Ever wanted to buy a KSK t-shirt, only to realize, “Hey, I’m the only asshole who’s gonna get the joke on here!” Well, fear not. For we have devised a line of t-shirts that will not only make you more appealing to the opposite sex, but will also act as a vital mood indicator. For instance, are you drunk?

Now Jerramy Stevens knows he can pull you into the bushes and have his way with you! Or, are you high? Of course you are. No one reads this site while lucid! So make sure your parents are aware with this jazzy number.

Or perhaps you’re feeling romantic. You love KSK, but what you really need is love. Well, this Namath-inspired number will have you locking lips with anonymous drifters in no time!

Yes, KSK Slashies. Simple. Elegant. And ready to accommodate all your future vomit stains. Any t-shirt can make a fashion statement. But what the world really needs is a t-shirt that makes a literal statement about just how aimless and sad your life is! Whee!!!!

And if you have any suggestion for new Slashies, let us hear ‘em.

It’s Super Bowl time, so we at KSK asked a high-ranking NFL scout to analyze the both teams for strengths and weaknesses. This man was offered anonymity in exchange for his complete and utter candor. In this post, he analyzes the Patriots:

“I don’t understand why more teams don’t try and deploy strobe lights to get Tedy Bruschi to seize up. Did you know strobe lights can cause stroke victims to relapse and foam at the mouth? I wish we had done that… The best way to limit Tom Brady’s effectiveness is to hit him early and often. Just kidding. You’re fucked no matter what you do… I once saw Kyle Brady eat a Scotty Terrier he ran over with his pickup. Apparently, he does that sort of thing quite often…

“The key to the Patriots’ passing game isn’t Randy Moss. It’s Wes Welker. If you stop Welker, you limit Brady’s options AND you take the Pats’ fans out of the game, because it’s very bittersweet for them when a black player catches the ball… Doesn’t Kevin Faulk remind you of Dallas Clark, the way he always gets first downs right when you think you’ve stopped them? Fucking Faulk… Matt Cassel was Matt Leinart’s backup in college, which also meant he got all his backup tail at parties. And if there’s any place that has great second tier pussy, it’s USC…

“Logan Mankins has a cabin in the woods where he keeps an arsenal and canned goods that can last 100 men 100 days. I think he plans on killing lots of illegal immigrants when he retires… A lot of people think a cover 2 scheme will frustrate Randy Moss. But you know what really frustrates him? A woman with a sassy mouth… I once saw Rodney Harrison help an old lady across the street, and then beat her to death with her own purse…

“Actually, all their defensive players are dirty. I once saw Vince Wilfork chew on a guy’s scrotum… And I saw Richard Seymour fart in a guy’s earhole. Then he stabbed the guy in the heart with a letter opener he kept in his sock. The guy died on the field… Brandon Meriweather says he plans to break all of Jerramy Stevens’ career raping records… Junior Seau went through a painful divorce recently. Football is all he has left. That’s why I suggest intentionally injuring him in the first quarter and watching with glee as he realizes his life is now an empty vessel… Mike Vrabel never learned to read at OSU and only responds to inquiries if they are put in football terminology. You can’t say, like, “Pass the milk” to him. You have to say “WHITE GALLON OUTPOUR!” if you want that shit…

“Larry Izzo makes supplemental income by letting rich men pee on him… I saw Ty Warren once eat an entire Armani suit… Adalius Thomas is their most versatile player, and not just one the field. He can cook, clean, paint, do woodwork, play the clarinet, and clean out his rectum with a pure apple cider vinegar enema, all in one day… Asante Samuel has a fondness for starting fires in closets… Bill Belichick has actually already scanned and memorized this scouting report.”

Thanks, Mr. scout man. Stay tuned for the Jints later in the week.

Just in case any of you heathen football fanatics forgot, those Patriots are a bunch of cheaty McCheatersons!

