I am sorry that you wrecked your $350,000 car the other day, Lance. I was hanging in the dorms last night smoking toenails with Adewale and he told me about your car. Well, specifically, he told me about how you wrapped it around some light fixture in the street. A good lighting scheme can make all the difference, so I can see your intention there. Are you alright? I am surprised you could even fit in such a small car. I understand that Italian men are just scale replicas of normal-sized people, and that their cars are shrunken down accordingly.
Maybe that was your plan all along, Lance Briggs. You were just trying to stretch the car out so both of us could fit in there at the same time. You always were a thoughtful fellow, The cannonball home from Lake Forest would have been sweet, just like Miami Vice. I could have been Don Johnson to your Phillip Michael Estrada, but I guess we can forget about that for now.
This just hasn’t been your year, Lance Briggs. I mean, you got stuck with the franchise tag over the winter and all that. Now you’re only gonna make seven million dollars this year, not that either of us could count that high, even if we had like, 94 days or something. It’s a good thing we have direct deposit, it’s just one less thing. Hey, what did you do with that franchise tag? I never see you wear it…
But now you have no car, Lance Briggs, and that sucks. This one time in college I needed a new water pump in my Neon and I had to drop it off overnight, so I know exactly what you’re going through. When your game check comes in a couple weeks, we can go get you another car, and maybe invest some money into some better tires. I know this homeless guy over in Gary, Indiana, so we can register it in his name if you don’t want to deal with the cops next time you plow into an embankment. Think about it, the offer is on the table.
It was just last week that we were first able to gaze upon GQ’s latest photo stylings of some of the NFL’s hot young quarterbacks. This week, as is the natural progression of Internet Things, come the Photoshopped images (all courtesy of our good friend 289).
The Ironic Hall of Mirrors shattered when Ben hit a motorcycle-driving Steely McBeam.
Hey, someone’s gotta fill the void left in the dogfighting world.
Ugh. I’d rather be Travis Henry.
“Where you been, Romo? The whole steel industry’s gay.”
As you know, Michael Vick will be sentenced to jail today. Whether he understands this or not is still up for debate, as sources tell us Vick has said to close friends on many occasions that, “Monday Night Football is taking it too fucking far with this ‘You’ve Been Sacked!’ halftime shit!” Regardless of his ability to accept the basic tenets of reality, Vick is still going to go away for a good amount of time, based on the plea agreement he negotiated with Federal prosecutors. It’s a damning document, laying bare the fact that Vick was the financier of an entire dogfighting gambling ring, and that he participated in the execution of dogs.
But what you folks out there might not know is just how long it took Vick’s lawyers to craft that document. The Statement of Facts you see there is quite a bit different from its original version, a version that was written almost exclusively by Vick himself. I had the good fortune of stumbling upon it. Here now are its unedited contents.
IN THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
FOR THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF VIRGINIA
Richmond Division
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA v. MICHAEL VICK a/k/a “Ookie”, a/k/a “Tony Masters”, a/k/a “Mickey Relleno”, a/k/a “Simba”, a/k/a “Dexter St. Jacques”, a/k/a “Lord Baron Von Turlington VIII”, a/k/a “Fly Johnson”, Defendant
CRIMINAL NO. 3:07CR274
SUMMARY OF THE FACTS
If this matter were to proceed to trial, the Government would prove the following facts beyond a reasonable doubt:
1. Beginning in or about early 2001, and continuing through in or about April 2007, in the Eastern District of Virginia and elsewhere, defendant MICHAEL VICK, also known as “Ookie,” got hold of some serious, unreal, fucking make-everything-look-like-a-photo-negative cohiba that rocked his party world like a motherfucking motherfucker. VICK also agrees that:
2. The best Mrs. Fields cookie is the semi-sweet with nuts. If you get that shit without nuts, it ain’t got no motherfuckin’ texture. VICK agrees that he likes textures.
3. VICK knowingly hopes that Kerry Washington noticed the suit he wore to the courthouse the other day. Because that shit was tight.
4. If you inhale and exhale real quick for, like, five minutes, then have a buddy press your hands into your chest, you totally pass out and have all these crazy dreams and shit. It’s a good thing to do if you are out of weed and/or waiting for Carlos to deliver.
5. If you press your hands against a doorway for, like two minutes, then stop, your arms will go up on their own! That’s fucked up.
6. VICK knowingly purchased Beggin’ Strips when he was stoned to the bejeezus one night. And you know what? They were fucking great! They really do taste like bacon.
7. VICK knowingly failed to curb his dogs.
8. But he did not fail to curb-stomp his dogs.
9. Sometimes, if you get stoned and accidentally throw a doodoo pie at your own wall, you can cover that shit up with a really nice tapestry and, like, some Febreze. Febreze is fucking magical.
