Got the daughter kicking up a big fuss about Wake beating Duke o’er the weekend. You think I care about some namby-pamby collegiate bucketballers in their shortie-shorts? I need me some gull durned footbaw.

And when you’re talking footbaw, don’t nothing top Carolina Panther footbaw. The tradition grows with each passing year. I ‘member back in 1995, I was 31 and had just gotten my associate degree in Electrical and Electronics Maintenance and Repair Technology, Other. No more working at the Stuckey’s for Bob Junior. I was off to conquer the big city, Fayetteville.

I needed something to spend my pay day advance loans on other than the mortgage or dialysis for my pa and Panther footbaw was just the ticket.

But lately, they just content to be stuck in a holding pattern. Who’s our coach? Fox. Who’s our quarterback? Danged if I know! What’s our big off-season story? Franchise tag for Jordan Gross? Not even a new coach or a splashy signing or some lesbo cheerleaders!

I want them to be part of some big story! I want headlines! Did the Pats tape our walkthrough before Super Bowl XXXVIII? No? Well, why the heck not? Southern walkthrough is just as good as any!

I’m willing to bet that Sir Purr just handed over all our secrets to the Pats. Never did trust that no-account polecat. Tries to lure you into think he’s honest by putting his fingerprints on his shirt, like he’s got nothing to hide.

Knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep quiet about the meth lab in my basement. Ol’ Bob Junior knows a state trooper or two what can keep a secret. I always figured having Darla marry that feller would come in handy.

Here’s a crocodile chewin’ down on some swine. I recently read a book by Bill Buford called “Heat”, where the author goes to Italy to learn how to be a butcher. It sounded rather grueling. If you’ve ever tried to bone a chicken at home, you know it ain’t all rosy trying to get through bones and sinew with your blade. Your hand can cramp up wicked easy. That’s why I admire the croc’s approach, which is to forgo boning the pig and instead simply butchers the animal internally. No muss, no fuss, no fat stuck to your cutting board. You don’t even have to Fantastik the counter afterwards! Drew likey.

This is the duo No Parking. He is “Bus Stop”. She is “City Limit” (incidentally, it would appear this city limit begins just out of frame). They predict a Detroit Super Bowl victory in this cinematic colossus.

I am well aware that mocking rapping white kids is the lowest of the low hanging fruit. (he gets the sack!) It’s not even hanging anymore. (he calls the plays!) That banana in on the effing ground. (he wants a trade!) What can I say, I have no self-discipline whatsoever. Pray for me, won’t you?

(Hat tip to the stone cold mack of college sports blogs: Card Chronicle)

SAUSAGES

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OLD WHITE LINEBACKERS

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ALL ASANTE’S FAULT

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MORE WHITE PLAYERS FROM THE DOLPHINS

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OLD WHITE LINEBACKERS

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STOP BEATING ME

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Football’s laborious off-season is officially upon us, but there are all sorts of fun things going on outside of the NFL. Here’s a quick roundup of all the football and non-football news you need to know.

-Fidel Castro is stepping down as Cuba’s leader due to his old age and failing health. The Patriots think they’ve found their newest linebacker.

-Zach Thomas is on the move!

-Zach’s former teammate/in-law, Jason Taylor will appear on the next season of Dancing With the Stars. He hopes that ABC’s “hit” show will convince the Pats that he is in fact white enough to join their ranks.

-Roman Polanski is being honored at the Turin Film Festival. He will celebrate by fondling a child under the cover of an old shroud.

-Lindsay Lohan showed off her milky white laters leaving millions to wonder why her freckles are so scared of her tits.

-JE Skeets modeled a football helmet.

-The strangest group photo ever taken outside of a blogger get-together was snapped backstage at a WWE event. I’m convinced that Lohan and Mayweather would make the world’s greatest child. I’m also convinced that Shane McMamahon has had cosmetic surgery to look more like his father.

-LZ Granderson hung out with Brady Quinn.

-Lil’ Stein says that the NFL has a bigger drug problem than MLB. He’s probably just associating long hair with drug use, which is unfair. Robert Gallery is high on bundt cake, not drugs.

-Champion’s League (best theme song in sports) is back, but I won’t bore you with that euro football crap. Instead I give you this picture of Cheryl Cole, who is about to tell Chelsea’s Ashley Cole to go fuck himself. As if that’s new. I told him to go fuck himself when he first showed up.

-ONLY TWO MORE DAYS UNTIL THE COMBINE!

