Performed live from the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center in the Philippines. Good seats still available! Thanks to Curly of NY for sending this to us (via poetv.com)

At a glance, this week’s commenter draft looks remarkably, and deceptively, easy. I mean, you or I could fuck up our careers irreparably with little more than a stray “all staff” e-mail (that’s the last time you forward your coworker one of Punter’s posts) or even a good cupping of the secretary’s glorious tits.

Upon reaching a certain threshold of fame, however, and the normal rules cease to apply. As is increasingly the case, one must put together a menu of faux pax and fuck-uppery to jeopardize one’s career. Singular incidents often just won’t do.

Killed someone? Not even a fellow celebrity? That’s too fucking pedestrian. Ray Lewis kills at least three people before lunch EVERY DAY, including July 4th and Satan’s birthday. Fucked some kids? I’m pretty sure I saw Michael Jackson performing on some network special the other week. Hate the Jews? Well, yes, I thought Apocalypto was a decent flick.

Not so simple, huh?

Even more recent examples, such as Pacman Jones and Michael Vick - aka “Ron Mexico,” aka “Ookie,” aka “Lionel Hutz,” aka “Miguel Sanchez” - had to assemble a slate of improprieties. Vick prefaced the fallout of Bad Newz Kennels with an offseason of stoner high jinx. But where his true genius lie was messing with animals. People care about adorable little critters more than their fellow man. Know why we’re still in Iraq? Easy. No cute animals there - camels are fucking ugly. China poses an economic threat to us but, hey, they got pandas.

The rules. You’re an A-list celebrity at the peak of your career. Pick a deed or statement that could deep-six your fame quicksville. And by that, I don’t mean something that will bump you down a peg in stardom or dog you for a few years. I mean “you will never work in this or any town again” type of shit. You must wait 10 picks to make another pick. There is some room for overlap. If you take away all the major heinous crimes in the first five picks, there isn’t much left to work with. Serial jaywalking probably wouldn’t hurt your career too badly. Having said that, try to be creative about it.

My pick is shooting the President of the United States.

A quick disclaimer so I don’t get sent to Gitmo: I HAVE NO PLANS TO ACTUALLY DO THIS. Besides, I can’t shoot anyone due to the crippling arthritis in my index fingers from Space Invaders in 1977.

Neither should this be taken as a political statement on my part. I’d like to shot most politicians regardless of ideology. Rather, I figure it’s the surest, fastest way to ruin your public image. I don’t remember Charles Guiteau going platinum after he killed President Garfield.

Sadly, that boy, dear readers, was the smartest boy
in all of Jacksonville Proper.

Five fast facts:

1. The Jags often seem torn between Byron Leftwich and David Garrard. The unpleasant reality: they both suck big time.

2. Travel tip: Jacksonville Landing is a red-neckier version of the Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Upscale alfresco dining on Styrofoam plates, yee-fucking-haw. If you go, stay in Ponte Vedra or St. Augustine and drive up. Seriously.

3. Matt Jones is fantasy kryptonite for starry-eyed white boys. Be strong. Avoid him.

4. MoJo Drew’s father gave him a belt than enables him to whip any man’s ass.

5. With Mike Rumph apparently out of the game, KSK is hoping for a break-out season from Jamaal Fudge.

Projected 2007 record: 8-8

Actual 2007 record: 8-8

Between the shitty AFC South and playing the AFC West teams out of division this season, there are a lot of beatable teams on the Jags’ schedule. If end Reggie Heyward can return to the form he had two seasons ago and Mr. MoJo Risin’ continues to run all over defenses, the Jags should continue to hover around .500. But meaningful playoff success for this version of the Jags is over.

If the Jags can land (a healthy) Daunte Culpepper, then the Jags fans might have something to cheer about this season. Otherwise, one of the few things that might bear watching this is coach Jack Del Rio’s sartorial showcase. But I doubt that legions of Jags fans clad in Limp Bizkit and WWE t-shirts will be overwhelmed with the cut of the coach’s suit. If you want to impress people in Florida with a suit it should be covered in rhinestones or be full of spy gadgets like Jackie Chan’s tuxedo in that one movie. I can’t remember the name of that flick, but I think it was called Jennifer Love Hewitt: Still Not Topless.

