walking down the street in Prague, and I’d see some Chesky that’s so damn hot, I just want to drag her by the hair into a convenience store and fuck her brains out until they’re splattered all over the gum. It’s just unbelievable how smokin’ those girls are. Secondly, you guys really like meat. What’s up with that?

So I think you guys are really going to like the NFL. It’s kinda like your futbol, except in our game, when a guy goes down to the soil, gripping his knee in agony, he’s actually hurt. And none of our uniformed participants look like they just stepped out a gay bar, or a Cyndi Lauper concert, which is pretty much how every native guy in the Czech Republic wants to dress. You want to see somebody that’s loud, you fucking commies? Go stand in front of a mirror.

Oh, that’s right, you’re not communist any more. My bad, dawg.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Prague, feel up tits.

But back to these Czech broads for just a second, I mean, I can see why none of you own cars over there, because you could just catch a glimpse of some holka at a red light and your fucking erection would pop right through the steering column. I mean, it’s just one fine honey after another. More than once, I’ve just wanted to follow one to a currency exchange station and watch her exchange her korunas for English pounds while I pound the little Englishman in my pants. Sweet Mother of Pearl!

One of the things about the NFL that you might have trouble…actually, if I could go back to the women again for a second: I mean, I spent a good chunk of my life in the States trying to woo these broads that have been grazing on McDonalds and wasting all their time buying clothes that match. And they parade down the street, like 4 or 5 to a group, like they’re a bunch of fucking somebodys, like God’s chosen cattle or some shit. “Uh, don’t you just LOVE my new SHOES?” Sure thing, Heather. I’ll agree with whatever stupidity you can muster if it gets me sex.

Meanwhile, just across the ocean are these foxy, unassuming communist girls that will line up outside my hotel room to vacuum my floor with one hand and stick a wet finger up my ass with the other. And they won’t give a shit if I don’t ask them about their day! You guys are onto something over there.

Okay, okay. You’re not communist anymore. Whatever.

But even as a grown man, I find myself overwhelmed by this new race of submissive super-snatch, like that one time my parents left town and I had to wash the dog. I mean, sure, I could thread fishing line through young Petra’s clit and tie the other end to a door and slam it all night long, but is that what’s best for her? Is that what’s best for America?

Now I’m not saying I have to gag her with an Abercrombie T-shirt before I fuck her in the ass and write the Declaration of Independence on her back from memory using a Sharpie. But I think that, as an American—-no, as a part of the leadership of the free world, I owe my service to the women of the Czech Republic. I owe it to them to let capitalism reign, to let it prosper, just as each and every one of them owes it to me to get her tonsils poked out by my stiff liberator while one of my friends tags her from behind and she hums the chorus to Battle Hymn of The Republic.

Glo-ry Glo-ry Hal-le-lu-jah!
Glo-ry Glo-ry Hal-le-lu-jah!
Glo-ry Glo-ry Hal-le-lu-jah!
His truth is march-ing on!

I mean, after all, you’re not communist anymore.