10. Big Boy can tear a bitch in half.
11. VICK agrees that many of the ideas in his secret journal sounded much better when he was lit up like Mann’s Chinese Theater. These include: the kitebot, the motorized toenail clippers, selling chili in a juice box, the syrup sprinkler, the jawbreaker made of colored stainless steel, the tongue-shaped vibrator, and the pineapple/apple hybrid fruit or “pineappleapple”
12. Matter of fact, why the fuck do they call it pineapple to begin with? Ain’t no apples in that shit! And it doesn’t come from a pine tree! The fuck?
13. Dude, the “The Simpsons” totally stole VICK’s fucking idea for a dog fur texedo.
14. VICK agrees that Mr. Home Depot Man should, like, pay his legal bills and shit.
15. VICK knowingly and unlawfully snuck into his neighbor’s house when he was a kid and poured an entire jar of mayonnaise into the radiator, just to fuck with him.
16. VICK did not kill any dogs.
17. Okay, maybe, like one. But that bitch had grown so ugly, it was really like doin’ her a favor.
18. Okay, maybe VICK gave another pooch or two the Atomic Drop. But you know what, Mr. Prosecutor Man? I don’t see you raising much of a fuss when you have, like, steak for dinner and shit. VICK saw “Faces of Death”, man. Those cows get their throats fuckin’ slit, man. And they don’t even get to have fun while they’re alive! VICK gave those dogs a taste of athletic glory, bitch! Those dogs were gladiators. Legends. I got a plaque of Priscilla on my wall and everything! She didn’t die! She lives forever! She was a champion! Until she started losing. Then VICK held her down and sawed her head off with a penknife. But what choice did VICK have? You ever try and tell a dog to retire?! They don’t fucking listen, man! And it ain’t like that bitch didn’t LIKE to fight. She wanted to do it! VICK didn’t “fight” dogs, per se. He simply released them to go and fight. They was just doin’ what they do! That’s, like, natural selection and shit! Fuck.
19. Remember in “Faces of Death” where they behead that Arab guy? That was awesome. They say that shit was staged, but VICK knows real blood when he sees it.
20. VICK is still stoned. And he smoked up, like, fourteen hours ago. This is like enduroshit. It’s chronic chronic! It’s the everlasting gobstopper, bitches! Go ahead and take my ass to jail, Mr. Prosecutor man. ‘Cause this shit’ll last my whole term. No bars can hold my high down! MV7, HIGH FOR LIFE YOU WHORES
Photo courtesy of The Onion
CORRECTION: Vick will NOT be sentenced today. He will be sentenced on December 10. Wait a second, December fucking 10th?! Christ, that’s eons away. Rocket docket, my ass. Show a little hustle, District Court. I want my celebrity justice NOW!
My beagle Snoop was showing his doggy ass this afternoon, so I made him watch the latest video from Will Ferrell’s Funny or Die. He has humped nary a leg since then. Thanks Mike, and watch out for yer cornhole, bud.
A tip of the chewed-up Raiders’ Starter hat to the cagey roughnecks at Sons of Sam Malone.
These photos are not to be underestimated. GQ is the magazine that gave us Tom Brady hugging an adorable baby goat, which we bloggers appreciate, as years of goat-fucking jokes have helped us cope with Dreamboat’s three Super Bowl rings and model-banging ways.
So, with Dreamgoat as our benchmark, let’s take a look at the photos and see which ones will stand the comedic test of time.
Oh, Brady Quinn. It’s not his fault he’s this good-looking, you know. Here he evokes the classic brooding handsomeness of James Dean. Sadly, despite Cleveland’s offensive line, football protective equipment is too effective for us to realistically expect a tragically premature death.
Am I the only one not sold on JaMarcus Russell? Here he is walking away from the jet he couldn’t buy because he hasn’t signed a contract yet. This picture won’t be truly funny unless Russell is a colossal bust and ends up a pauper. And given the state of the Raiders, I like those odds.
Who invited Nick Lachey to the photo shoot?
Cowboy Tony Romo as a cowboy. This photo actually wasn’t set up by GQ; Romo is a ranch hand in the offseason in order to maintain credibility with girlfriend/country star Carrie Whoever. It’s also the best job a degree from Eastern Illinois can get you, unless you actually want to be a high school music teacher in Nauvoo.
Matt Leinart lounging at the pool with a hot chick? It’s a little hard to believe, but I guess I can go along with it. Here’s part of Leinart’s interview with the magazine:
GQ: Okay, what’s the biggest perk of your job? And don’t be like, “I get to play in the NFL.” Leinart: Well, you get a lot of free stuff. You get free clothes, and you get people who want to give you free suits.