Last week, left tackle Khalif Barnes received six months probation stemming from his DUI arrest last year. This silver-tongued, smooth talker thought he could charm his way out of a night in the cooler by coyly calling the police officer: “A white KKK devil.” Oh, K-Bar, you little minx. In case you missed it a while back when MDS had it at the Fanhouse, here is the police video of the arrest.

I thought the phrase “colored people” was deemed passé over a generation ago. Is Barnes trying to bring “colored people” back? Should I wait to see if Will Smith says it first? Then we will know it is okay for white folks to say it too. Drunk or not, Barnes still exhibits flashes of lucidity in this video, particularly when he refers to Jacksonville as a “hick town.” In vino veritas, motherfuckers.

Five Fast Facts About the Buccaneers:

- Cadillac Williams’s real name, Carnell, is Spanish for “meat.”
- According to Wikipedia, kicker Matt Bryant went undrafted and had such low-end jobs as working in a pawn shop and playing for the Frankfurt Galaxy.
- Coach Jon Gruden was narrowly defeated by Lindsay Lohan at FreckleFest ‘07 this past spring.
- Owner Malcolm Glazer should not be confused with author Malcom Gladwell. Key differences: Glazer owns EPL team Manchester United; Gladwell is a published author who thinks writing a running diary is hard.
- This offseason, the Bucs signed alleged date rapist, drunk driver, dirty player, and Super Bowl goat Jerramy Stevens. Good luck with that one. Lemme know how it goes.

Projected 2007 Record:
0-16, last in NFC South

Actual 2007 Record:
2-14, last in NFC South

Three Longer Notes About the Buccaneers:

1. The Bucs quarterback depth chart, in no particular order, looks like this: Chris Simms, Jeff Garcia, Jake Plummer, Luke McCown, and Bruce Gradkowski. At one time or another all have been called gay for reasons other than being a quarterback. To wit:

- Simms has his boyfriend’s initials tattooed on his leg. Pretty gay. However, he’s an exceptionally tough gay man, as he completed a game against the Panthers last year despite having his spleen destroyed and subsequently removed. So he’s a tough, gay, crappy quarterback — or, as I like to say, a tough Eli Manning.

- Garcia was famously accused of being gay by Terrell Owens after their relationship in San Francisco soured. Garcia has since married a Playmate of the Year who went to court for fighting with another woman over him, but still: what a fruit. If we can’t take T.O. at his word, really, who can we trust?

- Jake Plummer chose retirement over playing for the Bucs. This happened for one of two reasons: (a) the shame of fighting Chris Simms and Jeff Garcia for a starting position was too great to bear, or (b) he was terrified of being responsible for more than just handing off the ball to whichever cog of the Running Back Industrial Complex was Mike Shanahan’s flavor of the month. Anyway, Plummer married a Broncos cheerleader, so he’s gay too.

- Luke McCown is a McCown.

- Gradkowski is named Bruce. Everyone knows that’s one of the names the gays took, just like Lance and Julian.

2. Bucs supporters are the only fans who can look at their team’s logo and say, “Well, at least the pirate ship is less gay than the last logo.” As you certainly know, before adopting the pewter and red color scheme, Tampa’s team color was — and I think this is the official term — creamsicle. With that came this logo:

That’s “Bucco Bruce.” He has a big feather in his hat, an exquisitely manicured mustache, a hoop earring, and I’m pretty sure he’s winking me. Even the surviving Village People think he should have been a little more subtle.