It’s been over two weeks since the official end of the season, and we at KSK are already in withdrawal from the loss of the NFL’s weekly dosage of hot measty action. As a way to stave off delirium tremens, we looked back on the 2007 season and came up with your official first-ever All-Meast Team.

Now, coming up with an All-Meast Team is no cakewalk. The six of us can barely contain our contempt for each other on a good day, so you can imagine the electronic slapfights that ensued when we brought our homeristic tendencies to a free-for-all squabble. After a lot of tears and one anonymous ballot voting for every player on the Redskins, we came to an agreement on the following guidelines.*

*I decided these would be the guidelines when I chose to write up the post.

1. We’re not limited by the number of players on the field at one time, as with All-Pro or Pro Bowl selections. Only two defensive ends? Fuck that. Everyone who deserves to be on the team will get on the team.
2. All-Meast selections must be an acceptable combination of meastiness and character-driven qualities that make the player a person of interest at KSK.
3. This team is a list of players who embody a made-up word, as judged by six people far too lazy to make something of themselves. As such, anyone who takes this seriously enough to argue about the exclusion of a player will be punched in the testicles.

OFFENSE

QB: None. Quarterbacks are gay. Purple Jesus can take snaps from the Wing-T.
RB: Adrian Peterson, Vikings — There’s been a Purple Jesus backlash from people who insist his nickname is “All Day.” Fuck those people. A nickname is whatever sticks.
RB: Brandon Jacbos, Giants — It’ not so much a vote FOR Jacobs as it is a “fuck you” to Tiki Barber.
RB: Laurence Maroney, Patriots — Despite our anti-Pats bias, we had to give it up for Kool-Aid, the man who gave us construda and begul-shitting.

FB: Eh, whatever. If we could combine Lorenzo Neal’s meastiness with Madison Hedgecock’s name, that would be KSK’s ideal fullback.
WR: Larry Fitzgerald, Cardinals — Still in search of crackers.
WR: Hines Ward, Steelers — Stirr Chlistmas Ape numbah one leceivel.
TE: Chris Cooley, Redskins — Read this.
TE: Jason Witten, Cowboys — Admitted to All-Meast Team only if he plays sans helmet.
TE: Kevin Everett, Bills — Kind of a dick move by Sean Taylor to get killed when we’d already named the weekly Meast award after Everett.
OL: Joe Thomas, Steve Hutchinson, Andre Gurode, Logan Mankins, and a right tackle of your choosing. We don’t really care all that much.

DEFENSE

DE: Osi Umenyiora, Giants — Turned on by defecating on women? Welcome to the All-Meast Team.
DE: Jared Allen, Chiefs — Credited his mullet for success.
DE: Patrick Kerney, Seahawks — He wears that tight skull cap that only black people should wear. I won’t even wear a loose-fitting white t-shirt outside.
DE: Aaron Kampman, Packers — Another white guy? What the hell?
DT: Albert Haynesworth, Titans — Last year: Booo! Hiss! This year: The Titans are nothing without him.
DT: Pat Williams, Vikings — Teammate and fellow dominant interior lineman Kevin Williams missed the cut after not carrying a gun following Sean Taylor’s death.
LB: Brian Urlacher, Bears — Still pretty good; also, apologetic.
LB: Julian Peterson, Seahawks — Single-handedly making the name “Julian” ten percent less gay.
LB: James Harrison, Steelers — Similar to Joey Porter, but less of a piece of shit as a human being.
CB: Pacman Jones, Titans — Pacman is the only selection to this year’s team who was a big enough badass to get suspended for the entire year. Let’s see YOU do that, Terrell Owens. No, seriously: we could really use a year off from you.
CB: Fred Smoot, Redskins — Oh, he’s a fucking terrible cornerback, all right. But when was the last time YOU enjoined two strippers with the same dildo?
CB: Antonio Cromartie, Chargers — We felt like at least one of the cornerbacks should have made at least one good play during the season. Cro-Mart made a bunch.
S: Reggie Nelson, Jaguars — Reggie thinks this is an okay post, but it ain’t all that.
S: Sean Taylor, Redskins — Mike Wilbon totally foresaw his selection.

SPECIAL TEAMS

None. Special teams are gay. That’s right: even YOU, Devin Hester.

Somebody put a stopwatch on this young upstart.
Snyder likes the cut of his jib.

I learned something today. Namely, that in 1958, NFL broadcasts were sponsored by Marlboro and America was an awesome place to be. Just watching this old commercial makes me want to drive a Packard, drink scotch and listen to be-bop on the Hi-Fi.