GQ: Okay, but your suits are too big on you. Leinart: You’re crazy.
GQ: I’m crazy? I work at GQ. Leinart: No, you’re right. I’ll take your advice on that.
I love the way Leinart comes off as an easily swayed simpleton. It’s part of his charm, I’m sure.
Ben.
Ben, Ben, Ben.
Somehow I’m not buying into the smooth film noir private investigator image. Is it the drunk photos all over the Internet? Is it the Miami of Ohio background? The helmetless motorcycle crash? The too-carefully-groomed goatee? The organ failure? Yes. All of that. Plus I think this (surprisingly) not Photoshopped picture more accurately portrays the man who steers the Black and Gold:
I choose to disagree with your shirt, sir.
(Thanks for putting up with all the gayness in the post. Here’s a cheerleader for your patience. Her name is Keela Harris, and it’s best if you not try to figure out if her head has been superimposed on the picture.)
Bob Glauber (not as mellifluous as Bob Dobalina, but close) is reporting that Michael Strahan has folded like a cheap pup tent and will slink into Giants’ camp within the next day or two– without the renegotiated contract he so desperately sought. I’m no Archimedes, but I know a little something about leverage. And rapidly aging defensive ends with ridiculously large alimony payments have no leverage.
Elsewhere in Giantdom, the Eli Manning-Tiki Barber catfight is reminiscent of the recent beef between Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell in that we really don’t give a rat’s ass about either side and would be perfectly content to see all parties hop into a roaring fire. Tiki needs something to ramp up his transition from lousy teammate to lousy broadcaster.
On the other hand, before the 2004 draft– for what seems to be the first and last time in his life– Manning decided to play hardass. He forced the Chargers to grant his wish and trade him to the most intense media crucible in all of sports. Now, according to Tony K. on PTI Wednesday, we should feel sorry for Eli because Tiki is picking on him. Fuck. That. Noise.
Remember Eli, there’s much less scrutiny on the squash court.
The many faces of Manning: running the gamut from mild confusion to utter bewilderment. From the Sports Hernia.
The Boston Herald is claiming that Bridget Moynahan and Tom Brady have brushed aside all the kickass names suggested by KSK readers and named their little golden boy… Jonathan Brady. Color us underwhelmed. Such a mundane, white-bread name is hardly befitting such an auspicious arrival.
Even if the proud parents have failed to capture the glory and majesty of the moment, KSK reader Bryan J. is more than up to the occasion– delivering us this epic photoshop. Judging by the picture, Dad is so caught up in the excitement of new fatherhood that he doesn’t notice that new teammate Randy Moss is sneaking off with Brady’s one true love. Once again, congrats to Bridget and Tom for having working sex organs.
While we know quite a bit about Tom Brady and Bridget Moynahan, details about the kid are still sparse. We know it’s a boy and…well, that’s about it. Tom Brady, we must imagine, is surely overwhelmed with the realization that his life is now over. Yeah, being a dad is great and whatever (that’s what I read, anyway), but as he watches a promising career of pure bachelorhood evaporate before his eyes, his latest acquisition now toils in this mortal neo-natal world of ours, nameless.
Sadly, our newly-papoosed prodigal passer might be mere hours from being slapped with some ridiculous Hollywood-inspired child’s name like “Coco” or “Apple.” Or worse, he could spend his life shouldering even something more uninspired, like “4real” or “@.” Hey, @, how are you today? What’s that, @? Could you repeat that, @? What’s your email address, again?
We cannot let this happen. This is, after all, A Baby Of Destiny. We must rise to this occasion as voices of reason, and hope that, for all our collective efforts, one name stands above all. For this draft, you are naming this baby. You know the rules. I will go first.
Anakin Bootylicious Brady.
Pick a name. Wait ten picks. Pick another name. If you have time, mock and ridicule the ones that fuck this up. Time is a factor here. The fate of the future lies in your hands.
WHOA HOLY SHIT! Where the fuck am I? Last thing I remember, I was sliding down the inside of my mom and now some asshole in a mask and green pajamas is trying to nostril-fuck me! Get that fucking thing out of my nose! If you’re so eager to help, you can grab a rag there and wipe some of this pussy shrapnel off my face! And turn some of these fucking lights down! You’re not delivering a king-sized order of onion rings, faggots!
Seriously, where the fuck am I? WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? What is this place? This kinda looks like a small cafeteria to me, but where are all the stacks of trays? Wait a sec, am I in NFL Europe? That would explain why it’s so cold, out here in Nonpussyville. I don’t think I can survive outside of the snatch for, oh, more than a couple of hours. Guys, for real, I can feel my lips starting to chap. You mind if I run back into my mom for a second? I have some gloves in there. I’ll be right back, seriously. I swear.