3. The Bucs mascot is Captain Fear. His web page says that his hobbies are “Surfing, Jet Skiing, Sword Tricks, and Attending Birthday Parties,” which is what I’ve always looked for in a life partner. However, I found this unauthorized history of him somewhat more entertaining:

Captain Fear used to sail around the Caribbean, drinking rum, eating meat and chocolate, and looking for those makeshift rafts that the Cubans make so that he could smash them. He had a crew of some of the biggest baddest toughest guys you’ve ever seen, as well as a bunch of hot bitches to keep them company. They were known throughout the area as the Buccaneers.

One night, while sailing around near Florida, probably dolphin hunting or doing something equally sweet, they got caught in a storm. Or maybe there was no storm and it was just good old fashioned drunk driving. Well, whatever the reason, Captain Fear and his ship ran aground on the beach in Tampa Bay. It just so happens that they crashed into a football stadium which was both sweet and convenient. There were some losers there who were trying to play football. They might have been ninjas, but nobody knows (ninjas suck at football). Anyway, they challenged the Buccaneers to a football game and were completely OWNED by the Bucs football skills.

After that, the Bucs took over the stadium and pimped it out with pirate flags and cannons and stuff and began calling it home. All their hot pirate chicks became their cheerleaders and they had some jolly good times. Captain Fear went kinda nuts and he can usually be seen running around the stadium between plays and during halftime beating up kids and shitting on the sideline and just partaking in all kinds of mischief. The people of Tampa never really minded too much because they like to watch the Bucs kick ass every Sunday.

In retrospect, those three paragraphs should have been the entire season preview.

So, got yerself a dead whale on the beach, eh? Eight tons of rotting flesh is an unpleasant smell, even if you live in Cleveland. Well, you can let the seagulls and crabs work on that beast, but they might as well be union labor or the Raiders offense at their pace. Our recommendation: eliminate that motherfucker RIGHT NOW in just three easy steps:

1. Pack half-ton of dynamite around whale.
2. Detonate.
3. Pat yourself on the back for a job well done.

What could possibly go wrong?

BUY ME!

As if we could really have an all-out Mike Vick day here in the blogosphere without an official wardrobe! When you go down to the courthouse for the trial of the century don’t be caught without your o-fficial FREE OOKIE! clothes (because nudity just doesn’t fly in those southern courthouses).

Our first number is a vibrant red cotton t-shirt with everybody’s new favorite motto scrawled across the front.
If you select the premium option you can even get writing on the back (the future is now!).

And as long as you’re out spending money on yourself why not pick up something for the little Vick fan in your family? Seriously, you need to take better care of your kids before the state gets involved.

And don’t worry ladies, we’ve got the goodness the fairer sex. Now just go find some sugar daddy to buy it for your stingy ass.
All the goodness can be found at our shop by clicking HERE (or the nifty picture up in the top right corner). Stay tuned because more great stuff is on the way.

Vick: Oh, man.

Hoo boy.

Good Lord.

Well, this is it, man. I’m not getting any more stoned than this. I mean, holy fuck.

I might be dead.

(phone rings)

I guess I’m not dead.

(picks up phone)

Hello?

Lawyer: Michael, it’s your lawyer.

Vick: What’s going on, Mr. Perry Mason?

Lawyer: Michael, you’ve been indicted.

Vick: Indicted? Really? Who’s throwing a party? Ookie loves a good party.

Lawyer: No, no, you’ve been indicted., not invited. An indictment is when you are charged with a crime.

Vick: Well, what crime did I do?

Lawyer: Conspiracy to travel in interstate commerce in aid of unlawful activities and to sponsor a dog in an animal fighting venture in U.S. District Court for the Eastern District in Richmond, Va.

Vick: Uh… wha… I was in a commercial?

Lawyer: You’re being charged with dog fighting, Michael.

Vick: Oh, snap! Really? Well, fuck me blind.

Lawyer: This is serious, Michael. It says that Bad Newz Kennels…

Vick: You like that name? I think the Z makes it even fucking nastier.

Lawyer: It’s a very nice name. It says you ran a dog fighting outfit out of Smithfield, VA.

Vick: Well, what’s so bad about that? Know what else they do in Smithfield? Make ham. And I don’t see any charging any farmers out there with pig fighting.

