It’s an unfortunate world we live in when someone feels so hemmed in by the pressures of society that the only way they feel they can confide in someone is to mail an artfully constructed postcard to some dude in Germantown, MD who packages them together and sells them in bounded collections. Well, the NFL is even more harsh and doubly forbidding of confession, but those struggling with it can always turn to NFL PostSecret. At least we aren’t making money off their pain. That’s only for the league to do.
NFL PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where players and coaches or whoever I feel like making fun of mails in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard. It’s also a satire of this.
—–Email Message—– Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2007 9:26 PM Subject: Die
At least Ape gets to go to hell. —–Email Message—– Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2007 9:26 PM Subject: CFL weed
kid u are a hypocrite cuz i bet u neva saiid all that shit u said in ur blog (which by the way makes u fuckin fat virgin geek fuck that spends his time writing blogs i mean who the fuck does that u fuckin fat fuck…ur gonna die a virgin kid) to someone while u lived in the greater Boston area….ur a fuckin loser kid u think the whole nation “hates” us…ur so fuckin retarded kid like the whole nation is gonna think of one issue and that issue being Boston fans and their GOOD fuckin teams in every sport……ur fuckin dellusional and stupid…u and ur little crew of Boston haters are like 10 percent of the whole american sport fans…kid by u writing all that bullshit u wrote in ur blog u made urself sound stupid, c’mon bro grow the fuck up, find a girl, get laid for once, lose some weight, and get out of ur mothers basement, and stop playin halo 2 cuz all yall computer geeks are fuckin inlove with halo…..
**Excerpt from actual e-mail Drew received in response to his Boston sports fan post.
We’ve had some fun at the expense of Pats fans lately. But I’ve always been of the mind that the Patriots and their fans are simply annoying. Really, really, really fucking annoying. But little more than that.
But Gregggggg Easterbrook, with whom we have had our fair share of fun in the past, would like to go one step further. Easterbrook believes that the Patriots are literally offspring of Lucifer himself. No doubt because they stay up past midnight. It’s nearly impossible to convey just how douchey this column is, but let me just give you a taste of Easterbrook’s stern sermonizing from today, in which he treats the Pats as if they masturbate with crucifixes and the Colts as if they poop rainbows.
Argument for the Indianapolis Colts as paladins who carry the banner of that which is beneficent: Sportsmanship, honesty, modesty, devotion to community, embrace of traditional small-town life, belief in higher power, even love of laughter.
I’m pretty sure Easterbrook and Peter King could fight to the death regarding who leads the league in laughter. The rest of this paragraph borders on the completely insane. The Colts embrace small-town life? What the fuck does that even mean? They were drafted to play in that piece of shit town. And it’s not small. It’s a major fucking metropolitan area. Do they listen to more John Mellencamp than the Patriots as well? I don’t see any Colts helping Barney Fife lock up winos at the county clink. I don’t see them delivering fresh pecan pies to my windowsill.
And they believe in a higher power? All of them? Who fucking cares? I’m assuming then that the Patriots enjoy carving pentagrams in the earth and then slaughtering lambs in them. Witness this passage about Tom Brady:
That constant smirk on Brady’s face reminds one of Dick Cheney; people who smirk are fairly broadcasting the message, “I’m hiding something.”
When I think of Tom Brady, I think of many things: bounties, chin clefts, great hair, Gisele’s crotch, my raging inferiority complex… I rarely think of Dick Cheney. What’s Tom Brady hiding, apart from the two or three other bastard children in his arsenal? I’m guessing not much. I’ve heard Brady speak on TV. He ain’t exactly Mr. Cunning, if you get my drift. He’s Californian, for God’s sake. The reason he reminds people of Joe Montana is because of the vacant staring.
I haven’t read Easterbrook in quite a while. When the fuck did he completely lose his mind?