And all you sportscasters and sportswriters who will spend this week gushing over the Super Bowl, it would be nice if a few of you mentioned that, a mere four months ago, NFL commissioner Roger Goodell found the Patriots guilty of “a calculated and deliberate attempt to avoid long-standing rules designed to encourage fair play and promote honest competition.” Two billion people will watch the Super Bowl; almost all of America’s children and teens will watch the Super Bowl. If the bottom line of the event is “It’s fine to cheat, you’ll get away with it,” what message does that send?

And once the cheaters take over you know who will hold all the power? That’s right…

Image via bangitout.com

Say what you will about those Lazy Tuesday goofs, but at least they didn’t work too hard at looking ridicuwockle. These guys, on the other hand, seem to gone through Herculean efforts to look achingly dopey. I hope these dancers got paid. Not in money of course, but an ice cream sandwich sounds about right.

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in the Pink Taco! Up next, Baltimore City detective, Jimmy McNulty:

A lot of chatter in the Eastern saying something’s going on with this Patriots and Giants meetup. Know anything about that? These are two crews that just had a some beef not too long ago. Repping different areas though. Doesn’t make sense.

[Sighs] Fuckin’ A.

[Takes quick pull of Jameson bottle]

We’re just sitting rubbing our dicks together while we could be doing some real police work. Just don’t have the backing to come down on these things anymore. If city hall got its shit together, we could have men down on every corner making picks. As it stands, don’t no one in this town have any idea what’s going on.

[Downs eight shots of Jameson, licks a strange woman's butthole]

Fucking chain of command. You know, you pull all these wins out of the vacants and what? We make a little noise, it gooses the stats, but it’s not enough to make Carcetti really give a shit, not with the ass-pounding he’s taking on the schools issue. But if we can make it look like one team, say the Patriots, got all these in a row, eighteen and fucking oh, ain’t no way they can dodge all that attention. Undefeated team? Shit, you’ll get national press in here. All’s we gotta do is create a pattern.

Bunk: Nah. Naaaaahhhhh. Ain’t gonna have no part a’ this shit, Jimmy. Man’s gotta live by a code. You can do this shit, but you do it alone. Hell, everybody know Giants ain’t got shit anyway.

[McNulty drinks flowerpot full of Jameson, staggers off bar stool]

What the fuck did I do?

Easily the worst part of the Super Bowl is the ceaseless stream of predictions that flood the airwaves and clog the intertubes. Everybody has an opinion this time of year, whether they are a professed expert or some guy in your office who’s breadth of knowledge comes from what they heard on the easy listening station. Nobody really cares about these predictions, but we recognize everyone’s right to offer up an entirely subjective final score. Well now the players themselves are joining in on the fun.

And then, as he entered the stadium and turned left toward the Giants locker room, Burress was asked for his prediction. Burress never hesitated, flatly stating “23-17.”

So there you have it, Giants win!

With that issue settled we sat down with Plaxico to hear some of his other insightful predictions. We’ll let him tell you what he thinks…

I like Dukakis by ten electoral votes.

Also, Patriots 31-21, just to be safe.

Thanks Plax!

Once again, the smoke has cleared, and two teams are set to square off in the culmination of a hard-fought season. And you know what that means: we’re only days away from another exciting year of Arena Football.

Why my network refuses to give this league year-round coverage will remain one of life’s great mysteries, along with creationism and why Japanese girls on subways never fight back.

By now you’ve noticed that Tom Brady was wearing a protective boot last week to protect the right ankle he injured during the AFC Championship. An injury to the plant leg can be absolutely devestating to a player not only at the quarterback position, but also the suspended congress position and the doggy-style position.

I’ve studied film on Brady and have noticed that such an injury can hurt the timing of his release point, and will limit his control of any significant output. There’s a good chance things will blow up in his face if he’s not careful. He’ll have to warm up extensively, but once the lights go on and gets that first shot out of the way, he can settle into a rhythm and distribute like a 19-year-old guard in a maximum-security juvy girls’ penitentiary.