And not that I’m complaining about this, but do I have two dicks? I have this long ropecock that leads back into my mom, and then another friend down there. Is that crazy? I mean, I have two of everything else, right? When I get older, I’ll have two Christmases, too. Wicked. Yeah, that other one a little farther down is nice, too. We’ll call that my backup dick.
Yeah, go ahead, you green freaks, clamp that dick down and measure it. Just tell me how long it is in inches, and then tell me what an inch is. You could just draw an inch for me on that legal pad on that desk over there. I’m a visual learner, see.
Helloooo? Will somebody just tell me where I am? Hey, are those scissors? Be careful with those, you might…hey! HEY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING! THAT’S MY ROPECOCK! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME I JUST GOT AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
…Damn you sons of bitches, you just slashed my ropecock. I hate all of you fucking people. I just know I’m gonna hate it in this…this cafeteria. At least I have two great parents that love each other. And a spare pecker. Fuck this place, I’m taking a nap…
Christ, this day is going slow. We ain’t even had our second practice yet. Then I gotta go watch film of both practices, download the rest of the staff, and then map out tomorrow’s schedule. I’m not gettin’ outta here until midnight. I know it. Dag gummit.
God, I can’t wait to get home and masturbate.
I really wish that one girl in those tight black pants hadn’t walked by earlier. All I’ve wanted to do since then is tear off my pants and just hammer myself raw. Get myself a piece of ol’ Wade Jr, if you know what I mean. But nooooo, I gotta stay here and do some daggone work. In a glass office, no less.
Shee-ut.
I got no privacy in this complex. Some asshole’s always reading the paper in the shitter. Maybe I can get home for a quick snack or something. No wait, can’t do that. Patty’s home right now with her Garden Club. God dammit. I really need to masturbate. I’m tellin’ ya, I got a hankerin’ for some spankerin’!
I know what I’m gonna do. When I finally finish up all this shit, I’mma hop in my car and speed on home, gently workin’ my knob through my pleated khakis. That way, I’ll be prepared for rubbin’ when I get home. Everyone should be asleep by then. Then, I’ll sneak into the house real quiet and fire up the ol’ Dell. Patty don’t know about “Private Browsing” on Safari yet. So I’mma grab some tissues and download me some hardcore shit. I like the amateur stuff. It feels more real to me. I don’t like all that staged porn. Maybe I’ll grab some lotion too. That makes my hand feel more like a cooter.
The question is: do I masturbate just once? It’s so hard to hold out for that one Texas-sized spurt. I could conceivably get off one quick jerk in the driveway, then have a longer, more-drawn out jerk when I get through the door. That way, I’m not creaming the keyboard within ten seconds. But then I’ll be tired. And hungry.
God, I need to release the fuckin’ floodgates.
If I could just find somewhere private. There’s no way I can get all this cotton pickin’ work done when I need to go masturbate so badly. If could just jerk off, I could finally get on with my day. Maybe I’ll hit a Starbucks or something. They have bathrooms that lock. I could maybe try and massage it under the table during our film sessions. I could think about that cheerleader girl from that one show. She is one dandy piece of trim. Or I could think about the black pants girl. That Angelina Jolie makes a great imaginary lay, but I haven’t seen her lately. I saw a player’s wife walk in here the other day that had her big, juicy rack just sticking right out. Christ, I’d like to get hold of her ass and then just ride off into the sunset…
God, I have to get this done. The film room. Gotta do it there.
But what if someone notices? Frankly, I got so much Wadebutter built up, it would make a stain on my pants the size of a longhorn. Can’t do it.
C’mon, clock. Move! I gotta get this done! If I can’t masturbate, I can’t think of nothin’ else!
Jones: Yeehaw!!!!!!
Oh, fuck! I’m never gettin’ outta here!
Jones: Hey there, tubby! You like Romo’s doin’? Hoo boy, I like that Romo! But you know what he needs? More options! More routes! More formations! I want you to stay in tonight and help design a new trips package for my boy Romo!
I got family stuff to do tonight, Mr. Jones.
Jones: The fuck you do! I didn’t hire you to love your family! I hired you to work! Now work, fatty! Work work work like the little fattykins you are!
Well, I do have to get home and grab some paperwork real quick.
Jones: I’ll have a courier get it for you! By the way, I’m trying out new cheerleaders on the adjourning practice field this afternoon. Make sure you have my boys focused on football, and not all that sweet river Texas pussy next door. Comprende, mi fucking amigo? WOO HOO! I AM FUCKING CRAZY!!!!!
Shit. Now I’ll never get to jerk off. I wish I were castrated.