Okay, guys. Let me run down the injuries for you. Westy tweaked his knee, but he’ll be re-evaluated tomorrow. Dawkins is fine. Sheppard is fine. Donovan plans on practicing all week. He should be good to go. We’ll update you on everything on Thursday. As for the Bears loss, it’s just one of those things. Sometimes things like that happen and you just have to…
(buries head in hands)
Ugh. Look I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. Every week, I come in and give you assholes the same vague answers to all your same stupid questions. Aren’t you tired of this shit? I am. Jesus, it’s just the same thing over and over and over again. And it’s not like it’s any better around here if we win. Shit, even when we win, 90% of the fans just want to talk about why we’re gonna fucking lose the next week.
Honestly, it’s all just a bunch of bullshit. I do my best. I really do. And sometimes, we end up having a nice season. Other times, things get fucked up and we have a lousy season. It happens like that. Don’t you people fucking get that?
I don’t need this. I sleep on a goddamn cot five days a week. I watch 80 hours of videotape a week, only 5% of which is hardcore pornography. All the videotape plays are just blending together at this point. And it’s fucking TAPE. Lurie’s too cheap to digitize this place. I still have to use a goddamn overhead projector in meetings. I barely see my kids, and now everyone’s calling me a shitty dad just because I tried to work hard to make them proud.
I’ve had enough of this shit. Fuck it. I’m gonna be a cop.
I’ve always wanted to be a cop. I know I’m an okay coach, but this mustache was fucking made for police work. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to pull some 17-year-old shoplifter over and give him a cold taste of justice. If he’s wearing an Eagles hat, then all the better. I like winning football games, but that can’t even compare to taking out some juvenile delinquent’s knees with a nightstick. BAM! Finally, coach gets to do a little hitting of his own.
You know what I’d really love to do? Go on a stakeout. God, that just sounds like the best. It’s just you and your partner (I named my imaginary partner Bobby O’Neill), hanging out in an unmarked Ford Taurus at 3AM, drinking some coffee and munching on bear claws. That would be fantastic. We could have really deep conversations about life, and how our wives don’t understand “the job”, and shit like that. And we could rip on each other too. I could be like, “Nice shirt, O’Neill, you metrosexual assbag.” And he’d be like, “Fuck you, you fat lazy shit.” I can’t get that kind of camaraderie with Mornhinweg. He’s an idiot.
I wouldn’t even have to go out in the field. I could be the dispatcher. I’d be a great police dispatcher. Look at me. Don’t I just look gruff? I could get all bossy on the radio. “Attention all units! We have a 187 in progress! We need backup! NOW!” And if any beat officer gave me lip, I could throw it right back in his face. “Don’t tell me you’re 15 blocks away, McSorley! DO YOUR JOB!”
Cool.
I could wear one of those Sipowicz shirts, too. You know, the button down short sleeve shirt? I hear they’re really breathable. Looks great with a tie. You wear one of those shirts and munch on a bran muffin, and no one’s gonna fuck with you. That’s some major league respect.
I’d love to put a suspect in the box. Just grill the shit out of him. Threaten him with bodily harm until he cries out his confession. And if he tries to “lawyer up”, then I could really start to turn the screws on him. Or I could bring in Bobby to finish the job on him. Good ol’ Bobby. He’s not afraid to bend some rules in the name of the law.
If I could be a cop, then I could finally get my family back. My kids would respect me. And citizens wouldn’t complain about how I do my job, because I’d have a gun on me. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to carry a gun on the sidelines. Maybe Donovan would hurry the fuck up at the end of the game for once.
You know what? I’m gonna do it.
Screw you guys. I’m joining the force. Next time you see me, I’ll be in my Ray-Bans. You better watch your ass.
We’re proud to announce that despite a complete lack of computer skills we’ve managed to hack into Peyton Manning’s e-diary! Here’s the first of what will hopefully be many in a look at the little girl living inside the man.
October 19, 2007
Dear Diary,
Can you believe that Ashley just tried to have sex with me?
YUCK!