Ben Roethlisberger’s comments about wanting the Steelers to find a tall wide receiver are a cruel reminder that SIZE DOES MATTER in the National Football League. Hines Ward could not have been pleased to hear the dissatisfaction of his quarterback, but this is the NFL, not Seoul House Restaurant on James Swart Circle, and Ward has to do more than regulary refill empty water glasses and memorize menu items by their coded letter-number combination. He’s gotta perform in the red zone and bring that fortune cookie to his quarterback’s table, or else it’s ahn nyung hee ke se yo for this not young slant-eyed homo.

If there’s one thing more homosexual than my choice of eyewear, it’s baseball season. ESPN’s own Pedro Gomez is gearing up for another year of covering the sport for the worldwide leader. I’ve been visiting Mr. Gomez on occasion, and I have yet to see him breaking down game film or studying the tendencies of the so-called athletes that he allegedly covers. This is conclusive evidence that Pedro Gomez is an illegal alien and must be deported immediately.

I’ve set up a makeshift 13-camera closed-circuit television system around his home, office, and La Bamba’s. I’ll be studying his tendencies, day after day, night after night, until I can find just the right opening to deliver a 25-yard toss of justice to my associates at The United States Immigration and Naturalization Service.

If Dana Jacobson needs a stripper pole for her Super Bowl party, maybe she should try this Pole. Heh. See? That’s funny because I’m Polish… Eh. Okay. I guess ethnic humor doesn’t work these days.

When I was asked to renumerate over my Super Bowl pick, I really had to contemporate what the differences between these teams are. And let me tell you, the differences between these teams are manifest! Now, the Giants have played atrophyingly well in the postseason. They’ve built up some serious mentholatum. I also like how they use Brandon Jacobs and Ahmad Bradshaw in a pontoon system. But, with Eli Manning throwing the ball so good, it makes the team so much more two-directional.

I also like the bounce the Giants have established defensively. With the front four racking hammock up front, that gives defensive corroborator Steve Spaghetti the agility to mix his coven of witches in the secretary. They’re very flaxseed oil like that.

BUT… I cannot ignore how well these Patriots can masturbate the ball down the feel. THEY DO IT SO AFFECTIONATELY! With Laurence Macaroni in the backfeel, and Kevin Faulk catching those outlet malls, they can really masturbate it up and down the feel. They can run outside the hash pipes, or pound it right up the butt. That’s the reason I think they will avail down in Felix on Sunday.

And that’s just the running backs! The Patriots don’t have to intimate you up front in order to win. They can also play with great fitness as well. When you have a Randy Moss, and a Wes Welker, and a Donte Stallworth, you’re going to be able to extort those backup players in the secretary. And the Giants have injuries! Let me tell you, they are like a rash unit over there! I do not think some of their backup players will be able to rehabitate in time for this matchup, and that’s going to prove paranoid in this battle of tits between Coughlin and Belichick.

But I hope I’m wrong! I hope this is a close, tight conflagration. If the Giants can stay in close peroxide to the Patriots’ score in the 4th quarter, I think they will have a very good chance to you slurp that title away. But it won’t be easy! This is going to be very, very compensated for the Giants.

But I’m looking forward to it. I’ve won a Super Bowl title, and it’s an amazing feeling. It’s the pinocchio of sport.

Photog: Yes. YES. That’s it. Show it to me. Give me ze claws. You’re a TIGAH.

[snaps pictures]

Lunge at me, Tigah! Play with my innards! Toss them about like confetti and roll around in zem! Strut confidently in your nature preserve. You’re a savage beast incapable of remorse or spleeet ends. Make me lust for your senseless need to kill.

[snaps pictures]

Okay we’re done. [Waves hand] Be gone.

Where is my three o’clock? Michele demands to know.

[Door flies open, rose petals scatter forth while celestial music plays]

Tom Brady: You would be well advised to make an inquiryyyyyyyyy

Hey everybody. I hope my tardiness didn’t put you off your schedule. Did I? Really? Huh? Gee, I’m sorry.