Lawyer: Well, they don’t make them fight.

Vick: Well, they should. That would be fucking sweet.

Lawyer: Slaughtering pigs is legal because it’s for commerce.

Vick: But you just said I was being booked for commerce! I made $50,000 off that shit!

Lawyer: It’s just… It’s just not the same.

Vick: (takes bong hit) Well then, that’s fucked up.

Lawyer: It’s says you performed electrocutions. True?

Vick: Hell, yes! I’m the most electrocuting player in the NFL!

Lawyer: And that you drowned them? Hung them? Slammed them to the ground?

Vick: No way, man! I was just being playful. No, wait! That was, like, obedience training and shit. Yeah! I had to drown a bitch or two because they fought TOO MUCH! I prevented them from fighting AGAIN! So, in many ways, I am a hero. How you like that?!

Lawyer: I just… I think you should prepare for the fallout, okay?

Vick: Eh, whatever. Fuck that. (hangs up) I think I better kill the rest of those dogs. I’m tired of these dogs snitching. Priscilla! Come here, girl!

(enter Priscilla)

Vick: Now, you know Ookie loves you, right?

Priscilla: WOOF!

Vick: In fact, he loves you so much, he wants to show you around doggie heaven! You interested?

Priscilla: WOOF!

Vick: I’ll take that as a hell yes!

(grabs cattle prod)

Photo courtesy of The Onion.

UPDATE: This is brutal.

“Man, if they called me Ookie it would really be on,” Vick told ESPN.com’s Page 2 several years ago. “I would really be upset, because nobody else can call me by my nickname but my mom. Unless I give you permission because you really know me, but none of the guys know me real good so they can’t do it. But yeah, that would really get me going.”

Folks, I’m proud to announce that longtime KSK commenter Grimey has started his own blog, loljocks. And, from the looks of things, he’s well on his way to years and years of blogging “success.” The site is funny. And, unlike lolcats, it doesn’t have any fucking cats.

Here were two postcards Grimey sent us for our birthday and our keeper league contest. I still don’t know why we picked a girl. Excelsior to you, Grimey.

Five Fast Facts About The Browns:

-Braylon Edwards’ AOL away message permanently set to “knot livin up to expeKtationz! LOLLERCOPTERZ!”
-Kellen Winslow Jr., like all true soldiers, is a big King of Queens fan. Hopefully he’ll get the military discount when he sees Kevin James in “I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry” on opening day.
-Now that Jamal Lewis has left Baltimore, he’s given up distributing cocaine, only because Cleveland citizens prefer to have their bleak existence straight up.
-Ted Washington still upset he didn’t receive Unicron role in new Transformers movie. Unicron upset that it takes him years to float from one end of Ted Washington’s gut to the other.
-If head coach Romeo Crennel doesn’t work out, there are still at least two Battletoads left.

Projected 2007 Record:

5-11, 4th in AFC North

Actual 2007 Record:

6-10, 4th in AFC North (such overachievers)

Wizznutzz explained much about the small hamlet the Browns call home in its whimsical telling of the family fable of Shitsy Spitsy. Cleveland is a dour place, they said,”passed over by travelers and passed over by history.”

It is also an austere place, with its homely Harvey Pekars, Drew Careys and Harlan Ellisons. How happy these humble toilers must have been when Brady Quinn was wished into existence by an 8-year-old gay boy named Shannon and swept into town on a prismatic beam of light and Joe Thomas’ fishing boat.

If you’re a regular reader of this of any other sports blog, you’re more than aware of the swishifying exploits of a certain former Notre Dame quarterback who stole our hearts with his grabasstic and grabballstic ways. Rather than expound further upon such photos - there’s bound to be another in a few days hours - we’d like to show Brady what’s in store for him, y’know, other than galleries of photos of him posing buoyantly in compromising positions. Because, after all, the Village People costumes will all be well and good until Week 7, when the Browns, then 1-5, turn around in the shower and hand the reins to Brady Quinn.

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.

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.