Like I told her on our wedding night, only one woman touches Pey-Pey and her name is Mom. I have sex with my wife the same way I have sex with you Mr. Diary, by busting a perfectly straight line down the spine. I’ve got control like Julia Child with a pastry bag, once a year I even write Happy Birthday on her back (I can’t get full release when those boobs are bouncing all over the place). But seriously, she should know better by now; sex with women is number three on my list of fears behind Hillary Clinton and ghost dads.
Here’s a list of5 things I’d do before putting Pey-Pey inside of a woman’s kitty cat…
1. Have gay relations with a cute little country music star 2. Defer any credit to Jim Caldwell 3. Quit acting 4. Call a real audible 5. Beat Florida
I don’t see what more she could possibly want from me. One time I even let her get a glimpse of Pey-Pey and the twins. That was the first time I conducted a public viewing since the thing with the whorish trainer at UT.
Gotta run to practice…big game on Monday Night! TTYL!
We had no less than four readers email us this morning with messages all essentially saying the same thing:
“Jesus Christ. Read this Peter King quote. Just read it. Holy shit.”
What killed me is that each reader had selected a different passage from King’s column to single out. So, it’s not as if King is being hopelessly inane once or twice per column. This man is remarkably consistent in his silliness. And, to a certain extent, you have to appreciate that.
Anyhow, reader Charles G. writes in:
KSKers,
I know making fun of Peter King is too easy, but the quote below kills me. You have to make fun of this.
Now, I’m going to show you the quote. But before you read it, I suggest you stuff a maxipad in your pants and close your office door. You may find yourself in a laughing stupor so severe they need to call the paddy wagon. Are you ready? No, really. Are you ready? Okay, here it is. Under MVP Watch:
“3. Tony Romo, QB, Dallas. Is it my imagination, or does Romo lead the league in smiling?”
Holy shit. I’m just… I can’t… I can barely breathe… smiling… Romo… holy ballsack… Sweet Lord. I think I love this man for all the amusement he provides. Yes, Peter. I’m quite sure Romo leads the league in smiling. It’s not your imagination, though I shudder at what kind of fucked-up training room fantasy that part of your brain is currently dreaming up. Romo probably just barely edges out Brett Favre in that department. But Favre does lead the league in laughing, so that makes for a neck-and-neck MVP race. Did you know Peyton Manning leads the league in intensity? And that Tom Brady leads the league in smoldering? It’s true.
I watched Football Night in America last night, and the one thing I noticed about King on TV was that all of his reports follow the same formula, which is:
King: I called Rob Bironas last night, and I said, “Hey, how’s it feel to break the single-game field goal record?” Know what he told me, Bob? “Gee, I didn’t even realize I broke it until now!” Amazing!
So, to recap: King calls Player/Coach X, asks them how it felt to do Y, then lets Bob know Player/Coach X’s response. Like so:
King: Hello, Tony? Peter King here.
Romo: Hi, Peter.
King: Hey, how’s it feel to lead the league in smiling?
Romo: In smiling?
King: Yeah, I charted it all out. You smile way more than Joey Porter! How’s that feel?
Romo: Uh. Good. I guess.
King: (scribbling furiously) Can I quote you on that? This is great stuff!
Romo: Sure.
So, yeah. Tony Romo. Great passer. But an even better smiler. Good job, Peter. You are truly doing the Lord’s work.
With the Red Sox advancing to the World Series, Boston College still undefeated, KG moving to the Celtics, and this year’s Patriots in the process of becoming the best team in the history of the NFL (and you’re deluding yourself if you can’t accept the reality of that), we are on the verge of witnessing a perfect storm of douchebaggery emanating from the greater Boston area. We’re talking the absolute zenith of self-important fuckfacery. The sky will turn pitch black and rain vinegar upon us all.
I have done all that I can to stop this. I’ve offered bounties, yet NFL defenders remain too dumb, and NFL defensive coaches too incompetent to call for a drop kick right to Tom Brady’s patella. We at KSK have also tried repeatedly hammering the point home that Bill Simmons is a fucking douchebag (see below, or just wait for the next post). It’s a like a political talking point: the more often we say it, the more likely it is to stick in your brain, regardless of whether or not you actually believe it (“Oh, Bill Simmons? Yeah, he’s a douche. No, wait! I kinda used to like him! Damn you, KSK!”). But those efforts have done nothing to stem this growing doucheflood.