Just flying in from Monte Carlo. It’s a lovely town but it wears on you after the first few dozen visits. They have these weird, magic elves there that healed my ankle in almost no time at all, freeing me up to engage in a 12-way with these crazy Persian princesses and then I got a mud bath. Good as new! [Carefree whistling]

[Finds a $100 bill in pocket]

Hey, whaddayaknow?

Photog: Zo we are ready to begin, yes?

Brady: Yeah. Great. Let’s do it.

Photog: Yes! Yes! Preheat my face to a million degrees and make it melt, fancy man. Don’t give me fey! Give me coy! No, that’s arch!

Yes! Better.

[Theme to "Greatest American Hero" ringtone goes off]

Brady: Hold on. [Answers] Hello? Oh, hey, Randy. Yeah, would love to hang out, but I’m in the middle of something. You wanted to eat where? Can we push it back to seven? Yeah, sure, Wes and Asante can come, too. The more the merrier. Uh-huh. Okay, cool. Yeah, see you then. [Turns off phone]

Heh. Teammates. Love those guys.

Now where were we?

Photog: Yes! Tussle the hair. Give me about 30 percent more nonchalance. Raffish up zat smile.

Photog: Zokay. More smoldering. More! No, that merely scalds me! I need ze white hot! Sizzling may work on zhose bobby sockers but the camera zees your lies! I want heat spots to develop on the film!

Photog: There. You have done it. My camera has literally been engulfed in flame. Another stroke of genius by Michele. Go now, mindless meathunk.

Brady: We’re all done? Awesome. Thanks.

[Eats Wonka bar, finds golden ticket]

Hey, all right!

The celebrity Super Bowl pick is a time-honored tradition, one we at KSK are super fucking excited to be a part of, as we have in the past. For the next two weeks, stars from the world of entertainment, politics, and more will drop by to make their picks for the big game in the Pink Taco! Up next, it’s Gilbert Gottfried!

A talent agent is sitting in his office, and this family walks in. Man, woman, two kids and a little dog. The talent agent says, “Let’s see what kind of an act do you do.”

So the family gets completely undressed. The man starts fucking his wife. The daughter starts jerking off the son, who is fisting his mother while she’s riding her husband, who in turn starts fingering the dog’s asshole.

Then the father gets up and starts jerking off the son. Then the mother lies down and the daughter starts pissing on her mother’s face. The dog shits on the the mother. Then the father starts jerking off onto his daughter’s face, who then starts fistfucking the dog. The dog’s O-ring blows wide open, blood AND SHIT SPLATTER EVERYWHERE, and NOW EVERYONE IS FUCKING AND SUCKING in this puddle of BLOOD and SHIT and PISS and CUM. Do you want me to start it from the beginning?

Then suddenly, the daughter pulls out a pocket knife and STABS HER FATHER IN THE LEG. But as she stabbed him, the man was sucking off the boy, and as the man clenches in pain, he BITES OFF HIS SON’S COCK in what can best be described as a fit of agony. BLOOD SQUIRTS EVERYWHERE. In fact, SO MUCH BLOOD is coming out of the boy’s penis so fast THAT THE PENIS IS BEING PROPELLED THROUGH THE AIR BY THE SPRAY OF BLOOD LIKE A LITTLE RED BOTTLE ROCKET, as so often happens under these circumstances.

THEN THE DAUGHTER pulls a WIRE COAT HANGER OUT OF THE SUPPLY CLOSET and starts untangling it, while the newly-castrated son is rubbing PEANUT BUTTER INTO THE DAUGHTER’S ASSHOLE, which the DOG IS LICKING OUT FASTER THAN THE BOY CAN SMEAR IT IN. It’s sort of an ass-Spackle, you see.