Pay special attention to the cartoon mascots of the era:

• The Redskins mascot: probably the most racist thing in the history of Western Civilization. If D.W. Griffith had been alive when this thing was made, he would have said “are you sure we can’t tone this down a scoch?”
• The Packers proxy is a cleaver wielding maniac. How did Marlboro anticipate Jeffrey Dahmer’s reign of terror in Wisconsin?
• True story: the Cleveland Browns mascot is played by a young Dennis Kucinich.
• As this commercial was made during the twentieth century, there is no reference to a Boston pro football franchise.

Words to live by: “the better the makins, the better the smoke.” Who knew the Maj was cribbing wisdom from Chris Schenkel?

So, Tommy Urbanski is hiding behind his old lady’s skirt, saying I owe him something because of what Pacman Jones’ yahoo friends did. Jesus-jumped-up-Christ-on-a-pogo stick. Look shithead, if you didn’t want to catch a few stray bullets, then your dumb ass shouldn’t have been in Las Vegas during NBA All-Star weekend. Would it be my fault if you decided to walk around Newark in a David Duke tshirt, y’bastard?

As if I didn’t have enough on my plate with Senator Assbag breathing down my neck. If I started shelling out cash to every dumb son-of-a-bitch who was in the wrong place at the wrong time when one of my players decided to violate the terms of their probation, this league would be broke faster than you could say Jack Robinson. Christ, Leonard Little and Ray Lewis alone would have set us back more than the gross national product of Peru.

But never let it be said I am not a merciful man. Solely in the interests of concluding this matter for one and for all, I made a few phone calls and have been able to put together a pretty frickin’ sweet compensation package. Just check out this spread:

• $50 Best Buy gift card
• Box of 19-0 apparel diverted from freighter to Nicaragua
• Obstructed view tickets to the Oakland Raider game of your choice
• 3 days, 2 night stay at the Port Au Prince Holiday Inn (off-season only, please)
• ‘Ironside‘ DVD season two box set (Perry Mason in a frickin’ wheelchair; believe me, you’ll eat that shit up)
• Free popcorn shrimp from Popeye’s (additional purchase required)
• Link to those naked Lindsay Lohan pics (hope your junk still works)

Urbanski, you gimp fuck, if you don’t accept this, your ass ain’t getting so much as an apple and a roadmap from me. You hear that? Kiss my ass, you crippled polack.

Yee-Haw! Good golly jee-willickers! Holy Moly! Dad gummit! D’yoo see that, maw! I gots me a new trofee for da shed out back! Man, I was going so gotdang fast, I was hotter than a pidgeon covered in molasses on a Tuesday morning! Whoo-wee!

I gonna git me some money now, buy Jim Bob Junior that second pair of blue jeans he’s always wanted. An’ me and my girl ken finally get hitched. We won’t even be cousins anymore! This is so dang great! I’m the grand champeen of racin’!

What yew say? This only the firrst race o’ the year? Sheeit.

This is Britney, cheerleader for the Bucs. Britney is the coolest cheerleader in the world. In fact, she wears nothing BUT her cheerleading uniform, even while buying groceries. She enjoys snorting cocaine and then riding around on a Waverunner. She will do tequila shots with you until 6AM, and then eat a 96 oz. ribeye for breakfast. She listens to The Sword. She likes football, but has the courtesy to watch it in a another room so you can watch it with your friends. Like 99.99% of the population, she can kick Simmons’ ass in Scrabble.

She speaks 7 different languages and eats raw shellfish at least once a day. She likes firing guns. She likes men with back fat. She can shimmy up a palm tree in 7.8 seconds. She’ll have fresh popovers ready for you in the morning, every morning. She fucking hates Ellen Pompeo. She can quote all of Kinison’s best work, including, “Well, it wouldn’t be like that if someone had a ladder and a pair of pliers!!!” She actually likes her female friends. She threw eggs at NOW protesters from her community college dorm room.

She’s open to threesomes, and to guiding you through the process. Her father invented the cuckoo clock, and thus she is worth billions. Her Dad will take you golfing at Augusta any time you wish. She sleeps in the nude. She’ll teach you how to surf. She likes cars that go really fucking fast. She smokes enough weed to make the Maj look like a goddamn 8th grader. She’s got an oceanside condo with a pool bar and 12-burner gas grill. Her teeth and feet are fucking flawless. She follows her birth control pill schedule with military precision.

She majored in English at UVA. Her favorite book is Catch-22. She’s smart as shit, but she’s not quite as smart as you.

But she smokes. Dealbreaker?