We are left with two options. The first option is to cultivate the hatred the rest of the nation has for these people, so that, even when the Patriots or Red Sox win, they cannot savor the victory fully. After all, if there’s any group of fans that has a “Why can’t you be happy for us?” mentality, it’s New England sports fans. Not only do they act douchey when they win. But they fully expect you to jump on the bandwagon with them. Witness Simmons’ infamous Pats-hater bitchfest from earlier in the year, one of the sorriest sports columns ever written.
Boston fans fail to grasp a standard rule of sports fandom, which is: Any team that wins a title that is not your team is fucking annoying. It doesn’t matter how the other team won. They’re not YOUR team, so they can eat a fat dick. Fuck this “appreciating” other teams shit. Normal fans don’t do that. At least Cowboy and Yankee fans have a solid understanding of just why people can’t fucking stand them. But Mickey from Natick? Nope, he’s not gonna grasp that concept. In fact, he’s not gonna grasp much of anything.
So that’s one option. But there is another option, and that is, of course, to join them. Is this a lame thing to do? Oh, yeah. Total fuckhead move. But hey, maybe you’re a Dolphins fan and you’ve abandoned all hope. Maybe becoming a dipshit asshole cumguzzler like Jimmy Fallon is your only way to stay happy. I don’t approve, but I’m not here to judge. We at KSK are here for the people, so we’ve come up with a few rules, listed below, of just how to turn yourself into one of these fans. One bonus of becoming an insufferable Boston bandwagon fan is that it gives the rest of us extra ammunition to want to gut New England fans with a paring knife, which I’m more than okay with. Hate feels good. It really gets me through my day.
Lest you think these rules are farcical, I assure you they are not. No one knows the psyche of New England sports fans quite like I do. I went to dipshit prep school in New England. I went to college in New England. My parents have lived in Connecticut for the past 17 years. You might even call me a “total fucking hypocrite,” which is more than fair. I’ve been in the heart of the douche. I’ve worn the fleece. I’ve heard all the God Street Wine songs. I know what it’s all about. I had plenty of opportunities to join the brood. Despite my own history of wanton douchebaggery, I resisted. But I’m still enough of a preppy dicksmack to help you reach your goal. Here now, is how you become one of “them”:
1. Use Manny Ramirez to justify all your stereotypes about Latin Americans, but do NOT use David Ortiz to refute any of them.
2. Bitch about Dane Cook “representing” you while, at the same time, rocking his exact same haircut.
3. Boast about Bill Belichick’s strategic genius as if it is somehow indirectly your doing. You’ll see plenty of New England fans, when seeing another coach fuck up, say to you, “Now, would Belichick do something like that? Hell no. He’d do it totally different.” You see, pointing out Belichick’s acumen is a way of trying to pass it off as your own. He’s smart, which makes you smart! Talk about Belichick the same way a proud father boasts about his child prodigy. You won’t be any more intelligent. In fact, you’ll still be a fucking eggplant. But you’ll feel more intelligent, and that’s nice.
4. Own $1,000 worth of Red Sox merchandise, but no Patriots merchandise whatsoever. The lone exception: The Wes Welker jersey. Pats fans love Wes Welker because he’s white. Just like them! They also love Tedi Bruschi, because he’s kinda white. And hey, that’s not bad either.
5. Be sure to boast about all the hot chicks Tom Brady gets to nail. Because that’s totally something for YOU to brag about.
6. Complain earnestly about how many ads Peyton Manning appears in while continuing to brag about the Pats’ O-line being Brady’s five layers of protection. Lord knows Brady’s never been in an ad for Stetson, or Movado, or Gap, or any of that shit.