And DURING ALL OF THIS, THE WIFE RAMS AN UMBRELLA UP HER HUSBAND’S ASS, AND TRIES TO OPEN IT. BUT THEN THE DOG GETS DIARRHEA FROM EATING SO MUCH PEANUT BUTTER THAT HE SHITS RUNNY DIARRHEA IN THE CORNER OF THE OFFICE, RIGHT ON TOP OF WHERE THE BOY’S ONCE-AIRBORNE COCK HAS NOW COME TO REST. THE MAN THEN GETS A SUDDEN BURST OF INSPIRATION, as artistic people are often prone to do, WALKS TO THE CORNER, YANKS THE UMBRELLA OUT OF HIS ASS, AND STARTS PISSING ON HIS FAMILY, using a distinct left-to-right motion, you know, like one of those sprinklers. BUT THEN DISLODGING THE UMBRELLA CAUSES ALL THIS SHIT TO CASCADE DOWN HIS LEGS ONTO THE DOG’S SHIT, ONTO THE YOUNG BOY’S BLOODY SEVERED COCK.

Now pay attention here, because this is where things start to get a little out of hand. THE YOUNG GIRL FINALLY GETS THE COAT HANGER UNTANGLED, AND THEN JAMS THE HOOK END OF THE HANGER RIGHT UP HER CUNT, AND STARTS PUMPING HERSELF FURIOUSLY with the coat hanger. THE WOMAN TRIES SUCKING THE BOY OFF, BUT IS REMINDED BY THE SPRAYS OF BLOOD FROM HIS SCROTUM TO HER FACE…THAT HIS COCK LAY LIFELESS IN THE CORNER UNDER A PILE OF SHIT AND BLOOD AND PISS. SHE’S THINKING ALL OF THIS…WHILE FINGERING HER OWN ASSHOLE.

SO INSTEAD OF SORTING THROUGH THE MESS, because really, who has that kind of time, THE WOMAN STARTS SHOVELING HANDFULS OF SHIT IN HER MOUTH UNTIL SHE FEELS THE STIFF BLOODY DONG BRUSHING THE BACK OF HER THROAT, AMIDST ALL THE BLOOD AND SHIT AND PISS AND SWEAT–OH, THE SWEAT–INTO HER MOUTH.

THE YOUNG GIRL FINALLY YANKS THE COAT HANGER OUT OF HER PUSSY, AND LO AND BEHOLD AT THE END OF THE WIRE HOOK IS DANGLING A SIX-MONTH-OLD FETUS. THE DAUGHTER GRABS THE FETUS BY THE UMBILICAL CORD AND STARTS SWINGING THE FETUS IN A CIRCULAR MOTION OVER HER HEAD LIKE A BOLO WHIP. AND IT’S MAKING A WHOOSH-WHOOSH SOUND. Whoosh-whoosh and so forth.

THE WOMAN PULLS THE BOY’S DICK OUT OF HER MOUTH AND STARTS FUCKING THE DOG IN THE ASS WITH THE SEVERED COCK. THE MAN STARTS EATING OUT THE DAUGHTER’S ASS, AND IS DELIGHTED WHEN HE REALIZES HE CAN STILL TASTE THE PEANUT BUTTER, ONLY THIS TIME, IT’S EXTRA CRUNCHY.

MEANWHILE THE BOY HAS PASSED OUT ON THE FLOOR RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF ALL THE BLOOD AND SHIT AND PISS AND CUM AND IS HASTILY REACHING FOR INTRAVENOUS FLUIDS, UNTIL THE DAUGHTER SWINGS THE FETUS AT THE BOY’S HEAD, AND SHE KNOCKS HIM UNCONSCIOUS WITH THE FETUS. THEN THE DOG RUNS OVER AND STARTS EATING THE FETUS WHILE THE DAUGHTER STARTS SUCKING THE BLOOD OUT OF HER BROTHER’S SCROTUM.

Then EVERYONE STANDS UP and they all take a bow.

“That’s an interesting act,” the talent agent says, which was really kind of an understatement when you think about it.”What do you call it?”

“We call it,” the family says in unison, “The Patriots!”