7. If you put a five into a jukebox at any sports bar, you must play “Satellite” by the Dave Matthews Band at least once.
8. Act proudly ignorant of things you already know. Like so: “Hey, who was that colored guy in that “Rush Hour” movie? He was all right.” You know damn well it’s Chris Tucker, but the casual racism makes you 50% more charming to chicks in Framingham. This works even better if you’re a Boston-area college student. Yeah, you go to Tufts, but you have no fackin’ idea who those Maroon 5 faggots are. Sure, buddy. For a walking example of proud stupidity, consult this dumbshit:
9. Be sure to try and distinguish yourself as a “real fan”. All “real” Boston fans must be able to judge their fellow Boston fans’ credibility. Never been to Fenway? Poseur. Didn’t like the Pat Patriot logo? Bandwagoner. Went to college outside New England? Turncoat. Too young to remember the ’86 Celtics? Faggot.
10. Bitch about the Boston accents in any film or TV show. “Yeah, ‘The Depahted’ was fackin’ great, but they don’t talk like that in fackin’ REVEEEEAH!!!!!” Yes, no film could ever accurately depict just how real, how fierce your hardscrabble Newton upbringing was.
11. Adopt the attitude that you, yes you, DESERVE this success. “Hey, we Pats fans know how it used to be back in the day. We earned these titles.” Don’t treat your team’s good fortune as the stroke of good fortune it happens to be. No, no, no. Your championship has to be deeper then someone else’s championship. It has to mean something more. Why? Because you fancy yourself as being introspective. Cockgobbler. Treat it like some sort of karmic reward for Len Bias dying, or some other twisted, idiotic explanation.
12. Always treat your fandom as membership to some kind of exclusive club of super cool people. Like the whole Red Sox Nation thing. Oooh, you guys all root for the same team? How unique! How special! Fucking die. Be sure to adopt a siege mentality when your team is criticized. “Hey, you can’t rip on Papelbon! He’s fackin’ one of us!” Whatever you need to make yourself feel less alone in the world.
13. Be sure to grow your hair out under your artificially aged Red Sox hat so that little hair wings sprout out the side. That looks great.
14. Laugh at your own jokes. You’re so funny, guy!
15. Dip.
16. Shun Ben Affleck. Embrace Matt Damon. That apples line never gets old!
17. Finally, bitch about everything: critics, certain players who personally disappoint you, etc. They call it New England for a reason. People in England love to fucking complain. You are the newer, even more annoying model.
Follow these rules and I promise you that everyone from the nation’s remaining 44 states will want to rape you with a hammer. But hey, you’re a Boston sports fan now. You’ll be completely ignorant to your own jackassery. That’s the beauty of it. You are now just as fucking annoying as a Notre Dame football fan, or a Duke basketball fan. That’s right, Pats fan. That’s the level you’re at right now. Enjoy your world titles, you fucking cockhog.
Among other assorted derring-do. Randy Moss caught a 50-yard touchdown pass yesterday. Actually to be precise, Randy Moss’ right elbow caught a 50-yard touchdown pass yesterday. Right fucking elbow– I shit you not. In double coverage. Elbow. 50 yards. Randy Moss’ elbow by itself is better 75% of the receivers in the league. Right now, the Jaguars are trying to put together a trade offer for the elbow.
Is there any thing that Brady can’t heave wildly into the horizon that Moss can’t go up and get? The Brady-Moss connection has now evolved from a formidable offensive stratagem to a free-wheeling, barnstorming daredevil circus act. Next week, I fully expect to see a blindfolded Brady chucking passes two at a time across a minefield while a straight-jacketed Moss catches them nonchalantly with his feet as Stars and Stripes Forever blares in the background. Or Brady winging exploding pineapples instead of footballs. At this point, I’m willing to believe anything.
“They shall have stars at elbow and foot.” – Corey Dillon Thomas
NFL PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where players and coaches or whoever I feel like making fun of mails in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard. It’s also a satire of this.
—–Email Message—–
—–Email Message—–
—–Email Message—–
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